by D. L. Wood
“This is the best I could do. Cafeteria’s closed for the night. Had to use a machine.” Chloe took the cup, thanked him, and cradled it. The aroma was stale but strong. She took a sip. “And, I finally managed to reach Andrea,” he continued, taking the seat next to Chloe. They had been attempting to contact Reese’s ex-wife ever since they arrived at the hospital.
“Is she coming?”
“Um, no.”
Chloe’s brow wrinkled in amazement. “Isn’t she at least worried about the kids, if not Reese?”
“She says she’s sure we’ve got it under control and there’s no need for her to come all the way from Seattle. You know, she’s not exactly a doting mother. They waited nearly ten years to have Emma and another ten to have Tyler. She even told me once she had never wanted kids. That the idea had been ‘Reese’s thing.’”
“Wow.”
“Yeah. So I’m not surprised. Out of sight, out of mind, I guess, when it comes to the kids.” He brought his cup to his lips and sipped. “Did they tell you anything new while I was gone?”
“Nope,” Chloe answered. “Nothing.”
“I’m sorry,” Holt sighed, looking weary. “I should have gone looking for Reese when he didn’t turn up. That’s not like him. I should have known something was wrong.”
To this point, every time Chloe had seen him, Holt had been a bright, confident, almost ebullient personality. A charismatic force. But sitting here now, he just seemed…less.
Chloe shook her head. “Don’t be ridiculous. He’s a grown man. You said yourself he told you he had something he had to do before meeting you. You couldn’t have known he was hurt. Besides, you had a job to do.”
“I’m not sure you can actually call that a job. More like charity work. Sims can’t pay us. Reese only asked me to go out there as a favor to him because he’s Emma’s friend’s dad. But that only goes so far. There’s no way we would take on a murder case for free. I think we were just helping out until Sims could make other arrangements. He’ll be able to do that on Monday at his arraignment and get a court-appointed attorney.”
She sipped the coffee. It was odd to be discussing her father’s business at a time like this. But they were here, with time to kill and nothing else to talk about. “So what happens to him now?”
“He’ll just sit there till then. Bail won’t be set until the hearing. But I doubt he’ll be able to cover it. It’s a murder charge, so bond will likely be set pretty high. Plus, Sims has a history of bouncing around, taking on one historical injustice after another. He’s only lived here for a few years. And if they end up connecting him to the explosion at the site, and who knows, maybe even that other body, there may be no bond at all.”
“Are they trying to do that?”
“Based on what they took from the house, I’d say so.”
“Which was?”
“According to the inventory receipt, several boxes of ammunition, some clothing, shoes, and some random wiring and duct tape. No gun, though. They asked Sims to produce the one he owns, but he couldn’t find it. Apparently it was missing from the box he keeps it in. Which doesn’t look good. But the wiring and tape definitely make me think they’re looking at him for the explosion. It makes sense, given Sims’s history with Donner.”
“What makes them think Sims killed Donner? Do they have any real evidence?”
“We won’t know for sure until the preliminary hearing, which likely won’t happen for at least a week. But I’m betting it’s the missing gun.”
A few moments of relative silence passed, the occasional sound of intercom announcements and muffled talking in the hall the only interruptions. Holt’s interlaced fingers worked restlessly, apparently fueled by worry. Lines on his thirty-something forehead seemed more pronounced as he leaned forward on his knees, studying Emma and Tyler in the corner.
“Hey, by the way,” Holt piped up, “the police released the scene at the house before I got here. I went ahead and called a service to clean the wall. I thought it would be better if that was done before the kids got home. Since I know the code, I just let them in before coming here. I hope that’s okay.”
“That’s…great, actually. I hadn’t even thought about that.” She smiled at him appreciatively, glad that at least someone was thinking straight. “Thanks.”
“No problem.”
“It’s nice that you look out for them like that. I mean, I know you and Reese are law partners and all, and you have reason to care, it’s just that you seem…really invested.”
The corner of Holt’s mouth turned up slightly. “Yeah. You could say that. Reese is the reason I’m a lawyer. He’s done a lot for me.” He inclined his head towards the children. “And I’ve spent a lot of time around your family. They’re important to me.”
Your family. The words fell strangely on her ears. And it was odd to hear someone speak of her father this way, with endearment and gratitude. She had only ever heard his name spoken with bitterness and regret. “I’m glad he had a positive effect on you,” she said. “I wish I could say the same.” Her gaze flitted to the kids. “He seems to have done well with them, though. Emma’s teenage angst aside.”
Holt pursed his lips. “Yeah. It’s hard, being a single parent with such a demanding job. Someday she’ll get it.”
The mention of the children spun Chloe’s thoughts in a new direction and she abruptly changed the topic. “Why threaten the kids?” Chloe asked, revisiting the events of the afternoon and the violent threat against Emma and Tyler the anonymous attacker had left scribbled on the wall. “That’s so extreme. And scary. It makes me want to find out who did it more than before, not less.”
“Yeah,” he conceded, cradling his cup. “I won’t really feel like they’re safe until we catch the guy.”
“I don’t get it,” Chloe continued, processing out loud. “Whoever this is, they just left their box-on-the-porch-warning yesterday. Why make another threat so soon?”
Holt shrugged. “I really don’t know. The closest connection, at least in time, is Reese getting called to Sims’s place.”
“It would be in keeping with someone not liking that you guys showed up to help Sims on the night of the explosion. Maybe somebody really doesn’t want you representing him.”
“That just doesn’t make sense. If it wasn’t us representing him, then he would have some other lawyer—will have another lawyer after Monday. Whoever it is couldn’t possibly expect that Sims wouldn’t have a lawyer at all. What good does it do to scare us off if someone else just steps right in?” Holt reasoned.
“What about Donner?”
“Well, with him being dead and all…I’d say it’s unlikely he’s behind it.”
“No, I mean, what if it started with him and now that the stakes are higher, somebody in his camp is continuing with the pressure?”
Holt shook his head. “I can’t see it. Like I explained yesterday, it seems like a stupid move for him to take that kind of risk when he’ll probably win Sims’s lawsuit anyway.”
“What about someone that works for Donner? What if they wanted to help things along?”
“Unlikely,” Holt muttered, squinting as he mulled the prospect over doubtfully. “From what I understand, Donner held the reins pretty tight. I don’t see some lackey getting ideas of his own. Though I guess it’s not impossible. But I’m still not one hundred percent convinced these break-ins are connected to Sims. There’s still my nut-job client or ex-spouse theory. I can take a look at the cases we worked on late yesterday and see if there’s a connection, and check any court rulings handed down yesterday, too, and see if something unfavorable was decided. Maybe this person just wanted to double down on his pressure and it’s just a coincidence that it happened right as Reese was headed out to help Sims.”
Chloe considered this. “Maybe.”
Holt sniffed and rubbed his nose. “There’s another possibility. One that I’m not keen about.”
“What?”
Holt tilted his head
, appraising her. “You won’t like it.”
“Tell me anyway.”
He seemed uneasy, a look Chloe suspected was rare for the utterly confident counselor. “Reese could have something going on that I don’t know about.”
“What…like with a case?”
“A case. Or a client. I don’t know everyone he talks to. Just like he doesn’t know everyone I talk to. Or, maybe Reese is in deeper on this Sims and Donner thing than I know. What if there are more players in that situation, more risks than I’m aware of? If any of that’s true, it might explain the messages—maybe they are vague to us, but not to Reese. Maybe he knows what they’re talking about after all, and he just hasn’t been in a position to explain them.”
Nervous panic fluttered across Chloe’s skin. “Deeper how? You mean, like he invested in the project? Or took sides somehow—”
“I don’t know. I’m not suggesting Reese did anything wrong. But Donner’s a shady character. That much I do know. I just wonder if Reese did something we don’t know about to make an enemy in the situation.”
She thought of her brother Tate, and his involvement in the money-laundering syndicate that killed him. That nearly killed her and Jack. Her heart skipped a beat. She couldn’t do this again.
Holt threw his hands wide. “Then again, we could be looking at this all wrong.” He heaved a sigh. “I don’t think we’ll know much of anything until he wakes up.”
If he wakes up, she thought ruefully. “I just don’t like that they’re in danger,” she said, eyeing the children. “What if something else sets this person off? What if something makes this person follow through on their threat against the kids? How do we protect them when we don’t know what’s really going on?”
“They won’t be unprotected,” Holt said, stout determination in his voice.
Two hours later Emma and Tyler finally slept. The waiting room lights were dimmed for the night, and Chloe and Holt sat quietly, fighting the drowsiness that occasionally caused one of their heads to bob down before jerking back up. At a quarter past one, the waiting room door swung open at last.
“He’s made it through the surgery,” the surgeon said quietly, as Holt and Chloe rose to meet her. “It went well. But we’ll have to wait until he wakes up to really know. It may take some time for him to regain consciousness. The blood clot resulted in oxygen deprivation for a short period of time. We don’t know what, if any, the long-term effects will be.”
She continued talking, saying a lot of other things about Reese and the surgery that Chloe only halfway heard. Holt seemed to be taking it all in, but all she could think about was Emma and Tyler and the fact that their father could be lying in that hospital somewhere, suffering from brain damage. They were her siblings. Her sister and brother. An unexpected protectiveness swelled. She hadn’t been able to save Tate. But these two…she could do something for them. And she would. Whatever it took.
* * * * *
“You don’t really have to stay,” Chloe told Holt, after gently pulling Tyler’s bedroom door closed, so as not to wake the sleeping boy inside. “We’ll be fine.”
“Yeah, you will, because I’m not leaving. Take the guest room—it’s the one past the bathroom on the right. I’ll sleep on the couch downstairs. I promised the kid,” Holt reminded her. “It’ll be better for him this way.”
After the doctor told them there was nothing else to be done that night, they had gathered a groggy Tyler and Emma and headed back to Reese’s house. When Tyler had roused enough to get a sense of what was happening, he had asked in a shaky voice if Holt could stay over “in case the bad guys came back.” Though they had insisted the bad guys weren’t coming back, Tyler wasn’t satisfied until Holt had promised to stay with them.
“Besides,” Holt continued, “despite what we told Tyler, we don’t know enough about what’s going on to be sure they aren’t coming back. I don’t want all of you alone here if that happens.”
Deciding he had a point, she caved. “Okay, fine. You win.”
“I usually do,” he said, grinning impishly, before turning to head down the stairs.
The guest room was understated in furnishings, its only decor a jewel blue-toned Matisse print hanging in a thick wooden frame above the queen-sized bed. It was pristine and un-personalized, and Chloe guessed that few people ever stayed here. As tired as she was, she just crawled under the white duvet and closed her eyes. Within seconds, she had started to drift off, when a buzzing from her back pocket woke her. Her cell. She had forgotten it was there.
Not bothering to sit up, she pulled it out where she lay and read the name on the screen.
Jack.
She plopped the cell face down on her chest, squeezing her eyes tight. Then, disabling the vibration on the phone, she slid it onto the nightstand and retreated under the comforter, waiting for sleep to take her.
* * * * *
“Where are you, Chloe?” Jack asked of no one, leaning back into the hotel room pillows and staring at his phone. He had called four times since speaking with her last and texted twice that much. She had not responded once. It wasn’t like her at all. Not even in her busiest moments.
The television droned on in the background, one of the Jurassic Park movies playing without Jack taking any notice. He had only turned it on for the noise anyway, feeling distinctly alone tonight. To his left, a discarded room service tray sat on the bed, still holding most of the fish tacos he had ordered, then hadn’t felt like eating.
Why isn’t she returning my messages? he wondered, a familiar nervousness creeping into his being. He recognized this uncertainty. This self-doubt. He had felt it with Lila years ago, when he had first started to suspect her discontentment with their relationship. With him.
The dull ache that was so much his companion these days coursed through the length of his leg, extending to his hip. It was particularly bad today after so much standing on the set. He shifted, trying to take the pressure off it. The pain eased a little.
She’s just busy, he assured himself. There’s nothing wrong.
But the doubt persisted. Because it didn’t make any sense. In the middle of meeting her father—something that had terrified Chloe for months—and after routinely calling and texting Jack for support every day, several times a day, she stopped communicating.
She knew him. She knew that this would make him worry. And if things were fine, she would not ever intentionally make him worry.
Only two possibilities made sense. And they were both awful. Either she couldn’t contact him because she was seriously hurt or sick, or she wouldn’t contact him and didn’t care if he was worried.
If she’s sick, who’s taking care of her? he thought, starting to chase the nasty rabbits he had conjured down their nerve-wracking holes.
What if she’s not sick? What if she can’t call because someone from the whole mess with her brother Tate finally decided to come after her? That one was a stretch, but it made him want to jump on a plane right then.
And lastly, what if it’s neither of those? What if it’s the other option—that she doesn’t want to talk to me?
His brow furrowed as he rubbed his temples with the thumb and forefinger of his right hand.
What if, after all this time, she’s finally figured it out?
TWENTY-ONE
Sunshine and a door slamming snatched Chloe from the throes of a dream about Tyler and Tate trapped in a room, unable to escape, with the words, “Emma’s next,” scrawled in red on the wall. She woke with a start, catching her breath, as her hand flew to her chest. Chloe blinked, taking in her surroundings and remembering why she was there. Glaring sunlight streamed in from the windows facing east. She had not bothered to draw the blinds last night and now the sunshine spilled over the room, ushering in the day. She tapped her phone. It was eight in the morning.
Kids. Breakfast. Her brain finally kicking into gear, she rolled out of bed and headed downstairs. As she crossed the threshold into the kitchen, she was wond
ering whether cereal and milk would be too much of a cop out, when the scene that met her made the thought irrelevant.
“I told you you’d wake her,” Holt chided Tyler, flipping a pancake in a frying pan on the stove as Tyler crawled onto one of the stools at the bar overlooking the kitchen workspace.
“Sorry,” Tyler apologized, grinning sheepishly as he fingered a video game case. “I left this in Dad’s car. I wanted to play it.”
“No worries,” Chloe said, smiling as she leaned against the counter. “What are we having today?”
Tyler smiled. “Holt’s making Star Wars pancakes,” he explained, his eyes alight.
“Wow, that’s impressive,” Chloe replied. Sure enough, Holt had a Yoda shaped pancake nearly browned to perfection in the pan. Several forms in shapes that resembled icons from the movies were stacked by the stove.
“You want a ship? Holt can make one.”
“Sure, buddy. Holt can make me a spaceship for breakfast.”
“Coming right up,” Holt replied, his back still to her. Like her, he was still in yesterday’s clothes. For the first time, he looked a little sloppy, his light blue button-down untucked, hanging loose over his tailored khakis. She guessed he was just shy of six feet, and probably in his early thirties. His eyes tended to crinkle when he smiled, perhaps from the stress of the law practice. Chloe wondered what in his genes gave him that “just off the Mediterranean Coast” vibe, and guessed that there must be a good amount of Italian or Spanish buried in there. Whatever it was, somehow, even disheveled as he was, he still looked like this was exactly how he had meant to look today. He was obviously one of those people that never had a bad hair/face/clothes day. She caught a glimpse of her reflection in the microwave, tawny curls askew, left-over mascara smeared beneath her right eye, and was reminded forcefully that she was not one of those people.
“Where’s Emma?” Chloe wondered aloud, flipping her hair and attempting to rub the black from under her eye.
