I knew Zahera had been promising to take us to a fancy spa for months, to relax and to get a professional makeover. Cristina’s skin needed to be first in line. While a day or even two at the spa wasn’t really my thing, maybe I could throw a hint toward Zahera to actually get the ball rolling.
“Thanks.” Her eyes remained focused on the happenings outside her passenger-side window, which didn’t amount to much action. We’d edged just one more notch forward in the procession.
Ten minutes passed before we finally reached our destination—the side door of the school. Cristina moved her seat forward, as the teacher opened the door and peered in. “At least you have the proper child seat.” She wrinkled her nose, presumably at the less-than-impressive Black Beauty, and then let Emma crawl in.
“All set, Emma?” she asked as she locked her in place.
“Choo-choo!” Wearing a green and blue plaid dress with a white blouse, she pumped her fist in the air as if she were a locomotive, her toothy giggle filling up the car.
We all waved to the snooty lady and then headed out. “How was your day, Emma?” I asked, slowly turning onto the main road.
“Fine. Can I watch a movie?”
Cristina gave me a quick glance. “Sure,” she said.
I added, “If that’s what you want to do.”
“Right now, from the roof of your car.”
Ah. She thought I had one of those fancy video setups. “I have an older car, so we can’t play videos in the car. But we’ll be home shortly.”
I noticed her leg dangling off the chair, occasionally kicking the back of Cristina’s seat.
“We’ll get home and wash up first, then you might be hungry for a snack.”
I looked in my rearview as we pulled to a stop at a red light. Emma gazed out the window, her brow furrowed. Was she upset that I didn’t have a fifty-thousand-dollar car with all of the latest gadgets?
“If you want, when we get home, we could go outside and play, or work a puzzle.”
She acted like she didn’t hear me. I reached back and playfully jiggled her foot. “Did anything exciting happen at school today?”
“No. Not really.”
It was odd hearing such silence from a little girl who usually didn’t stop moving or talking. We made our way another couple of miles. I kept an eye on which cars were behind me, purposely moving slower than regular traffic to see if any lingering cars would pass. It was my own way of checking to see if we were being followed, Dillon’s Italian conspiracy theory lingering in the corner of my mind.
Cristina tried pointing out various landmarks to Emma, asking her opinion. We got a lot of one-word responses. Cristina looked at me and shrugged her shoulders.
“Hey, Emma, I forgot to tell you about this man I work with,” I said.
I could feel Cristina’s stare as I took a quick peek into the rearview and continued. “He’s a pretty nice guy most of the time, but today he said something that made me a little upset. Did anything like that happen to you today?”
She turned her head in my direction. “Sort of, yeah.”
“You know you can tell us anything, right?” We stopped at another light with my right-turn blinker on. About fifty feet behind me, a silver Dodge Ram pickup then stuck its nose into the right lane, putting on its blinker.
“You promise not to tell Daddy?”
“Pinky promise.” I stuck my arm in the back, and we hooked pinkies.
“Hey, how about me too?” Cristina flipped around.
“Can’t leave out Cristina. That wouldn’t be fair,” Emma said, leaning forward to reach Cristina’s hand.
“Okay, we’re now all promised, Emma. Tell us what happened today.” I executed the right-hand turn and watched the silver pickup fall in behind us, four cars back.
“There’s this boy named Justin, and he thinks he knows everything.”
“Like what?”
Her leg kicked Cristina’s seat three rapid times. “About everything. He’s just a know-it-all. But he doesn’t know everything. No one does, right?”
“I know a few people like that, Emma. If I were you, I’d just hang out with someone else.”
“He sits at my table in the library,” she said. “And…”
“And what?”
“He said Daddy is a....” She stopped short, as if she wasn’t sure she wanted to continue.
“A what?” Cristina asked, flipping her head around to face Emma.
“Do you know what a rapist is, Cristina? Justin said it’s an adult thing. He said only mean, bad people did it. He said Daddy did it.”
Out of Emma’s line of sight, I nudged Cristina and subtly shook my head. She winced a bit, wrenching her shoulder.
“Forget boys, especially this kid who doesn’t know what he’s talking about,” Cristina said, unbuckling her seatbelt. “How about we plan our super-duper, awesome playtime, starting with the best horse ride in the world?” Cristina took a head-first dive into the backseat—I could hear her release a pained groan—as Emma screamed with excitement.
As with most things in Cristina’s life these days, I wasn’t in the know. If it was important, I assumed she’d let me know.
I laughed along with the girls, thankful we’d been able to distract Emma, at least temporarily. I knew that little kids only repeated what they heard at home. Parents often openly discussed adult issues right in front of their kids. Apparently, Justin picked up the most seedy piece. All of Dillon’s money couldn’t stop Emma’s classmates from talking and teasing about her dad’s assault charge. Alleged assault charge, I reminded myself.
I took a left at the next main road.
“Where are you going?” Cristina whispered in my ear. “Her house is the opposite way.”
“I’m taking the scenic route.”
“What?”
“No secrets!” Emma shouted and clapped her hands. “Oh, doggie, doggie,” she said, pressing her finger against the window.
Speaking quietly to Cristina, I said, “Trust me.”
I checked my side mirror, and about a hundred feet behind me I saw the silver truck make the same left turn. Was there any way that the person following us was connected to Belsito? I reached under my feet, found my purse, and felt the grip of my Luger, hoping I wouldn’t have to use it.
I hooked a quick right onto a smaller side street. I heard a bang from the back seat.
“Ouch,” Cristina said.
“Weee. It’s a roller coaster.” Emma giggled.
I punched the gas pedal but kept one eye on the side mirror. I saw the silver truck make the turn, its back end fishtailing. My pulse ticked faster. With the girls chattering behind me, I quickly ran through my options, focusing on Emma’s safety and, secondarily, getting more information on the truck.
I grabbed my phone from the cup holder and made two quick swipes across the screen. A quick check of traffic—the nearest oncoming car was a good hundred yards away, the silver truck the only vehicle behind us. But I noticed it had gained on us.
No doubt in my mind, the truck was tailing us. Or did the person have another goal in mind?
“Hold on,” I called out, then jabbed the brake, turned the steering wheel hard to the left. I came out of the U-turn no more than fifty feet away from the truck.
“Whoa,” the girls yelled from the back as if this were just another unexpected turn on the Texas Giant.
We drove toward the truck. I lifted my phone and held down the white photo button for a good three seconds, hoping I was able to capture at least a dozen pictures. I also took a mental snapshot: male, rust-colored skin, cowboy hat, long-sleeve shirt.
Another check in my mirror. The truck reached the next stop sign and took a lazy turn to the right.
“Hello, Daddy. We just took the coolest ride ever,” I heard Emma say.
A tap on my shoulder. “No worries,” Cristina said. “I gave her my phone, and she’s pretending to call Dillon.”
We made our way to the Burchfield property, a
nd I never stopped looking for the silver truck.
12
The media contingent numbered in the dozens, although many were in lawn chairs clustered in small groups. They were either comparing notes or possibly sharing false information to throw their competition off track. Perhaps they were simply enjoying the weather. Tall trees from the Burchfield property offered patches of shade over the surrounding black wrought-iron fence as we quickly pulled up to the electronic gate and punched in our security code. We moved into the property before hardly a camera was raised. They were probably thrown off by Black Beauty, what Zahera had once called my ghetto car.
Once inside, Cristina chased Emma through the kitchen and up the stairs. The horse-rodeo gauntlet had been dropped, from what I’d heard when we jumped out of the car. I hoped Cristina had gotten a good night of sleep. I was sure her mind was buzzing, trying to decide whether or not to meet up with her mom. It took every inch of resolve for me not to push her on it. I knew it wouldn’t do any good anyway. Cristina took suggestions or guidance as direct orders, and those didn’t sit well with her. So, I would keep my curiosity in check, hoping she would come to me when she was ready to talk.
I paused in the hallway by the kitchen, opened my photo app, and brought up the shots I’d taken of the silver truck. I thumbed through the first five. They were a bit of a blur but not bad. I could hear a distant murmur of someone speaking. “Hello, anyone home?” I shouted. I hadn’t seen any cars in the parking area, but Dillon had a twelve-car garage. For all I knew, he’d allowed the lawyers to also use his garage.
No response, but I shuffled in the direction of the voice as I made my way through the pictures. “Holy crap.” The last picture of the bunch showed just the tail end of the truck. But that wasn’t the best part—it captured the last four digits of the license plate, all letters. I pumped my fist, thinking I could ask Stan to see if the partial plate, along with my description of the vehicle, would allow us to identify the owner.
I picked at a nail, wondering if Stan might start asking questions about why I would think I was being tailed. I didn’t want to open that can of worms until I had proof. Although this picture might be what I needed to help me prove that Belsito or someone working for him was indeed lurking in Dillon’s life.
I huffed out a breath and started walking again. I wondered how I would reconcile the fact of sharing client information with the cops, part of the same group who believed Dillon was guilty of a violent felony.
“This isn’t up for debate,” I heard Dillon say from down the hall. “I’ve made my decision, and this is the next step that I want to see completed. It’s the only logical step.”
I stopped just outside of Dillon’s office, his voice clear and direct. Should I back away, or walk past the door and wave?
“Okay, right,” he said.
I couldn’t stop myself from listening. I looked over my shoulder, hoping a representative from Wilson, Mendoza, and Ross wouldn’t stroll around the corner.
The next thirty seconds were filled with a few groans and short one-word answers. I wished like hell I could hear the other end of the line.
What did I expect to hear? Dillon was a billionaire business owner who dealt with people all over the world. But for some reason, my radar was up.
“You think you have a choice in this game?” Dillon chuckled. It dragged on way too long, the kind of chuckle that would make you feel inferior. Finally, he moved on. “Oh my friend, you have been smoking some wacky shit if you think you can make demands of me. Did you suffer a concussion?”
My purse slid down into the crook of my arm, and my keys jingled. I held my breath. Dillon had stopped speaking. Was he walking toward the door?
Crap.
I moved three steps backward, my eyes shifting from the office door to the space around me, wondering if I should try to hide, hoping Dillon wouldn’t pop out into the hallway and accuse me of eavesdropping.
What the hell are you doing acting like you’re a five-year-old?
I squeezed the bridge of my nose and blew out a silent breath. I would walk right into his office and act like I hadn’t heard the conversation. I leaned into the first step, but was stunned to look up and see Emma also in the hallway. Her arms were at her side, her head tilted. She was studying me. I waved, but didn’t say anything. She waved back.
“I don’t give a shit about your ethical line in the sand. We had an agreement, and you’ve already been paid. Do the fucking job, or you’ll regret it. Do you understand me?”
Emma covered her ears with her hands, and she squeezed her eyes shut.
“I said, do you understand me?”
Emma flinched as Dillon’s voice reverberated throughout the hall. I held out my arms, wanting to hold Emma, to protect her. She’d been through so much the last few weeks. Being kidnapped by her mother, nearly sold like a slave. And now her father had been charged with this heinous crime.
I heard papers fluttering and then an ear-splitting smash.
Emma shrieked and ran into the office. I was two steps behind her. “Daddy, Daddy,” she cried. “Please don’t get mad. Please, please.”
She jumped into his arms as his eyes locked on mine. Lines of anger softened over the next few seconds. She squeezed his neck as he turned to the window, rubbing her back. I saw papers scattered all over the floor and broken glass on his desk. I spotted a framed picture of Emma, Dillon, and the wife, Cheryl—the glass in the frame shattered.
Emma whimpered, her head buried in his chest. He started rocking side to side, trying to comfort her.
He had scared Emma to the core. After all she’d been through, that was the last thing she needed to witness.
I knew the pressure he was under was palpable—the charges, the issue with his wife and pending divorce, how the business world would respond to him and his company because of these charges.
The half of his phone conversation that I had heard didn’t sit well with me. It sounded like he was threatening this person. Was it an employee? I’d heard crazy stories about visionaries like Steve Jobs going ape-shit on his employees.
Yet it was still only half of the story. Who knew? Maybe the person on the other end of the line was purposely provoking Dillon, thinking that because of the charges, he was in a weakened position.
My eyes went back to little Emma. She had been upstairs playing without a care in the world just a few minutes ago. Now she was shaken to the core.
People often commented that kids had remarkable resiliency in regards to trauma, almost as if they were part of a super-human race. Trauma one minute; playing the next minute. But I knew it wasn’t like that. Not at all.
I remembered my youth like it had happened just yesterday. My childhood had been nothing more than a series of nightmares, the kind that never leave you, the kind that extinguish any desire to look beyond the next five minutes. And I knew that a child playing after a brush with trauma often was nothing more than a coping mechanism, an escape from reality. Kids weren’t equipped to deal with this type of shit. From my memories and my experience at CPS, I knew it could impact them in one of two ways: they could retreat into another world, or they could keep it inside and allow the trauma to reshape their belief system. For those who drifted to the second option, they usually ended up repeating the same behavior they had witnessed, especially if it was something they had seen several times or had personally experienced. They became adults who beat their spouses or kids, molested them, or in the extreme, took the path of murder.
Unfortunately, I had known all of these types of offenders, and not just from work. Some had been my foster parents.
13
I hit mute on the TV as I sat on the couch and watched Zahera pace across my kitchen, her eyes studying the stained linoleum.
“What’s it going to take for you to get off your ass, go put on a dress, and be my plus-one for this fundraiser party?” she asked, hands planted on her hips.
“I don’t want to go, Z.” I knew I sounded
like a whiner.
“But why?”
“This is a fundraiser at Dillon Burchfield’s house. I told you what I heard just a few hours ago. I’m not sure I can look him in the face. What’s the big deal if I go or don’t go?”
“I admit, it’s a bit awkward for him to continue with the party. But I received a personal phone call from his party planner, and she told me he’s so committed to the cause that he wants to hold the party. He even hopes to break last year’s record for donations.”
“Rich people giving money. Not exactly my scene.”
“Do you even know the charity we’re talking about?”
“I think I missed that,” I said meekly.
“Anything or anyone that touches drugs—awareness and education, prevention, addiction-detox centers, halfway homes, you name it. The foundation is actually named after his wife.”
“Really?”
She nodded. “Cheryl had a drug addiction years ago, but once she went through rehab, she came out a different person. That’s when they set up this foundation.”
“And then she goes off the deep end a week ago. That makes this doubly awkward.”
“I think this goes to show that Dillon might have his faults, but he wants the world to be a better place. He not only puts his money behind the cause, but even now, when he has the opportunity to provide a legitimate reason to cancel such a public event, he decides to put himself out there and make the best of it.”
“Good for him,” I said with a sigh, glancing at the TV screen. It was an old rerun of I Love Lucy. She was hopping up and down in a barrel of grapes. I tried to laugh, but I didn’t have it in me.
“Ivy the grim reaper. So negative. And can you have any less energy?”
Without turning my head—that would have been too much effort—I shifted my eyes to Zahera. “I hear you…about Dillon being the white knight and saving the world, but the man’s got issues. Major issues.”
The Ivy Nash Thrillers: Books 1-3: Redemption Thriller Series 7-9 (Redemption Thriller Series Box Set) Page 55
