“Actually, I have some idea. I’ve had my wisdom teeth out. I remember how thirsty I was afterward.”
“This is normal, then?”
“The thirst? Yeah. The almost dying part? No.”
She gave him a grateful smile for the water, ignored the rest of it, and rested her head against the back of the elevator car. They rode in silence the rest of the way down to the lobby.
He offered her an arm as they walked through the front doors to the parking lot, but she shook her head. She had too much work to do. She couldn’t act like an invalid. She wrapped her scarf around her neck and scrunched herself deep into her down jacket.
Luckily, his car was parked in one of the closest spots.
She settled in the passenger seat and blew into her hands to warm them. He started the engine and cranked the heat.
“It’ll warm up soon.”
“Thanks. I’ve been cold ever since the surgery.”
“I’ll bet. So, what’s the best route to your apartment from here? Should I just go down Georgia Avenue?” he asked, checking his rearview mirror and putting the car into reverse to back out of the spot.
“My apartment? I’m not going home,” she answered slowly, not fully understanding the question. “I’m going back to the office with you.”
“No, you’re not.”
Her confusion turned to irritation.
“Yes, I am.”
He put the car back into park and sighed. Then he shifted in his seat and pierced her with a serious gaze.
“Listen to me. Whether you want to believe it or not, you nearly died. The receptionist told Rosie you stopped breathing, your pulse rate plummeted, and your heart almost stopped beating. So, while it would have simply been a stupid, masochistic idea to come into the office after a routine wisdom tooth extraction, coming to work after what your body’s been through is out of the question. I’m not taking you to the office.”
She reached for the door handle.
Fine. She’d take a cab.
“And,” he continued, “Sid said if you turn up today, he’ll drag you out of there himself and take you home.”
She froze.
“You told Sid?”
“He overheard me and Rosie talking. Now will you please stop being so macho and just give me your freaking address.”
She stared at him for a long moment, her anger rising. He stared back.
She swallowed hard and tried not to cry. She was too weak to get out of the car and storm off, so she mumbled the cross streets and settled back into the passenger seat.
The truth was, she didn’t feel up to doing much more than curling up in her bed.
One day of rest, she promised herself. And then it’s full steam ahead.
She realized she’d made that same promise just two days ago at Rosie’s place. Having coworkers who cared about her was starting to interfere with her productivity.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Franklin jiggled his left leg while he watched the notes populate the entry for the lawyer’s surgery in the oral surgical center’s database. The words appeared slowly, on some sort of delay, several letters at a time.
Only when the entry was complete did he allow himself to exhale.
She was going to be fine.
She’s going to be fine, he repeated to himself. The stomach-churning nausea that had gripped him since morning abated, and his body began to shake with relief.
He gripped his head with both hands.
He’d nearly killed her. When the device monitoring her heart rate had flatlined, he’d stared at the screen in disbelief. Then her pulse had dropped to nothing.
It had been just a blip. A moment. But the woman had almost died.
He had almost killed her, his brain screamed at him silently.
His eyes fell on the blue and green skeins of yarn that sat on the floor in a wicker basket near his mother’s favorite chair, the knitting needles poking through the balls like chopsticks, waiting for her to start a sweater or scarf or whatever her next project was supposed to be.
I don’t have a choice, he told himself. The words dug into his skull like claws. He had no choice.
He and his mother were entirely at the mercy of the faceless, nameless monster who had grabbed her. And that meant Aroostine Higgins was too.
Think.
He scrubbed his face with his hands. He just needed to think of a way out of this. He reminded himself he had a fine analytic mind. If he attacked this impossible dilemma like a puzzle or a math problem, he could solve it. He had to.
The shrill chirp of the prepaid cell phone interrupted his musing. And his nausea returned like a punch in the gut.
“Hello?” He couldn’t keep the dread out of his voice.
“Hello, Franklin.”
The man waited.
“Um, what can I do for you?” Franklin asked, afraid to hear the answer.
“A report, you idiot,” the man finally huffed. “I’m calling for a report on the surgery.”
“Oh.” In his panic, Franklin had completely forgotten to call in. Now, his fear spiked. “I’m so sorry. I was just about to call you.” The words tumbled out in a desperate rush.
“It’s no matter,” the man said in an oddly soothing tone. “Your mother’s fingers should heal fine.”
“Her fingers? Heal?” He couldn’t make sense of the words so he simply repeated them.
“Yes, her broken fingers. You should have called me two hours ago. You did not. And now, your mother has two broken fingers.”
Oh God. No.
“I’m afraid so.”
Franklin hadn’t realized he’d spoken aloud until the monster on the other end of the phone answered him.
“Can I . . . Can I talk to her? Please?”
“She’s indisposed.”
“Please!”
“Let’s focus, shall we? What happened with the attorney? Did you do as I directed?”
Franklin’s mind spun. He took great gulps of breath and tried to ignore the image that his brain had constructed of his mother cradling her hand, grimacing in pain, two fingers sticking out at odd angles.
“Yes. Yes, I did. According to the surgery notes, the interruption caused her body to go into shock. She’s going to be fine. She was released with instructions to go home and rest. She hasn’t used her card to access the office, so, apparently, she followed doctor’s orders.”
“Very good.”
Franklin’s stomach turned at the satisfaction in the man’s voice.
“She could have died.”
“That’s not your concern.”
Not his concern? Was he joking?
“It’ll be my concern if I’m an accomplice to murder. Maybe I should turn myself in now, before someone else gets hurt, or worse,” he shot back before he could stop himself.
He gripped the phone and waited for the explosion he was sure would come.
Instead, the man laughed. When he finally spoke, he sounded genuinely amused.
“Accomplice? Accomplice to whom, Franklin? I’m no one. A ghost. A specter. What will you tell the police—the mystery man on the phone told you to do it? You might as well blame the voices in your head. No, Franklin. You can wipe the idea of involving the authorities from your mind. And, rather than worrying about some attorney who is a stranger to you, your energy would be better spent thinking of the woman who gave you life and raised you, don’t you agree? Your mother’s survival is in your hands.”
Franklin’s stomach lurched as he considered the man’s words. He was trapped. He was a hostage, no different from his mother.
“May I please speak to her?” he croaked through suddenly dry lips.
“Perhaps tomorrow. If you earn the privilege.”
The sudden click of the call disconnecting echoed in
his ear like a shot. He stared blankly at the wall. He was caught in a nightmare with no way out. He had to create an exit. Somehow.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Tuesday afternoon
Aroostine tried to still her trembling hands and stared down at the words swimming on the paper a process server had just shoved at her as she exited the elevator.
Her day had started out lousy—she’d forced herself into the office at her usual time, despite her aching mouth—only to find that Judge Hernandez had summarily denied her motion nunc pro tunc almost the instant Rosie had filed it. That news had stunned her, but she’d told herself at least her day had nowhere to go but up.
Judging by the document in her hands, she couldn’t have been more wrong. She blinked as if the words might change.
Joseph C. Jackman v. Aroostine Higgins, Complaint in Divorce.
Her stomach lurched.
Don’t throw up, don’t throw up, she told herself as she worked up enough saliva to swallow.
Joe was divorcing her? Joe was divorcing her.
She leaned back against the wall across from her office door and blinked as hard as she could to stem the tide of thick tears that threatened to fall at any moment. If she could just get inside, she could have her impending breakdown in private.
She took a deep breath, put her head down, and stepped toward her door on unsteady legs.
Her legs buckled under her, and she felt herself riding a wave of humiliation to the floor.
Great. Just great.
And then warm hands grabbed her under her armpits and held her up.
“Easy there,” said a concerned male voice, as its owner lifted her back to her feet.
She closed her eyes and willed herself to disappear.
“Aroostine?” Mitchell asked.
Crap. She hadn’t disappeared.
She opened her eyes to see him staring at her with concern.
“Are you okay?”
She forced her mouth into an approximation of a smile.
“I’m fine. Thanks for catching me. I just . . . got light-headed. I guess maybe I should have stayed home one more day, after all,” she lied. She rolled the divorce papers into a tube so he couldn’t see the caption.
He raised an eyebrow at that. He and Rosie had been in a complete uproar when she’d shown up for work as usual. Apparently, they thought she’d just waste the final week of trial prep curled up on her couch, nursing her swollen mouth.
To his credit, he didn’t bother to say “I told you so.” Instead, he moved his hands to her back and gently guided her through her office door and deposited her in her chair.
Then he picked up her desk phone and punched in an internal extension.
“What are you doing? I’m fine, honestly,” she insisted.
He held up a finger to silence her, then said, “Rosie? This is Mitch. Your first chair just collapsed in the hallway. I guess no one told you the junior attorney’s responsible for keeping the trial team healthy? Bring her a cup of tea or something. And a bowl of soup—I’m sure she didn’t bother with lunch.”
He ended the call and smiled at Aroostine. “Help is on the way.”
“Thanks. Really, thank you. But that wasn’t very nice to Rosie. She’s going to feel responsible.”
She opened her top desk drawer and jammed the papers into it.
He cocked his head. “She knows I’m just giving her a hard time, and she clearly cares about you.” He sat on the edge of the desk, his legs dangling just beside her chair, and lowered his voice. “We both do. Are you sure you don’t want to talk about whatever’s really going on?”
She felt trapped by his proximity and by the question. He seemed to be genuinely worried and interested. But there was no way she was going to tell the cute guy who worked in the next office about her failed marriage.
“I told you. I overdid it. And, you’re right, I skipped lunch.”
She lifted her chin and met his eyes, daring him to push it further.
He didn’t.
He sighed. “Take better care of yourself.”
He pushed off the desk and stepped past her.
“Thanks again for the hand,” she said to his back as he left the office.
He didn’t respond but pulled her door shut on his way out.
She waited a full minute before yanking open the desk drawer and retrieving the divorce complaint.
She smoothed the wrinkled pages and licked her lips, putting off the inevitable for another few seconds.
She read the sterile boilerplate language with her heart banging in her ears. Joe’s lawyer—and at least he’d had the decency to get an out-of-town attorney—had filed a very simple, no-fault divorce complaint. He asked the court to dissolve the marriage because it was “irretrievably broken.”
The dispassionate document made no reference to the years they’d spent renovating the old farmhouse on the edge of town, room by room, the walks through the woods with their dog, the nights they’d passed in a blur of candles, tangled sheets, and intertwined limbs. Just a polite request to declare their relationship dead and beyond repair. Heavy tears fell on the papers before she could stop them.
Rosie rapped softly on the door and then cracked it open.
As she stepped quietly into the office, balancing a tray of food, Aroostine flipped the papers over so they were facedown on the desk and wiped her face with the back of her hand.
“Hey, I brought you some tomato bisque and a cup of tea. Do you need anything else?” Rosie asked in a solicitous voice.
She crossed the room and arranged the food like an offering to the gods, just so, in front of Aroostine.
“No, this is great. And thanks, Rosie. Mitchell shouldn’t have called you like that. You didn’t need to run downstairs for me.”
Rosie waved a hand at the clumsy attempt at an apology.
“Don’t be stupid. You need to eat. You really shouldn’t have come in today.”
“Well, thank you, anyway.” She picked up the spoon and hoped Rosie would take the hint and leave before she started to cry again.
“Don’t mention it.”
Rosie turned to leave, then hesitated and shifted back around to look at Aroostine.
“What?”
“Nothing. Just . . . um, I thought you ate before we met to go over the exhibits?”
Aroostine gnawed on her inner cheek and tried to think quickly. She was a terrible liar. And she’d forgotten that she’d told Rosie she was going to grab a bite earlier.
“I was going to, but I got pulled into a meeting with Sid. That was stupid. I should have at least eaten a yogurt or something, huh?”
“Oh. Yeah, I guess.”
Rosie gave her a quizzical look before she walked away.
Aroostine dropped the spoon on the desk. Food was the furthest thing from her mind.
She checked the time on her phone’s display. 4:50 p.m.
Joe would just be finishing up for the day. His clothes would be covered in wood shavings after spending hours sanding and smoothing reclaimed barn planks to turn into hand-crafted coffee tables, bookcases, and dressers for rich Northeasterners who wanted authentic, one-of-a-kind furnishings for their weekend country homes.
The late afternoon light streaming through the big, leaded glass windows would bounce off of his slightly-too-long blond hair when he bent down to pet Rufus and wake him up for the short walk from the workshop back to the house.
A pain seared her chest.
Dammit, Joe.
Her hand hovered over the phone. She took several deep breaths and tried to quell the roiling feeling in her stomach. Then, before she could lose her nerve, she called his cell phone.
Four rings. Then his voicemail picked up. She told herself he probably had his music up too loud and didn’t hear the phone. The alternativ
e was too ugly to consider.
The device beeped in her ear, and she made no effort to hide the pain in her voice when she left her message:
“Hey, it’s me. I got the divorce papers today. We need to talk. Call me, please.” She hesitated, then added, “I love you.”
She dropped the handset back onto the receiver with a shaking hand and set her mouth in a firm line. She’d done what she could. Now she had to put Joe out of her mind and focus on the trial.
Eight miles away, Franklin Chang clicked on a set of coordinates with his own shaking hand.
“Gotcha,” he muttered under his breath, tracing the call the attorney had just placed to a mobile number assigned to a small town in Pennsylvania.
He opened another window and typed in a code, checking first to ensure that his monitor’s privacy screen was active.
In less than a second, the subscriber’s name and other identifying information scrolled across the screen: Joseph Charles Jackman, age twenty-six, married to one Aroostine Higgins. Mr. Jackman’s address, place of business, social security number, and Pennsylvania driver’s license number followed.
Bingo. A surge of excitement shot up his spine.
He stared at the screen for a long moment and memorized the words and numbers, thankful—not for the first time—for his photographic memory. This wasn’t something he wanted to write down, not even in the notebook. He didn’t ever want this information to be traced back to him.
He jumped to his feet and fumbled around in his pocket for the cell phone.
He paced in a circle while he placed his call. This was it. His mother’s ticket home.
The man answered on the third ring.
“What?”
“I have something. Something big. But if I give it to you, you have to release my mother.”
The man snorted. “You’re in no position to make demands.”
“Actually, you’re wrong.”
“I don’t have time for these games. Perhaps your mother doesn’t need the use of her hand at all, eh?”
“No, listen to me. Aroostine Higgins is married, and I can give you her husband.”
Critical Vulnerability (An Aroostine Higgins Novel Book 1) Page 7
