by K. A. Tucker
I need to find Charlie. Now.
chapter thirty-eight
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CHARLIE
I don’t bother to smile at the valet this time when I climb into my waiting car. I don’t even think about it. I don’t race to the cash drop location. In fact, if the needle didn’t tell me I was doing forty miles per hour, I’d believe my car was parked in the middle of the road.
Jimmy’s clearance text on the burner phone he handed me tonight comes in and I do as expected, walking stiffly to my Sorento. When I’m safely inside it, with the doors locked and the key in the ignition, I have just enough time to grab and open the spare plastic bag sitting in the glove compartment before the entire contents of my stomach comes up.
I’m dry heaving when the burner phone starts ringing.
“Hello.” I hear the emptiness in my voice.
“All good, little mouse?”
Did Sam know that Manny would be there? Did he do that to me on purpose, to scare me? Or is Manny the “other way in” that Sam was looking for? I’m not supposed to use names and give details, even though it’s a burner phone and there can’t be any wiretaps yet. Suddenly, I don’t care. Of all the things I should be worried about, cops listening in on this conversation is not one of them. “Eddie has a partner. He was there tonight. His name is Manny. He put a gun to my head and pulled the trigger but the chamber was empty. Then he threatened to chop me up into a thousand pieces and feed me to the gators. He said he was going to rob you.” The sentences comes out choppy and without emotion.
Dead silence meets my words. I wait. I say nothing and listen, until I hear a sharp inhale. I picture Sam sitting in his cellar, smoking a cigar as he talks to me.
“Everything else went as planned?”
Sam doesn’t sound like he cares that someone was seconds away from killing me tonight. But Sam is as hard to read as I am. I’ve learned from the best, after all. “Yes.” You got your money, Sam. “I’m not doing this anymore. This was the last time.” I set my jaw stubbornly against the urge to backpedal.
I’m not going back there.
“That’s not an option. I have big plans for us. I was going to surprise you with this but I’ve been holding a cut for you, cycling it through some real estate ventures. One year with Manny and you’ll have more money than you could dream of.”
“A year?” My voice explodes into a shrillness I’ve never heard in myself. That I can’t control. “I won’t last a year. Didn’t you just hear what I said? Manny’s going to kill—”
Sam cuts me off with a sharp edge. “I knew he was going to be there. He was just making sure you were legit, that’s all. Do you really think I’d ever send you in somewhere that I thought you’d get hurt?”
“You already have.” My cold whisper is somehow harsher than the shrill voice a moment ago.
“That was a mistake that I made amends for. At great risk to myself, for you! Have you already forgotten?”
“I’ll never forget what you did to him.” Amends. Because executing a man is supposed to make me feel better.
“And have you forgotten all that I’ve done for you?”
I swallow the bubble of guilt trying to make its way up, fighting for dominance over my bitterness. But I say nothing.
“I’ll take care of Manny, little mouse,” Sam says softly, soothingly. “He was just keeping you on your toes, but I’ll make sure he knows that you are trustworthy. Because you are, right?”
Sam is trying to appease me. Make me feel like he’s actually doing me a favor. “I just want out. I don’t care about the money.”
In an instant, his tone is glacial again. “Really . . . the spoiled little girl doesn’t care about the money. Will you care when you can’t pay for your schooling? Or your fancy clothes and your car? I wonder if you’ll care when you’re whoring yourself out to make ends meet.”
Too late, Sam.
How could you do this to me?
Sam has never spoken to me like that before. There’s a long pause. “Let’s talk tomorrow, when you’ve stopped being so irrational.” The phone clicks, ending the call.
The near-death shock hasn’t worn off but a familiar edge is beginning to find its way back in now: that familiar pain throbbing in my chest cavity, the difficulty breathing, the relief associated with wondering what it would be like to just fall asleep and never wake up again.
All the things I found a brief escape from with Cain.
But I was an idiot. There is no real escape.
Sam won’t let me go. He’ll never let me go.
“I have big plans for us,” I echo his words in a whisper as I wrap my fingers around the steering wheel, as I absorb the gravity of the situation. Those words are like a heavy steel door closing above me. Trapping me back inside this suffocating cage that is my life.
Somehow I kept the tears at bay while on the phone with Sam, but now that I’m alone they pour freely, burning hot against my cheeks.
Sam knows about Cain.
He has a name, a physical description. Perhaps even a picture, though he didn’t mention it. How long before Sam finds him? If I stay here, I’m putting a target on his chest.
I can’t put Cain in any more danger.
You don’t do that to people you love.
Cranking my Sorento, I pull out onto the street, the lights and stop signs blurred by my tears.
With no destination, I drive.
I know where my selfish heart wants me to go. I don’t even care about the China incident anymore. Given that I just had a loaded gun pointed at my head, it seems trivial. I don’t know why China was on his lap. He says he had a good reason and I believe him.
But I asked Cain to let me go. And he did.
Which makes what I have to do easier.
I feel the freedom I had tasted fading away.
As Jimmy tails me.
I’m surprised that I even caught on. I wouldn’t have, had I not looked in my rearview mirror at that precise second to see a black sedan three cars back make a left-hand turn, the streetlight reflecting off its shiny upgraded hubcaps.
It looked an awful lot like the same car I climbed into earlier tonight. Seven minutes and three turns later, I can’t deny that it is the same car.
I pass by the entrance to my apartment building—quivering at how easily I could have brought Jimmy there, handing him yet another bit of information that could lead him to Cain—and I continue all the way to a twenty-four-hour diner on the other side of Miami.
Far away from everyone I’ve come to love.
chapter thirty-nine
■ ■ ■
CAIN
“Cain?”
The minimal hair that Tanner has left is standing on end as he answers his door, half asleep, the day’s sports highlights blaring through his apartment in the background.
“I need a key to Charlie’s apartment.”
He frowns. “Well . . . er . . . the laws say—”
“Fuck the law, Tanner,” I snap. “Either give me the key or I’ll bust down the door, and then you’ll be dealing with contractors to fix it.”
Grumbling something unintelligible, Tanner reaches up and grabs the giant ring of keys that hangs on the wall beside the door. He reminds me of a jailer in that regard, but I don’t say anything. Thrusting it forward with a scowl, I feel his eyes on my back as I march toward 1-D. Tanner’s a fantastic superintendent.
“Charlie?” I call out as I step into the dark apartment. I’m almost positive she’s not here because her car’s not out front. Still, I know she has a gun and I’d rather not get shot tonight.
Silence responds.
She could be back any minute, so I don’t waste time, heading straight for her bedroom. I don’t expect to find much, seeing as my closet and dresser are overflowing with her clothes and her femi
nine stuff has invaded my bathroom cabinet. In fact, based on my cursory inspection of her bedroom, the room is empty, except for the sheets on her bed.
And the bottom dresser drawer.
I start rifling through the assortment of workout clothes packed within—shorts, T-shirts, yoga pants—until I come to one . . . two . . . three . . . I pull out five wigs buried beneath. Blond, brunette, short-haired, long-haired. The strands are silky between my fingertips. I’m pretty sure it’s real hair, and if it’s real, that means these wigs are expensive.
Suitable for high-end disguises.
And high-end crimes.
The curly brown one makes a thumping sound as I whip it at the wall in anger. How did I not have a clue? I’ve been sleeping with, working with, falling for this woman!
It has to be drugs. No wonder she’s been so secretive. Fuck! Given who Dan is, my past . . . it’s all adding up. I remember how she froze when she realized I had spoken to this Sam guy. It doesn’t take a genius to figure out that whoever he is, he’s controlling her—and she’s terrified of him. Maybe he is her real father. That would mean she has assumed someone else’s identity, because the one she gave me is real.
Someone went to a lot of trouble to hide who she really is.
Quickly searching the rest of the place, I find nothing of interest. And no gun. She must have it on her.
There’s really not much left to do except sit on her couch—inhaling the faint scent of her floral perfume that it still holds. I slide my phone out of my pocket and dial her number. And wait. But . . . what the fuck am I going to say? Accuse her of dealing drugs over the phone? Shit. I should have given this some more thought.
With a heavy sigh, my thumb shifts to the “end” button when Charlie’s sweet voice comes on to ask me to leave a message. But I find I can’t hit it. I can’t break this connection to her. What if it’s the only one I have left? What if this is my only chance to get everything off my chest?
“Hi, Charlie.” My voice cracks with her name. It might not be her real name, but it’s the only one I know. To me, she’s Charlie. She’s the woman who stole my heart right out from me before I even realized she had her hands on it. I chuckle into the phone, the irony not lost to me. I did hire a thief, after all.
Like a floodgate, the words begin pouring out freely and quickly as I try to beat the time limit on the messaging system. I explain what happened with China and how I’m firing her. I explain how I just rifled through her things and I know what she’s into—or suspect what she’s into—and how I don’t care, as long as she’ll let me help her get away from it. I’ll do anything to help her get out of it.
I explain how I wish I had never said those words to her tonight, how I could never just let her go. How we can figure this out.
How I’ve fallen for her.
It isn’t until the answering service cuts me off that I realize my entire body is shaking.
I lean back. I take a deep, calming breath.
And I wait for her to come home.
She’s not leaving my sight again until she trusts me completely. Until I drag every last confession out of her beautiful mouth.
Until I get her out of this fucking mess.
chapter forty
■ ■ ■
CHARLIE
I won the showdown.
Four cups of coffee and two pieces of apple pie later, I watched the black sedan pull out of the parking lot and head left. He likely figured out that I was on to him. There’s a good chance he’s waiting in a nearby parking lot for my truck to pull out, so I watch the window for another two hours, until my eyes are heavy and I’m seriously debating curling up on the bench.
But I can’t, because I still have too much to do, including the first unselfish thing I’ve done since the day I walked into Penny’s. As soon as the plump middle-aged waitress comes back from her smoke break, I politely ask her for a pen and some paper.
■ ■ ■
I hug my knapsack to my body. There’s fifty thousand dollars packed into it, so, naturally, I feel like a sitting duck with a sign over my head that reads “rob me of all that I have.” It is all that I have, along with some basic supplies and a few articles of clothing that I picked up at the twenty-four-hour Wal-Mart while waiting for the bank to open.
It took ten minutes to clear out my safety deposit box and my bank account. When I went to sell my car to the dealership, they told me it would take a few days to cut me a check. I flirted, I yelled, I groveled. I pulled out all my best acting skills. Finally I asked them what it would cost to get them to take it immediately.
I walked out of there with ten grand in cash, knowing I had been cheated.
Not caring.
Now, as I sit on a bench, waiting for my bus out of Miami, there’s only one thing left to do. Well, two things.
I’m not sure which is harder.
My burner phone rings. “Hello, little mouse. Feeling normal again today?”
Normal. What is normal? My quiet acceptance of all that Sam has trained me to be? Of his tainted love, with all the ugliness that comes with it?
I had an entire speech planned, about how he had taken advantage of me, how you don’t put those you love in danger. How I don’t think I can ever forgive him. But I’m tired and it just feels unnecessary. There are only two words I need to say.
They may come out wobbly, but they are unyielding. “Goodbye, Sam.”
Shutting the burner phone off, I toss it in the trash as a wave of relief washes over me.
I am done with Sam.
That was the easy part.
Not wasting any time, I pick up my real phone. I take a deep, calming breath. And hit “send” on the text that I’ve struggled to type out for an entire hour. I know he called me last night—I see the notification of a message—and yet I can’t bear to listen to whatever he said. Just hearing his voice might crack my resolve, which would be catastrophic. I’ve already set too many wheels in motion this morning. I need a clean break.
Cain gave me that last night.
The only reason I’m texting him now is because of that voice in the back of my conscience that says I don’t want him to worry about me. Because, despite what he may think of me right now, he might grow concerned when I don’t come to pick up my things, when no one hears from me again.
I wait for the indication that the message has been delivered, and then I quickly shut the power off, strip it of its memory chip, and toss it into the trash.
I wrap my arms around my knapsack and bury my face so no one sees the tears that begin pouring.
Waiting for the second wave of relief.
The one that never comes.
chapter forty-one
■ ■ ■
CAIN
The chime of my phone startles me awake.
The words staring out at me from the screen turn my blood cold:
I hope you can forgive me one day. Please give my apartment to Ben and anything of mine at your place to Ginger.
It takes me another few moments to fully process what’s going on.
Charlie is saying goodbye.
No.
Did she even listen to my message? She couldn’t have. She wouldn’t be leaving me if she had.
I rush to dial her number—number one on my favorites. It goes straight to voice mail.
Fuck. No.
With quick fingers, I punch out a message:
Call me. Now.
I get an error message back, saying the text was never delivered.
I try again.
I try ten more times.
Each time, the message bounces back. It’s as if Charlie has disconnected her phone.
As if I’m never going to hear from her again.
The thought of that brings a sting to my eyes. No . . . this can’t be happeni
ng. Checking the clock to see that it reads ten a.m.—I must have drifted off on Charlie’s couch around six—I hit number two on speed dial. I don’t even wait for John’s greeting. The second I hear someone pick up, I throw out my demand. “Get your ass to Miami. Today.”
■ ■ ■
“Still a fucking looker, I see,” John booms, stalking into my office to slap his meaty hand against mine.
“And you’re still not, I see,” I retort with a wry grin, softly punching his substantial gut. “What is this?”
“The women love it!” With a boom of laughter, John turns to appraise Nate’s size with a whistle. The last time they saw each other, Nate was still a scrawny teenager. “What have you been feeding this runt?”
Nate’s face splits wide open in a grin as he takes John’s hand within his own.
Nodding slowly, John murmurs, “Good to see you two again. I can’t believe it’s been so long since . . .”
“Nine years,” I confirm. After that night, John seemed to make a point of swinging by my apartment weekly, offering any little bits of info on my family’s murder. Bits that didn’t add up to anything, but I appreciated it all the same because it meant the cops hadn’t already dismissed it. He came around enough, saw enough of my black eyes and bruised knuckles, that he had to know I was fighting. He never questioned me, though.
The night that John showed up at my house three months after the murder with two mug shots was the night he earned my trust. Tossing them onto the table, he told me to memorize those faces and to run in the other direction should I ever see them. They belonged to the men who the police suspected were involved and sometimes, especially in drug-related crimes that involved money, family members and friends become targets. If he knew anything about the money I stole, he never let on.
He warned me that the lead was circumstantial at best and wouldn’t hold up in court but maybe, just maybe, they’d find concrete evidence. But he added that the police force was overextended, that they had some high-profile cases on their desk already, that sometimes, despite knowing who the guilty persons are, those nails in their coffins could remain elusive.
