Marcus nodded.
It was true the prosecutor made a decent salary, but the way of life in the world of the extremely wealthy was a mystery to those who didn’t live it. Catherine believed her answer made sense, and Mr. Evergreen had no reason to doubt her.
He added, “Thank you, Ms. London. I, too, will let you know of any new developments which I am privy to share. Would you like me to be the one to inform Mr. Hensley?”
“If you feel the need to speak to him personally—by all means.”
“No, if you want to break the news to him, I won’t intrude. Once again, I’m sorry to be the one to inform you of this disturbing news.”
“Thank you, for taking the time.” Catherine closed the door and leaned against it. Taking in the grand stairs and large glistening foyer, a smile crept upon her face. She’d give this some time. Although, she wasn’t sure what that amount of time should be; nevertheless, when that acceptable mourning time was over, she’d meet with Mr. Simmons or Mr. Miller. Catherine remembered the legal documents she’d signed years ago naming her the executor of Anton’s estate. They would have been null-and-void if Anton had family—a wife or children, but he didn’t. He was divorced, and Claire was also missing, as was the child she claimed was his. That all worked together to make those documents now valid.
Catherine’s smile grew as she made her way to his office. It was so nice of Marcus Evergreen to come all the way out to the estate to speak with her personally. She couldn’t have planned this better herself!
The café was outside. After almost two weeks in Venice, Claire couldn’t stand to be held up inside their hotel suite another minute. Yes, the Hotel Danieli was stunning; nevertheless, Claire had experience at being held prisoner in beautiful places, and she needed air. If that meant more of the disguises, she’d do it. Sipping her warm tea, Claire leafed through the pictures one more time. The blue water and white sand reminded her of her honeymoon. The private island was amazing, but could it be home? She knew she needed to make a decision. Phil had been patient, but this was taking too long; even the two of them, being out in public made him uneasy. Claire knew he wanted an answer.
“I’m not sure. I mean it reminds me of Fiji, but what about my baby? Is there medical care”—she added with emphasis—“real medical care nearby?”
“Yes, we discussed this. There’s a town a mere boat ride away. In that town there’s a UK educated doctor. If more extensive medical care is necessary, the town has an air field. You can afford the necessary flight. In less than two hours you can be at a state of the art facility with specialists.”
Claire looked down. Maybe she wasn’t ready to make this move. She hadn’t checked the American news feed in a few days, honestly, she hadn’t checked anything. As the adrenaline from her escape waned, the hidden fortune and impending move seemed burdensome. Claire was tired of making wrong decisions.
Phil leaned across the small table and covered her hand with his. The care and compassion she’d seen in his eyes was slowly turning to irritation. His voice was but a whisper in the din of conversation occurring on all sides of them. “Listen, it’s your choice and your money, but if you don’t make a decision soon, at the very least we need to leave Venice. I realize traveling is difficult for you; however, this is my job, to keep you safe—whether you accept it willingly or not.” His last phrase held a bit more determination than Claire appreciated.
With the hairs on the back of her neck springing to attention, Claire’s lingering sadness at what she’d lost gave way to her new independence. Sitting straight, she removed her hand from his and said, “You’re doing your job because I’m paying you—very well—I might add. It is my decision and I’m sick and tired of making the wrong ones.”
“Yes, you’re paying me and I’ve earned less for more. The fact remains, my job is to keep you safe”—his voice lowered again—“all the damn disguises in the world won’t keep you outside the radar on a public street in Venice. Despite the fact the FBI is probably looking for you, your ex-husband’s reward makes everyone a possible threat.”
As Claire moved to stand, so did Phil.
“Stop,” she declared.
He lifted a brow.
In a hushed but determined tone, she said, “I’m going for a walk. I don’t need a babysitter. I have my phone and I need to think. I’ll be back when I get back.” This time, she leaned toward him. “If you don’t respect my privacy, I’ll find another babysitter. I need a break.”
She saw the turmoil in his eyes. She wasn’t just a job to him, he genuinely cared about her. Claire knew that; nevertheless, she needed to think. Walking helped her do that. When he didn’t respond, Claire nodded and turned away. Though the sky was clear, the temperature was brisk, especially with the breeze blowing between the buildings. Claire reasoned it had to do with impending autumn and all the water.
With the tirade of thoughts swirling through Claire’s mind, the world around her was a blur. Unconsciously, her feet moved toward St. Mark’s Square, and her eyes watched the pigeons while directing her body to avoid other pedestrians. Though surrounded in all directions, none of the historical beauty registered. Her mind was busy searching for answers. She thought about Tony. They hadn’t seen one another for almost a month. Momentarily, memories of their last encounter filled her vision. She remembered him asking her again to go to Europe. The irony of the fact that she was now where he’d wanted her—wasn’t lost. If only she’d gone with him, perhaps she’d be enjoying the sightseeing, instead of hiding for her life. Berating herself, Claire recognized—another bad decision.
She didn’t want her move to be impulsive. Did she even want to move away—forever? Claire questioned: was Catherine truly that much of a threat? Then she remembered Tony’s parents and her parents. Could Catherine have been responsible for her parents’ accident as well? What about Simon? No—that didn’t make sense. Why would Catherine care about Simon Johnson? Claire knew in her heart, if Simon’s death wasn’t a real accident, the guilt belonged with Tony. If Tony was responsible for Simon, was he also responsible for her parents?
Her entire body ached with indecision. How could the woman she’d grown to love as a mother be responsible for so much? How could the man she loved also be guilty? Claire shuddered against the cool breeze as she remembered scenes she’d compartmentalized away. The images from 2010 streamed through her memories. They weren’t as vivid as they used to be—time does that. It takes away the color and dims the sound, yet as she wrapped her arms around herself and felt the tears fill her eyes, she knew, in early 2010, color hadn’t been necessary. The only thing that mattered was black.
This unwanted realization struck hard. No matter how much she wanted to love and trust Tony, that black veil of fear would always be nearby. She’d suppressed it and compartmentalized it away; however, its presence was what Catherine used to her advantage. Conceding to this revelation momentarily immobilized her. She sat upon a concrete bench facing the lagoon and watched the number of pigeons multiply at her feet. She didn’t see the other people, although they were all around. It wasn’t until she heard his voice that she even knew he was present.
Of course, she recognized it. Looking up, she saw his blue eyes penetrating her black veil. Her world was no longer concealed, yet it didn’t make sense. How could Harry be there in Venice? Why was he there? Was he really there? New questions flooded her already saturated mind.
Listen to your intuition. It will tell you everything you need to know.
—Anthony J. D'Angelo
The familiar ring beckoned Sophia to the kitchen of their Provincetown home. She recognized the melody, telling her of her husband’s waiting call. Hurriedly, clicking the ANSWER button, Sophia allowed her smile to radiate through the screen. They hadn’t spoken in almost a week and her excitement at the handsome profile picture was hard to contain. Waiting for their conversation to connect, Sophia stared at his smiling face knowing that soon she’d see him, as if he were right there with her.<
br />
“Hi, honey,” she answered as the video feed fought to catch up to the audio. Her thoughts and concerns from earlier in the day disappeared as her husband’s soft brown eyes transcended miles, continents, and oceans.
“Hey, beautiful.” After almost a week apart, merely the sound of his voice made Sophia melt into her chair. “Tell me you’ve heard the news.”
Sophia’s mind searched for recent information. She’d been so busy with her parents’ affairs, art studio, old friends, and preparations to return to the West Coast, she hadn’t looked at a newspaper or even her homepage in a couple of days. That was part of the charm of living on the Cape—it was a world of its own. Grinning at her husband’s image, Sophia answered, “Oh, you know me—always up on the latest headlines!”
Derek grinned and shook his head.
Sophia continued, “I don’t think I have. Whatever it is, it must be pretty big if it got to you in Beijing.”
“Yeah, I’d say it’s big. It’s big enough that I’m heading back to Santa Clara tomorrow.”
“I’m getting there tomorrow too! I already have my flight booked.” Excitement about their reunion dimmed as Sophia pondered the possibilities of Derek’s agenda change. “I’m thrilled, but why? You aren’t scheduled to come home for another week. What happened? Does it have something to do with travel—has there been a safety alert, are you all right?”
“No, travel is fine. I’m fine, but Anthony Rawlings is missing!”
Sophia stared incredulously at the screen, trying desperately to put her husband’s words into a frame of time and space. She hadn’t spoken to Derek since her strange encounter in her studio with Mr. Rawlings. Wrangling her thoughts into a manageable quorum, she asked, “When? What do you mean he’s missing?”
Derek shrugged. “I’m not sure of all the details. A mandatory webinar just concluded. Roger gave everyone from Shedis-tics the basic information. I don’t think he wanted any of us to learn it from the news or internet. I haven’t had a chance to look, but Roger said it’ll be everywhere soon. The entire Rawlings Industries Empire is in defense mode. You know—circle the wagons—stand tall—and get ready for whatever happens.”
Sophia shifted in her chair. “Honey, remember we were supposed to talk last Saturday?”
Derek’s attention was suddenly diverted to something at the side of his screen. “Ah, sorry, babe, I couldn’t get to Skype. Things were crazy. You know, being back in the states for your parents’...” His voice trailed off as he looked back to the camera, concern filled the blue eyes peering only at Sophia. “I’m sorry. Don’t get me wrong. I didn’t want to be anywhere else, but with you”—the lines in his forehead disappeared as tiny creases formed around his eyes and a loving grin emerged—“That’s where I want to be now, too.”
Sophia smiled and shook her head; strands of long, blonde hair moved gently across her face. “I know that. Don’t worry, but Derek, I need to tell you something that happened on Saturday. First, tell me, when did Mr. Rawlings disappear? And what do you mean disappeared?” With each word, her volume increased, exposing her growing concern.
“I think it was last weekend, sometime—something to do with the FBI and the disappearance of his ex-wife.” The sound of an incoming call echoed behind Derek’s voice. “I really need to go. I’ll see you at home tomorrow. Things are insane! I love you!”
“Derek!”—she yelled toward the small monitor—“Derek!” Making her words move fast, Sophia added, “He was here last Saturday! He was in my art studio!”
Her speed of speech was inconsequential. Her husband’s image was gone—their connection severed. Sophia stared at the screen for a minute. In place of her husband’s moving, talking image, she once again saw his profile picture and name. It went without saying; things must be wild at Shedis-tics and all the other Rawlings’ subsidiaries. No matter, Sophia wanted to know when Mr. Rawlings went missing, and when did his ex-wife go missing? She did remember Mr. Rawlings saying he was off his game. It was all so strange.
Sophia had thought it was odd having him at the studio, asking her to dinner, offering to buy a painting, and then not showing to dinner. She remembered waiting at the restaurant for an hour before she left. Of course, she was perturbed and wondered why he’d invite her, just to stand her up. Then, as she sat alone at the table, Sophia recalled Mrs. Cunningham’s remark during the gala, last spring. She said Mr. Rawlings was well-known for his inclination for punctuality.
This new information added to the peculiarity of his visit.
Trying to make sense of everything, Sophia walked back to the bedroom to finish packing. Going home to California held much more promise now that Derek would be there too.
Claire looked up to see Harry’s customary blonde hair blowing in the brisk wind off the lagoon, while his blue eyes stared steadfast in her direction. The black veil covering her world ripped open, exposing her sudden vulnerability. Shaken by this new paradigm, she was unable to speak. Everything was out of context. She had a wig which made her hair black, and contacts that made her eyes a dark brown. She wasn’t Claire Nichols, yet she was. Phil was the only familiar person who belonged in her new parallel universe. He was the only one she could trust. How many times had they both discussed that? How many times had they practiced what should happen if their bubble was indeed penetrated?
Words didn’t form as she continued to gape. Her instinct told her to turn, run, and pretend she didn’t know the man now close enough to touch. She could respond in Italian and act offended by his proximity. If she did, would Harry understand? He’d never mentioned his ability to speak other languages—nor had she. While her internal debate raged, Claire stood and faced the man she hadn’t seen since the hospital in Palo Alto—the man who saved her and her baby’s life—the man who, for a brief moment in time, thought he was the father of her child. Claire’s hand fought the urge to flutter above her growing midsection.
Oh, she knew Phil would tell her to turn away. They were supposed to leave soon. If only she’d made her decision about their hidden location. If only she hadn’t gone out alone. If only her life wasn’t such a mess—alas, she hadn’t—she did—and it was.
As Harry’s gaze intensified and his hand reached toward her arm, better judgment prevailed and in near perfect Italian, Claire responded, “Excuse me, sir. I’m afraid you have mistaken me for someone else.” Immediately, hurt registered on Harry’s face. It wasn’t confusion brought on by a language barrier—no, she saw anguish caused by her deception.
He gripped her arm. With emotion filled Italian rolling off his tongue, he asked, “Why Claire? Why are you hiding? You have so many people worried. Why, after everything would you lie to me?”
Claire nervously glanced from side to side. The people in St. Mark’s Square came into focus. Not one of them looked in their direction or cared what was happening. She didn’t know if this was what she wanted to see. Did she want to find Phil lurking nearby? Did she want him to save her and stop her from revealing any of her secrets? Or, was she confirming his absence—verifying her momentary freedom and ability to be honest with an old friend?
Looking down, away from his icy blue gaze, Claire whispered, “It isn’t safe. I can’t talk to you.” There was no reason to speak in Italian.
When she looked back up, Harry wasn’t looking down at her; he was scanning the terrain, perhaps assessing her concern for danger. In the next few transpiring seconds, his grasp of her arm controlled her movement and her, at first, unwilling feet. With quick uninterrupted steps he directed Claire away from the open square, through a large stone archway, down a narrow path, and into a quiet dark tavern. By the time they entered, Claire was no longer resisting. Appearances were too engrained in her behavior. She couldn’t make a scene even if she wanted. Besides, it wasn’t like he’d kidnap her—Harry wouldn’t do that. He was just an old friend, concerned about her safety. That’s what she told herself as they passed the small group of customers near the bar. No one seemed intereste
d as they pressed into a booth. Claire sat first while Harry eased in next to her. After so many months apart and the circumstances of their break-up, Claire found his approach and proximity unnerving. The warmth of the tavern combined with the touch of his knee against hers, felt suffocating. The man beside her held an air of control she’d never witnessed in him before. Though she hadn’t experienced it with Harry, Claire recognized the suffocating sensation. Her face flushed with a consciousness of captivity, as Phil’s words: no one can be trusted, dominated her thoughts.
Keeping her well-used mask intact, Claire harshly whispered, “What’s going on? What do you think you’re doing?”
Before her eyes, the look of determination, which had overshadowed Harry’s expression, melted away. She watched as the kind, hurt man from Palo Alto emerged. It was as if he were two completely different people. The familiar one looked down at the table and gently shook his head. His voice brimmed with emotion, as he asked, “Do you have any idea how worried your sister is? How worried we all have been?”
Claire wanted to trust him, she did. There was just something wrong with the whole scenario. “How did you find me? Why are you looking?”
The pain in his eyes, the same eyes that had said goodbye to her at the hospital, mellowed Claire’s concerns. At the same time, they increased her sense of unease. After all, months ago, she’d been the cause of that pain. Seeing it right in front of her brought back her sense of guilt at the way things had transpired.
“Emily.”
More guilt flooded Claire’s overflowing emotions. “What about Emily?”
“She asked me to use my resources and try to find you.”
Claire looked down at the table as she weighed her words. With hormones raging and emotions swirling, the internal cyclone was difficult to maneuver.
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