by Sara Rosett
“Maybe he forgot the office address?”
“But remembered Jack’s home address? No, I don’t think so. I don’t know Connor’s address off the top of my head.”
“Where were these taken?” Helen asked, squinting. “They’re cute. I love the cobblestones and the sidewalk café, but they’re so grainy they’re almost Impressionistic.”
“I couldn’t figure it out either. Connor’s afraid of anything made after 1995, so he probably took them with his phone, which has a terrible camera. I heard him complaining the other day about how he couldn’t use his regular camera because he couldn’t find a place to develop film, if you can believe it.”
Zoe flipped through the pictures again, which were all street scenes, except one. She paused at a close-up of a Madonna, the paint faded and crackled. The figures were flat, almost one-dimensional, barely standing out from the blue background with its sprinkling of stars. She fingered the corner of the photo, thinking it was an odd sort of thing for Connor to photograph. He wasn’t especially religious or interested in art, either.
“Weird,” Helen said, handing the pictures back. She stood and slipped her Coach bag on her shoulder. “Well, I have to get back, too. Maybe I can beat the rain. Looks like it’s going to be a huge storm. Think about the job,” she instructed as she left.
“Fine. I’ll think about it,” she said to placate Helen. As she shut the door behind Helen, she felt a twinge of misgiving. A job at the county would be a smart move—secure and safe, but she couldn’t do it. It might be wise, but she’d be miserable. She knew she would, and it’s not smart to make yourself miserable, she reasoned. A prick of doubt wiggled inside. She squashed it down and went back to work.
Half an hour later, the storm unleashed torrents of rain, and she spent fifteen minutes in the hall bathroom after the tornado siren sounded. She emerged from the hall bath and noticed that besides missing the envelope, Jack had also forgotten to lock the front door. “That’s odd,” she said to herself. He was such a stickler for locking doors and windows. Strange that he would forget.
Dallas, Tuesday, 1:15 p.m.
Jack Andrews pushed the windshield wipers to HIGH. Rain pounded his windshield in thick torrents of water that drowned out the local news on the radio. He’d hoped to catch the latest market report, but he could do that when he got to the office. GRS, an abbreviation for Green Recyclable Services, was located in a business park made up of single story stand-alone businesses designed to look more like homes than offices. The developer hadn’t skimped on trees, sprinkling islands of oaks and cottonwood trees along with plenty of hedges for privacy. Most of the tenants were dentists, accountants, or small medical offices.
He wheeled the car into the slot directly in front of the door to GRS, still slightly amazed at the heavy rain. These Texas thunderstorms that swept across the plains were unlike anything he’d seen growing up in middle Georgia where rain usually meant steady storms that skimmed overhead, gently soaking the land. Here, thunderstorms were vicious, bearing down quickly with winds that drove rain slicing through the air. Tiny pellets of hail tapped against the roof and hood of the car. His blue Accord was seven years old and already had plenty of dents and dings. He’d bought it used when he moved to Texas and wasn’t going to worry if it got some hail damage.
He glanced at Connor’s new silver BMW at the far back corner of the small lot. Connor was going to be pissed if he got some hail damage. Despite clinging to his antique cell phone and having a serious aversion to any sort of digital technology (he refused to use the office coffeemaker because it didn’t have an actual on/off toggle switch), Connor was finicky when it came to his other personal possessions, always wanting the best. Zoe put it more succinctly, saying, “He’s a snob.” Connor’s idiosyncrasies didn’t bother Jack. What Connor did with his salary—what he bought or didn’t buy—didn’t matter to Jack. Jack handled most of the computer-related aspects of the business anyway, except for the accounting software, which Connor had somehow managed to grasp to relieve Jack in at least one area.
With the heavy downpour, Jack was surprised his business partner hadn’t cleared out of the office early to get his precious car into the garage of his newly purchased McMansion before the storm arrived, but then he remembered Connor had told their secretary, Sharon, he’d cover the office that afternoon during her dentist appointment, an unusually nice gesture, for him. GRS was still a tiny start-up, just the three of them, and they had to cover for each other. However, it looked like they wouldn’t stay small much longer.
Jack sprinted from the car to the door but was still drenched by the time he made it inside.
He crossed the small reception area. “Connor, you in there?” There was no answer from behind the closed door to the office on the left of Sharon’s desk. Probably on the phone, Jack thought as he loosened his tie. Connor spent more time talking on the phone than he did sleeping. He tended to shout and drop a lot of curse words, which Sharon didn’t like. Lately, she’d taken to shutting his door to make a point. Jack crossed behind Sharon’s desk where her monitor screen was spinning through a kaleidoscope of abstract shapes.
He stepped into his office, which was opposite Connor’s and picked up his gym bag with his clean workout clothes. His suit jacket and dress shirt were soaked, and his pants were wet from the ankles to the knees. He quickly changed into a black Aeropostale T-shirt, gray workout shorts, and Asics running shoes. He dragged his fingers through his damp brown hair, finger combing it off his forehead. He sat down at his desk then went completely still. Something was wrong.
His screen saver, a photo of him and Zoe in front of the fountains at the Bellagio, smiled at him—their honeymoon photo. He’d been out of the office for over an hour. His computer shouldn’t be on. It was set to shut down after ten minutes. His gaze raked the room. Nothing was out of place. He nudged the mouse and the screen saver dissolved into a webpage with lines of text and numbers, his bank account. He frowned and leaned forward, staring at the last line of numbers. “That can’t be—” But it was. The balance was over seven figures. Seven figures? He wiped a hand down over his mouth.
Banking error, he thought. It had to be. The balance had soared late yesterday with a wire transfer from his investment account.
He grabbed the mouse and quickly logged into his investment account. When the numbers came up, he stared at the screen. His balance was zero. The last transactions, dated yesterday, showed that he’d sold all his GRS shares and made a wire transfer. Only, he hadn’t sold any shares yesterday. And the number of shares was wrong—it was too high. Way too high. He didn’t own that much GRS stock. He shook his head in disbelief as he opened his middle desk drawer for a pen and notepad. Straightening this mess out was going to require extended time on hold, he was sure.
He froze. Nestled among the sticky notes, pens, and scattered paperclips, was his gun—the gun that no one knew about, not even Zoe. He’d left it locked in a trunk in the attic. At home.
He scanned the room again, feeling the old mode of alertness settle on him. He was suddenly aware of the complete silence in the office. Outside, the rain lashed the windows, but inside, the quiet pressed down on him. He remained still, controlling his breathing as he listened. Nothing. Absolute silence. Not good. He’d gotten rusty. He hadn’t even noticed the stillness of the office when he arrived. Now it seemed to be shouting at him.
The walls weren’t thick. He could usually hear something—the whir of a printer, the faint murmur of Connor on the phone, the squeak of Sharon’s chair as she swiveled between her computer and printer, but there was nothing now.
Jack stood slowly. He stared at the gun for a moment, debating. Finally, he picked it up and held it with two hands, elbows bent so the barrel pointed to the ceiling. He moved silently until his back was against the wall beside the door. The gun felt good in his hands, comforting. His breathing was slow and even as he listened. He pivoted through the door, arms extended, almost surprised at how easily his muscles transitioned back
to the familiar movements.
Still no sound from inside Connor’s office. He moved quickly and noiselessly across the low-pile gray carpet. He leaned against the doorframe to Connor’s office, waited a moment, and then in one swift movement, he twisted the doorknob and swung into the room.
***
End of Excerpt
Elusive as well as the entire On the Run series is available in ebook and print versions.
