Warning Signs (Alexis Parker Book 19)

by G. K. Parks

  “I don’t know.”

  “You didn’t follow her?”

  “I was preoccupied with the possibility her fiancé murdered someone.”

  “Do you still believe that?”

  “No.”

  “Keep me abreast of the situation, if there is a situation.” He opened the office door, holding it for me. “Should I assign someone else to handle this?”

  I couldn’t be taken off another case less than twenty-four hours after my first firing. “No, I’ll take care of it.”

  “Find out what’s going on from Andre. I want an update by lunchtime. Assuming nothing has changed, I want you to take the rest of the day. Go home. Get some sleep. Get changed. Tomorrow, dress like a professional and do whatever needs to be done.”

  “Sir?” I hated when my training kicked in for no apparent reason.

  He cocked an eyebrow, surprised yet smug. “Did I not make myself clear?”

  Recovering, I said, “Kellan came to assist me last night. He’ll be in late because of it.”

  Cross collected the files off the corner of Justin’s desk and led me to the elevator. “Glad to see you’re finally getting along with your coworkers again. They aren’t your enemies, Alex. And neither am I. That being said, whatever you’re going through, I need you to get a handle on it. For your own good and mine. This company can’t afford unnecessary lawsuits. Keep that in mind before you make any accusations or decide to phone the police department with anonymous tips.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  We parted ways at the conference room. Cross went inside to put the files down and prepare for the morning meeting while I continued down the hallway to my office. It was too early to start making phone calls. No one in their right mind would choose to be awake at this time of day, and if they were, they were busy getting ready for work. But I knew Andre was awake. At least he had been when he escorted Eve to the door.

  Plugging in the memory card, I copied the data onto my computer and blew up the photos in question from last night. Even after some tinkering, I couldn’t positively ID Eve or figure out what happened in the bedroom. So I sent the files upstairs for the techs to play with. They might find something I missed.

  I examined the shots Kellan took this morning. That was Eve. I wrote down the plate number and traced it back to a car service. Eve owned her own car, but she’d charged the ride this morning on her corporate card. She also expensed a rideshare last night, but her financial activity didn’t provide any additional details.

  My phone rang, and I picked it up. “Hello?”

  “According to Eve Wyndham’s social media posts, she arrived home late last night,” Justin said. “I’ll send you the links.”

  “Thanks.”

  I hung up, opened the interoffice messenger, and clicked. Eve had posted a photo of the rainy sky over the jet’s wing. This is the opposite of an arid desert, but I’m glad to be home. I scanned the rest of her page, but I didn’t see any other new posts. Based on the timestamp, she posted that photo roughly an hour before arriving at Andre’s.

  Since he’d gone to bed, she must have surprised him. Didn’t he follow her on social media? Shouldn’t he have seen the alert? I checked her followers and friends list, but it was massive. He might have missed it, had his alerts turned off, or figured his fiancée would call or text him instead of expecting him to learn things the same way as her thousands of friends and clients.

  A few minutes later, the phone rang again. “Hello. Cross Security.”

  “Good morning. This is Andre North.”

  “Yes, Mr. North. How can I help you?” If I were any more professional, someone might mistake me for one of the receptionists.

  “I’m glad I caught you, Alex. You can call me Andre. No need to be so formal. Not when I’ve been airing my insecurities and dirty laundry for you to see.” He laughed. I’d never heard him sound so giddy. “Eve came home last night and surprised me. She came straight from the airport. God, I missed her.”

  “That’s wonderful.”

  “It is, isn’t it? She left her overnight bag here. I told her I’d drop it off at her place.” He hesitated. “I didn’t know if you needed to see it. I’m not exactly sure what I’m supposed to do in this situation. I hired you to investigate my fiancée, so do I call you with these things?”

  “What’s wrong with her luggage? Did you find something troublesome inside?”

  “No, not really. She brought this one bag straight from the airport. The rest she had delivered to her place. But this is her work bag. It has her day planner, notebook, and work binder. It’s full of photos and brochures and other stuff from her trip.”

  “Have you looked inside?”

  “I snooped a little,” he admitted. “I don’t feel right about it. My father always said I should never go through a woman’s bag.”

  “All right, I’ll take a look.”

  “I shouldn’t worry, right?” he asked. “I mean she came straight here from the airport. She surprised me. If she were having an affair, wouldn’t she have gone to see him instead?”

  Last night, I thought Andre was a killer. Now, I thought he made Martin’s clingier tendencies seem standoffish.

  “I wouldn’t recommend turning a blind eye, but so far, I haven’t found anything indicating you should worry.”

  He sighed in relief. “That’s wonderful to hear. I’ll bring her bag to you in an hour.”

  “I could come to you,” I offered, hoping to get a look inside his townhouse and put those nagging second-guesses to bed.

  “No reason. I have to pass your office on my way to Eve’s. I’ll see you soon.”

  Twenty-three

  While I searched Eve’s belongings, Andre went upstairs to speak to Lucien. He didn’t want to watch me snoop through his bride-to-be’s things. I didn’t blame him. I wouldn’t want to watch someone go through Martin’s belongings either.

  I scanned the pages and her notes for any indication she might have had a little too much fun while working, but I didn’t find anything definitive. Everything appeared to be business-related. In the back of her notebook was a stack of receipts for catering and rentals. Those must be what she planned to expense to the client.

  More importantly, what I didn’t find in her bag spoke volumes. I didn’t find any condoms or sexy lingerie. Eve considered this bag too valuable to allow someone to deliver it to her apartment, so she took it with her to Andre’s. If she had any dirty little secrets, she wouldn’t want a stranger to stumble upon them. Then again, she might not risk taking them to Andre’s if she thought he didn’t trust her. But if he didn’t trust her, why would she leave her bag behind?

  When I finished copying and photographing everything that could be relevant, I repacked her overnight bag and phoned Justin to tell him it was safe to send Andre back downstairs. The one thing I wanted was to go to his house with some Luminol and a blacklight, but that might have been my insanity talking.

  After Andre collected Eve’s bag, he thanked me again. “I want to trust her, but she’s been acting odd these last few weeks. She’s been working a lot more too. I just…I have to be smart about this. You understand, right?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Do you think I should tell her?”

  “You should probably wait and see what I find first.”

  He chuckled. “I guess that would be the smart way to do it.”

  “If nothing turns up, you don’t have to tell her.”

  “How can we start our lives together with a secret hanging over us?” He rubbed his brow. “Hiring you could destroy us, but I’m not sure I could go through with it without knowing for sure that she loves me and only me.”

  I didn’t have anything to say. We’d been over this before. It was his call. I just had to do my job without hallucinating any more murder scenes.

  Once he was gone, I went into the break room to get some coffee. Kellan hadn’t shown up for work yet, but unlike me, he might actually be at home sleeping
. I bit my lip, considering my options. I had to do something. I couldn’t go on like this. Martin knew it. Mark knew it. And based on my conversation with Lucien this morning, he knew it too.

  Returning to my office with a fresh cup of coffee, I closed the door and took a seat behind my desk. I rummaged through my purse for the business card Jablonsky had given me, but I couldn’t bring myself to call the number on the card. Therapy and I had never gotten along. The mandated counseling sessions and psych evals while I’d been a federal agent had only irritated me enough to force me to quit the first time. Now, I had other dangers to worry about, namely O’Connell’s investigation. If the police consultant who supplied him with witnesses and suspects was declared unstable, the entire case could fall apart if the defense had a good enough attorney and a biased judge.

  But last night proved I was a liability. Mark knew it before I did. I had to do something. Perhaps I could use a fake name or see if we could keep these records privileged. Mental health records had additional protections on top of those already afforded to other medical records.

  “It’ll be okay.” I repeated this a few more times before digging out my cell phone and placing the call. The last thing I wanted was Cross to get wind of this, so I didn’t dare use the company phone.

  A woman answered on the third ring and asked how she could help.

  “I…uh…” Don’t hang up, Parker. I fought to keep myself from pressing the red disconnect. “I need to make an appointment.”

  “Are you a current client?”

  Client, not patient. That gave me something else to think about besides the fear running through me. Why was I so afraid? I knew why. I knew how much the prying hurt, and I didn’t want to go through that. I already hurt enough. I didn’t want to hurt more.

  “Ma’am, are you still there?” the woman on the other end of the line asked.

  Of course she had to use that word. “Yes, sorry. I’m not. Is that a problem?”

  “Not at all. I can schedule you for a consultation. Were you recommended to us?”

  “Not by a medical professional.”

  “By whom?” she asked.

  “Mark Jablonsky.” I still didn’t want to give my name. Maybe I shouldn’t have given his, but the shrink would figure it out. We’d have the same trauma to discuss.

  “Are you available this afternoon? I can fit you in at one.”

  I didn’t want to go. “Okay.” I hung up before she could ask anything else. It wouldn’t matter if I didn’t show. She didn’t have my name. But something told me the doctor already knew more about me than I liked. Mark proved yesterday he had a big mouth. I doubted that was limited to what he shared with Lt. Moretti.

  For the next two hours, I didn’t do much but stretch and pace. My legs were stiff and sore from yesterday’s workout and spending all night in the car. To kill time, I went upstairs and spoke to the medic about my workout regimen and supplemental things I could do to aid in speeding up my recovery.

  “You’re doing it. Stretch often. Switch up your exercises to make sure you’re rebuilding your strength, mobility, and flexibility. Whatever you do on one side, do on the other. Your left leg is stronger than your right, but you want to even it out. So even if you can do more and stretch more on that side, don’t.”

  “Okay.”

  He went to the cabinet and removed a bottle of prescription strength ibuprofen. “Just in case, but if you need to take one to get through the workout, you’re working out too hard.”

  “Got it.” I pocketed the bottle. “Thanks.”

  “Not yet.” He handed me a stack of printed exercises. “Lucien asked me to prepare these for you. These are the exercises you’d be given in physical therapy.”

  I scanned the sheets. “I’m familiar with all of them.”

  “Good, if you have any other questions or change your mind, let me know.”

  “Will this really take six weeks?”

  “Be patient. Rome wasn’t built in a day.”

  “That was hundreds of years ago. I’ve seen fast food places get built in a week.”

  “Your leg isn’t a fast food joint.”

  “It’s not an empire either.”

  The medic rolled his eyes. “Good luck.”

  I tapped two fingers to my brow and gave him a mock salute before taking the elevator up to Cross’s office.

  After I updated him on the Andre and Eve situation, I grabbed my things and left the office. I stopped at the bank and withdrew a few hundred dollars to cover the cost of the appointment. I didn’t want anything linking me back to the shrink’s office. Again, I considered all the reasons why I shouldn’t go and the one glaringly obvious reason why I had to.

  Even as I parked in the garage, I fought the instinct to leave. Physical torture and pain were easier to deal with. I could handle those. This was something else.

  I stood outside the door and stared at the address. Eventually, my leg started to shake from the pressure of supporting my weight for so long. “Here goes nothing.”

  Swallowing, I entered, finding the tremor had moved from my thigh all the way to my low back. The waiting room was empty. So I sat down. I’d just reached for a magazine when the door opened.

  “Hi, are you my one o’clock?” a fresh-faced woman with auburn hair pulled back in a loose ponytail asked.

  “Um,” I looked around the empty room, “I guess so.”

  “Why don’t you come inside?”

  I put the magazine down and hoisted myself out of the chair using the arms for support. The tremor continued, growing more widespread as I stepped into her office. She pretended not to notice as she sat down in one of the oversized chairs.

  She had a sofa, two oversized chairs, a straight-back chair, and one of those ergonomic things that would flip you on your ass if you didn’t balance properly. “Sit wherever you like.”

  I wondered if this was a test, so I sat in the other oversized chair which might have been a miniature loveseat.

  “Are you FBI?” she asked.

  “I used to be.”

  “Me too.”

  I studied her, which she found amusing.

  “You’re wondering if I said that to build a rapport and earn trust.”

  “Oh, so you’re a mind reader.”

  She laughed. “No, sorry, but didn’t they pound interrogation techniques into our heads at Quantico?”

  “They did.” The walls were a boring slate grey with blue and silver borders. Not a single “hang in there” cat poster in sight.

  “I’m Dr. Sarah Shelton, but you called me. I assume you already know that.”

  “Uh-huh.” Her diploma hung on the back wall. I did the math in my head. She had to be in her late forties or early fifties, but she didn’t look that old.

  “And you are?”

  I let out a breath. “Here.”

  “Okay.” She waited me out. “Why are you here?”

  “I need help.”

  “Okay.” Again the pause, but I wasn’t in a rush to fill the silence. “On the phone you said Mark Jablonsky recommended me.”

  “He did.” I tucked my legs beneath me, hoping that would stop the shakes. “Last month he was shot. A former agent was killed, and two other agents were attacked.”

  “I’m aware.” Her gaze drifted to my leg. “Were you injured by the same man who attacked Mark?”

  “Yes.”

  She nodded. Mark had already told her the story. He probably told her about me. I wondered what he said. But Mark was a straight-shooter. I doubted he’d say anything to a stranger that he wouldn’t say to my face.

  “Have you been in therapy before?” she asked.

  “Just what the job required and couples counseling.”

  “Are you divorced?”

  “No.”

  “You’re not wearing a ring.”

  “I’m not married.”

  “Oh.” That caught her by surprise. “But you went to couples counseling, so you must have been in a seri
ous relationship.”

  “Still am.”

  “So it worked.”

  “Not really.”

  She sat back in her chair, confused. “I’m just trying to establish a baseline of your experiences with therapy in the past. Why would you say it didn’t work? Has there been no improvement to your relationship?”

  “No, we’re fine. We just didn’t make it more than two sessions with any one therapist. It didn’t help us.”

  “What did, if you don’t mind me asking?”

  “Talking and a shift in mindset.” I studied her, but she hadn’t made a single note. “You know who I am, don’t you?”

  “Yes, Mark asked if I’d be willing to see you. He just didn’t know if you’d call.”

  “Is he a patient?”

  “More like a friend. I don’t discuss my clients. Everything said in session remains confidential.”

  “Good because I’m afraid what the ramifications could be if this got out. I’ve been consulting on a murder case for the local police.”

  “You have no reason to be concerned, but given the nature of your career, I understand why you might be. There is no shame in seeking counseling. Why don’t you tell me what’s been going on lately?”

  “Mark didn’t tell you?”

  “I’d like to hear it from you.”

  So I told her everything that happened over the last few days. She listened without interjecting or asking inane questions. Once I was finished, I took a deep breath. “Am I crazy?”

  “That’s not a clinical term, but no, I don’t think you’re crazy. How much have you been sleeping each week since the attack?”

  “I’m lucky to get two or three hours a night.”

  “Okay,” she glanced at the clock and went to her desk, “I think what you’re experiencing are hallucinations brought on by lack of sleep and extreme stress. I’d wager your cortisol levels are through the roof. Your coffee drinking is only exacerbating the situation.” She scribbled something down on a pad and went to a locked cabinet. “The reasons for your nightmares are something we can work to remedy through therapy, but in the meantime, I’m worried about you. Not sleeping can impair judgment, make it difficult to concentrate, hurt hand-eye coordination, and contribute to exaggerated stress responses. You mentioned having a lot more panic attacks recently. That could be why. Again, caffeine is not your friend in this instance. Not getting enough sleep over long periods of time is known to cause hallucinations. I think that’s what’s going on here. So the first thing we need to do is get you to sleep.” She pulled out a sample pack and handed me the prescription.