Unleashed

by Jami Alden

Ethan was right. Two weeks before their calc final for the semester, after a lot of coaxing and pleading, Caroline had relented and agreed to help him prep for the test. He’d nearly blown it when he’d offered to pay her.

  For that he’d gotten a stony stare and a curt, “Just because I’m on scholarship doesn’t mean I’m a charity case.”

  Back then she hadn’t wanted anything from anybody.

  Funny how Danny couldn’t remember what he had for lunch two days ago but he could remember exactly what Caroline had worn the first time she came over to his house. Jeans, slim fitting but not too tight, tapering down to converse high-tops with a close fitting navy T-shirt tucked into the waistband. Her waist length dark hair was pulled back in a ponytail, and her dark eyes had filled with suspicion when he told her they’d be studying in his room.

  He ignored it, playing it off as no big deal as he led her up the stairs to his bedroom.

  “God, you’re a slob,” was her only comment.

  “It’s not that bad.” He’d made the bed and shoved his dirty clothes in the hamper in preparation.

  Not good enough for Caroline, who immediately went to his desk and started to straighten. “I can’t work in here if it’s not organized.” Books, papers, notebooks, pens, were lined up, stacked, and organized while Danny watched from behind her. Satisfied, she’d turned around startled to see him so close.

  She’d jumped back with a gasp. Another cliché. She’d tried to move around him but he didn’t budge. Her furious blush and nervous lick of her lips told him what he’d hoped all along: despite her ambivalent appearance and apparent disdain for dumb jocks like him, Caroline had it as bad for him as he did for her.

  That night was the first time he kissed her. The first of many “tutoring” sessions interrupted by frequent makeout breaks, nights that left him aching and frustrated, relieving himself in the shower after Caroline drove away in her beat up Camry.

  Yet he managed to pull his C- up to a B+ by the time the semester was over.

  Danny’s wry smile faded as he stood in the kitchen Caroline had shared with her murdered husband. What the fuck was he doing, waxing sentimental about a girl who had played him out and dropped him like a bag of shit when she didn’t get her way?

  He made his rounds through the rooms of the bottom floor, searching the kitchen, the living room, and the media room for any hint of the evidence Caroline had referred to. He searched behind every picture and along the floorboards for any sign of a hidden safe, but found nothing.

  When he got to the office, he spent awhile hacking Caroline’s password so he could install keystroke tracking software, a sniffer program on her network, and a mirroring program so he could access her computer from his own. Caroline’s fastidious organization skills were as evident there as they were in the rest of the house, making the office remarkably easy to search. The contents of desk drawers were meticulously maintained, documents and papers arranged neatly in clearly labeled folders. Unfortunately Danny didn’t run across any file folders labeled “Anne Taggart.”

  But he did find something else that piqued his curiosity. A stack of business cards and brochures promoting Caroline’s Custom Closets, offering customized closets and organization systems for busy families. Apparently Caroline had turned her penchant for neatness into a business.

  His admiration turned to irritation as he discovered that the office, like the other rooms, had no sign of a safe or other hiding place.

  He moved swiftly through the house, avoiding windows in case a neighbor happened to walk by, and ran lightly up the stairs. He checked his watch. He had a good hour and fifteen minutes at least until Caroline would pull back in. He had plenty of time to start on the upstairs rooms.

  An oriental runner in a rich green and gold pattern muffled his footsteps as he walked down the upstairs hallway. He paused at a hall table with its careful arrangement of silver framed photographs. The big one in the center caught his attention and he felt his jaw clench.

  A younger Caroline than he’d seen at the memorial service smiled for the camera, her smooth, tan shoulders and arms shown off by a sleeveless white dress Her dark curls smoothed into waves rippling over her shoulder, partially covered by a veil of cream lace.

  Her fucking wedding day.

  James Medford stood behind and slightly to the side of her, a proprietary hand on her narrow waist. His thick hair was more salt than pepper, and deep lines fanned from the corners of his eyes and carved grooves beside his smiling mouth. Danny was sure he saw a smug glint in the guy’s eyes, as if to say, “look at the hot piece of ass I scored, boys.”

  Danny was tempted to put his fist through the picture’s glass before he reminded himself he didn’t give a flying fuck about Caroline and the guy she’d married. What Danny and Caroline had was ancient history, a couple of kids getting carried away, too stupid to realize their high school romance couldn’t begin to go the distance. Whatever bad feelings he had about the breakup were dead and buried, long forgotten, and not worth dredging up now.

  Still, as he slipped into the master bedroom and carefully sifted through the contents of Caroline’s dresser drawers, the lingering imprint of that photo chased away any last vestiges of guilt he might have had over spying on Caroline after she’d asked for his help.

  If Caroline wanted to keep her secrets safe, she shouldn’t have dared Danny to come after them.

  Let your husband RIP unless you want to end up like him.

  Caroline raked a hand towel across her eyes to get rid of the last of the sweat and read the note again.

  She’d found it tucked in the door of her locker, sticking out like a white flag. Stomach clenching with dread, she’d known exactly what the note was before she unfolded it.

  It was just like the others, printed on plain, white, laser printer paper using a font common to every PC in existence. So generic, so untraceable, that when Caroline had shown the police the first two she received after James’s death as proof their suspicion of her was ridiculous, the detectives had accused her of writing them herself to cover up her own guilt.

  By the time she’d received the third one, she’d stopped reporting them.

  Her fingers shook as she placed the paper in the pocket of her gym bag. Her skin crawled with the sensation of being watched. Only someone with intimate knowledge of her routine would have known the exact time window to slip in, undetected, and put the note in her locker.

  Normally she would have showered and dressed there before going to her breakfast with Rachael, but now her breath raced and her heart pounded with the need to flee, to retreat back to the safety and security of her house. Where she could set the alarms and lock the doors and keep out anyone she didn’t want coming in.

  Her usual bordering on OCD need for organization fled as she shoved her things haphazardly into her shoulder bag. A tiny voice asked her why she didn’t interrogate the staff, ask anyone if they’d seen anything, seen someone slip it into her locker.

  But she knew it would be the same as always. No one saw anything. No one suspicious around her locker, her car, her mailbox, or the other places she’d found the notes. At that hour of the morning the locker room was humming with estrogen and hairdryers, dozens of women going in and out. For privacy, there were no security cameras in the locker rooms, so even if she did demand to see the security tapes, it wasn’t like she’d catch someone red-handed on film.

  Caroline raced out of the locker room, ignoring the startled glare of a half dressed woman as she knocked her with her shoulder bag. Normally her workout left her centered and calm, if only for a little while. By the time she reached the parking lot she bordered on a full-fledged panic attack.

  Let your husband RIP unless you want to end up like him.

  Driven by the need to get to her car and home to safety as quickly as possible, she stepped off the curb and onto the asphalt, oblivious to the people and cars around her.

  “Watch out!”

  The screech of tires and blare
of a horn blocked out the warning, and headlights blinded her as she looked up in terror.

  With a sudden burst of clarity and speed, Caroline hurled herself out of the path of the black SUV heading straight for her.

  CHAPTER 4

  “Jesus Christ lady, look where you’re going!” A stocky man in his fifties climbed out of the SUV and slammed the door. “I could have killed you.”

  “Well maybe if you’d been paying attention instead of looking at your phone you would have seen her. What in the world are you thinking goin’ that fast in a goddamn parkin’ lot? Caroline, are you okay?”

  She looked up to see Melody Easterbrook, Patrick Easterbrook’s wife, a look of concern on her face as she helped Caroline get to her feet.

  “Are you hurt?” the man asked, slightly contrite after Melody’s ass chewing. Caroline recognized his face if not his name. He was a regular at the gym and worked out around the same time she did. He had a red windbreaker over his UC Berkeley T-shirt and his face was red with exertion and anger.

  Caroline did a quick assessment of herself. Her knee was a little sore where she’d landed and her right palm had a big gash, but she was otherwise okay. It flashed again, the huge dark SUV bearing down on her.

  For a terrifying moment she’d been convinced it had been the killers making good on their threat.

  “That wasn’t my fault, you know,” the man continued. “Lots of people saw you just walk out without looking,” he said.

  “You were speeding and everyone saw it,” Melody broke in. “She’d be totally within her rights to sue you if she’s injured.”

  “I’m fine,” Caroline managed to break in, raising her hand to calm Melody down. The last thing she needed that morning was a public altercation. “I’m sorry I wasn’t paying attention.” Her lips were stiff with cold and it was hard to push the words out.

  The man nodded and climbed back in his car.

  “I don’t know what people are thinkin’ bombing through the parkin’ lot like it’s a NASCAR track,” Melody muttered, then turned her attention to Caroline. “Honey, you’re shakin’ like a leaf.” She wrapped an arm around Caroline’s shoulders and steered her out of the SUV’s way. Even after twenty years in northern California, Melody’s voice was heavily laced with a Texas drawl. And though she’d turned forty-five that past December, she still looked the part of the Dallas beauty queen. For Melody, a trip to the gym merited a full face of makeup, sprayed and teased blond hair, and a perfectly coordinated outfit of designer workout wear. “What’s got you so out of it you’re walkin’ into traffic without even lookin’?”

  “I think I’m coming down with something,” Caroline replied shakily, trying not to shrink away as Melody put a hand on her shoulder. Her skin was tight and too sensitive, and the comforting touch was unpleasant.

  “Well, it’s freezin’ out here,” Melody said. “If you’re not sick already you’ll catch your death out here if you stand out in this cold in those sweaty clothes.”

  Caroline let out a slightly hysterical laugh at Melody’s choice of phrase. Yeah, she was liable to catch her death if she wasn’t careful. But now that Melody mentioned it, she was cold, down to her bones, so cold her body trembled and her teeth began to chatter. “I just need to get home,” she said, barely able to force the words from between her clacking teeth and trembling lips.

  “You better let me drive you.”

  Caroline tried to fend off Melody’s offer, only to find her arm seized in a no-nonsense grip as she was steered gently but firmly across two rows of cars to Melody’s powder blue Porsche. “Get in, honey. I couldn’t forgive myself if I sent you home like this and found out later you got into an accident.”

  “Thanks,” Caroline said. “I’m sorry about all this. I think the stress is starting to get to me.”

  Melody clucked and gave her a concerned look as she backed out of her parking space. “You know you can always call us if you need anything.”

  “I know, but you’ve already done so much.”

  “Hey, we trophy wives have to stick together you know. Although,” she slanted a look at herself in the rear view mirror, “I’d say this old trophy is due for another polish.”

  Caroline let out a weak laugh. Part of the reason she and Melody got along was because they were both younger second wives of two best friends and had formed a friendly alliance against the disapproving first wives in their social set. Though they would never be best friends—at the core they were too different for that—Caroline and Melody enjoyed each other’s company.

  And they’d grown closer over the past six months, as Patrick and Melody stood firmly by her, even when she was accused of murdering Patrick’s best friend of over thirty years.

  The initial adrenaline spike was wearing off and Caroline’s knee and hip started to throb where she’d hit the pavement. She risked a look down and saw a nasty road rash decorating her knee. She shifted in her seat to alleviate the pressure in her hip, which hurt even worse. God knew what she was going to find under there when she took her shower.

  Caroline blocked out the pain and leaned against the headrest trying to focus on Melody’s chitchat about how their daughter, Jennifer, was coping with her freshman year at UCLA, trying and failing to shove aside thoughts of the note. Shove aside the knowledge that whoever had killed James had her in their sights.

  James had been found shot to death in their house while Caroline was away, consulting with a client who wanted Caroline to design the closets in her new vacation home in Sonoma. As the investigation intensified, the police quickly dismissed their initial theory that the murder was a home invasion gone wrong and instead seized on Caroline, the scorned wife, as the prime suspect. Terrified, Caroline had started her own digging, going through every detail of James’s life trying to find out who really killed him. She’d told the police about the crying woman and suspicious conversations, but they hadn’t wanted to hear any of it.

  Caroline knew she’d been on to something, because it wasn’t long after she talked to the cops about the mysterious woman that she’d found the first note.

  Back off, or we’ll finish you like we finished James.

  But the cops hadn’t cared about that note or the ones that followed, convinced she’d printed them off herself in an amateurish effort to throw them off the trail.

  She’d hoped, prayed the notes would stop, that maybe they were a cruel sick joke by someone who wanted to mess with her.

  As the weeks since she’d been released lengthened to a month, then two, she half convinced herself it was all a sick hoax. James’s killer wasn’t really out there, biding his time, waiting for the opportunity to silence her before she discovered whatever secrets she wasn’t supposed to find.

  “And where they think he’s going to come up with two thousand more dollars a month, I have no idea.”

  Melody’s harsh laugh momentarily jolted Caroline from her dark thoughts. Patrick and Melody weren’t having an easy time of it lately either, which was part of why Caroline hadn’t wanted to bother them. Last year Patrick had been found liable in a medical malpractice suit where a patient had been misdiagnosed and subsequently died in surgery. His malpractice insurance paid out the settlement, but now his already sky high insurance premiums threatened to drive his practice into bankruptcy.

  “But I can still pay you for the work you’re doing on our closets,” Melody said, with a reassuring pat on Caroline’s leg.

  “Mel, don’t worry about it.” Despite her skyrocketing legal costs, and decline in business Caroline’s bank balance was very healthy. But Melody had hired her, Caroline suspected, out of sympathy since her business had completely dried up.

  It seemed most people weren’t keen on having a suspected murderer in their homes, organizing their stuff. Go figure.

  “You have to finish,” Melody said emphatically. “Oh, and I had a great idea—I want you to think about a special way to display Patrick’s lab coat from when we first met.”

 
Caroline nodded, inwardly cringing. Unlike Caroline, who liked to purge her closet every season, Melody attached sentimental value to nearly every piece of clothing, making it incredibly difficult for Caroline to design a clean, uncluttered system without it being overwhelmed. She’d managed to get Melody to cull both her and Patrick’s closet, at least a little bit. But Melody was inexplicably attached to an ancient physician’s coat from St. Luke’s hospital.

  “I can’t possibly toss that,” Melody insisted. “It’s where Patrick and I met. It represents the foundation of our marriage.”

  Personally Caroline couldn’t see how a swath of white polycotton with a red machine embroidered crest over the left breast pocket could take on such importance, but the customer—especially her only customer—was always right. “I’ll think of something, I promise.”

  But right then her mind was far from functional organization systems. Right then she was wondering how the hell she was going to get herself out of that mess. Despite Mel’s loyalty and reassurance, Caroline knew that when it came down to it, she was on her own.

  She thought of Danny Taggart, the cold look in his eyes as he’d turned down her request for help. She had no doubt he was investigating James’s connection to his mother on his own, and wondered if he’d found anything. Caroline had pored over every page of that date book twice and had come up empty.

  But Caroline knew Danny wouldn’t stop until he found out the truth about what happened to his mother after she disappeared.

  Once upon a time he would have fought just as hard for Caroline. But he turned his back, left her to fend for herself just like before. Shame on her for hoping it could be different.

  “We’ve got a problem,” Moreno’s voice froze Danny’s gloved hand as he was reaching for the middle drawer of James Medford’s bureau.

  “Yeah, what’s that?” he asked, resuming his search, sliding open the drawer to reveal rows of neatly folded and stacked boxer shorts, separated by color and pattern. “Caroline’s headed up the front steps.”

  “She’s an hour early,” Danny protested. “Why the hell didn’t you tell me her car was on the move?”