“Then what happened?” I ask.
“My brother took care of it. He made it look like my husband was killed by street thugs and left to die in an alley.”
Covering up a murder? It sounds like something the organization would do.
“How did your brother do that?” I ask.
“I’ll tell you after you tell me more. I told you my story. Now I’d like to know yours. Why did you come here, Jill? What are you running from? Were you being abused?”
“No. I was being threatened by some very powerful people.” I stop, afraid to tell her more. But I trust Celia, so I continue, but keep it vague. “If these people found me, they might kill me, so I had to hide out. But then one of them did find me, but instead of killing me, he’s held me hostage here. He’s had people watching me, and every time I tried to leave, his men would come after me and stop me.”
“And now this man is gone?” she asks.
“Yes, and so are the men he hired. At least I think they are. That’s why I took your car today. I left town, and for once, I wasn’t stopped.”
She doesn’t seem surprised by this. Her expression hasn’t changed at all since I told her.
“Celia, I expected you to be more shocked by what I told you.”
She shakes her head. “Nothing shocks me. I’ve seen too many things over the years.” She sees my questioning look and says, “My brother, Marco, is a criminal. He works with a group in Rome.”
“A group? You mean like organized crime?”
“Yes. He’s been working with them for years. So I’m familiar with threats being made by powerful people.”
“Do you still talk to your brother?”
“All the time. Despite what he does, he’s still my brother. He’s chosen that lifestyle and I can’t change him. It’s not my place to judge him.”
I almost laugh because I find it funny that she judges her sister for the men she dates, but she doesn’t judge her brother for being a criminal.
“Does he kill people?”
She shrugs. “Probably. I don’t ask. As far as I know he mostly works the streets, stealing from tourists. Wallets. Cell phones. Laptops. That’s why I warned you about going to tourist areas. Criminals roam the streets and it can be dangerous.” She pauses. “Those men. The ones you said were watching you. What did they look like?”
“I’m not sure. They always wore masks. But they were big guys. And tall, with deep voices.”
“They’re dead,” she says calmly.
“What? How do you know that?”
“A few years ago, I noticed some men lurking behind the restaurant. I saw them when I went to dump the garbage. I’d seen them a few times before, also late at night, hiding behind the restaurant. I told my brother, and he came here and looked into it. He found that the men lived on the outskirts of town. He searched their apartments and found a stash of weapons and surveillance equipment. He did a sweep of the restaurant and discovered listening devices hidden everywhere. We assumed someone found out what I’d done to my husband and hired those men to spy on me and perhaps capture some kind of evidence they could use to charge me with the crime. But I could never figure out who would do that or why. My husband didn’t have many friends and his family wouldn’t care enough to go to all that trouble, especially all these years later.” She looks off to the side. “Now it all makes sense. Why those men were here. It wasn’t about me. It was about you.”
“So your brother um…took care of them?”
“I didn’t ask,” she says abruptly. “All I know is that they’re dead. And no one has shown up to replace them.”
“When did this happen?”
She shrugs. “Maybe five years ago?”
Five years ago. The same year Holton died. So did he know what happened to those men? Or was Holton already dead when it happened? Did he pay those men enough money to keep watch on me forever? Even once he was gone?
Celia gets up and walks around my room, her eyes searching the floor.
“What are you doing?”
She kneels down in the far corner of the room where there’s a crack in the wall, so small it’s barely noticeable. She takes the pencil from her apron and slips it in the crack and a tiny silver object falls out onto the floor. She holds it up. “It’s the same as we found downstairs.”
“A microphone?”
“Yes. And I’m sure there are more.”
“We shouldn’t be talking in here,” I whisper.
“They’re not listening. They’re gone, and my brother took all their equipment.”
“But someone else could be—”
She holds her hand up, silencing me. Then she leaves the room and I hear her go downstairs. She returns with a metal wand-like device and waves it around the room and the furniture and the walls. It must detect hidden microphones.
She shakes her head. “Nothing. I’m sure there are more in here but they’re no longer working. Nobody is listening.”
I let out a heavy sigh. “All this time…I didn’t know…if I had, I could’ve…” My voice trails off. I can’t do this to myself. I can’t beat myself up about this, blaming myself for not knowing this sooner. Because how was I to know? I’ve been trapped in this tiny town with no access to information of any kind. And how could I have possibly known those men were dead and no longer watching me? And that Celia’s brother got rid of them? She never even talks about her brother.
Celia sits beside me on the bed. “Those men are gone. And if that other man you were fearful of is no longer a threat, then you should go.”
My shoulders slump in disappointment. “I can’t. He stole my passport. And I don’t have the necessary documents to get a new one.”
“This is why it’s good to have a brother like mine.” She pats my knee. “I’ll get you a passport.”
I look at her. “Are you serious?”
“It’s simple. He could have it to me in a day.”
I’m so excited I jump up from the bed. “He could really do that? And it would work? I could get through customs?”
“Yes. You’d have no problems.”
My heart swells with joy as I consider the possibility that I might actually get home. That this might finally happen.
I give her a hug. “Celia, you have no idea how happy you’ve just made me!”
“What about money?” she asks.
“I have some saved, but not much. How much does he want for the passport?”
“You don’t need to pay for the passport. I’ll take care of it. I was asking about the plane ticket.”
“I have enough to buy the ticket.”
“You’ll need more than that. That’s not enough. You’ll need money for when you get there. Where will you be staying?”
“I don’t know. I guess I’ll find a hotel. I’m not even sure where I’m going. That family I talked to earlier said my son—” Damn. I didn’t want to tell her that.
Her expression is pained as she slowly rises from the bed and stands in front of me. “You have a son?”
I nod, tears filling my eyes.
“You haven’t seen your son in fifteen years,” she says quietly, as if she’s saying it to herself.
“I miss him so much,” I say, tears running down my face.
“Oh, Jill.” She puts her arms around me and hugs me. I hear Celia sniffling. She never cries, but the fact that I’ve been away from my son for so long has brought her to tears.
We break apart and both wipe our eyes.
“How old was he?” she asks. “When you left?”
“Ten.” I squeeze my eyes shut, trying not to cry, but the tears still fall. “He was only ten.”
She holds my hand. “So he thinks you left him?”
I sniffle. “I can’t tell you what happened. I love you, Celia, and I trust you, but the more I tell you, the more I put you at risk. And I don’t want them ever coming here and hurting you.”
She nods. “We need to get you out of here. You need to go see that li
ttle boy.”
I smile and wipe my tears. “He’s not so little anymore. But yes, I want to see him as soon as possible.”
“I’ll call Marco and tell him we need the passport right away. I’ll even have him drive us to the airport, just in case we run into any trouble. His car is more secure than mine. Bulletproof glass. Tinted windows. And he has a gun. I do too, but he has better aim than I do.”
How did I never know this about her? She’s shot a gun? Killed her husband? Has a brother who’s a criminal? I guess we’ve both been keeping secrets. I just can’t tell her mine.
“You need money,” she says. “I’ll give you the equivalent of three thousand American dollars. Will that be enough?”
“Celia, that’s too much money.”
She waves her hand around. “What do I need money for? It’s yours.”
“I’ll pay you back. I promise.”
She pauses, like she’s thinking. “I need to get your ticket. I doubt they take cash at the airport. Even if they did, buying a last-minute ticket with cash would draw suspicion. I’ll have Marco get the ticket. Where do you want to go?”
“Um, I’m not sure.”
If I went to Connecticut to see Pearce, I’d risk running into people I know who might recognize me. And he may not even be there. He could be traveling for business. Those teen girls said Garret might be living in California. They said he was seen in Santa Barbara, but that doesn’t mean he lives there. Still, it’s a start, and at least I don’t know anyone in Santa Barbara. I’ve never even been to California.
“Santa Barbara, California,” I tell her.
“Santa Barbara,” she repeats as she walks to the door. “Pack your suitcase. If Marco can get this done, you might be leaving tomorrow.”
Once she’s gone, I race around the room packing the few possessions I have. I’m excited, but also scared. Scared of making it through customs with a fake passport. Scared of someone coming after me if I make it to the U.S. Scared of putting Pearce and Garret in danger by showing up there.
I’m also scared because the last time I packed my suitcase to leave, those men showed up in my apartment and I saw that video of Holton. What if someone else is watching me? What if Leland is? Or one of the other members? Will I really be able to leave? Or will someone stop me again?
CHAPTER TWELVE
12
RACHEL
In the morning, I hear knocking on my door. It’s 5:15, which is when I usually get up for my job at the restaurant.
I race to the door and open it. Celia’s standing there.
“Marco will be here at noon. We’ll go straight to the airport. You should be home by tomorrow sometime.”
Tears fall again. I can’t help it. I’m so happy. So relieved. So shocked that this is really going to happen. Fifteen years. Fifteen excruciating years I have waited for this moment and now it’s finally here.
I hug her and don’t let go. “Thank you. Thank you so much.”
She pats my back. “You have to promise to write me. Or call me. Let me know you’re safe.”
“Yes. I will. I promise.” I step back and see her smiling.
“Your face.” She holds it between her hands. “You finally look happy.”
“I am. I can’t even tell you how happy I am.”
“Get dressed, then come downstairs. We’ll have breakfast together one last time.”
“But you have to open the restaurant and make the bread.”
“I called Mona. She’s taking care of it.” Mona is the waitress that works the dinner shift. “And the bread’s already in the oven. I’ll see you downstairs.”
She leaves, and I hop in the shower, get dressed, and meet Celia in the restaurant. We have breakfast, and as we sit there by the window on this beautiful spring morning, I look out at the storefronts lined with flowers and remember when I used to love this town. How I wanted to retire here with Pearce. But now, I don’t think I could ever come back here, not even to visit. There are too many bad memories. This is a part of my life I want to put behind me. I’ve been someone else the past fifteen years. Rachel wasn’t the person living here. It was Jill, and I never want to be Jill again.
Marco arrives just before noon, wearing black dress pants and a white cotton shirt. He has dark gray hair that’s slicked back and his skin is very tan. He doesn’t look like a criminal. He looks like a distinguished older man, which probably makes it easier for him to steal from people. They’d never suspect someone like him to be a criminal, so they let their guard down around him. It’s a good reminder for me not to trust anyone as I begin this journey back home. Looks can be deceiving and I have to keep a careful watch on everyone around me.
Marco gives me the passport of an American woman who looks very similar to me. Her name is Andrea. I feel bad that this woman had her passport stolen. What a nightmare it would be to have to replace that while in a foreign country.
As I take a closer at the picture, I see that it’s not some woman who looks like me. It’s actually me. Celia must’ve taken my picture when I wasn’t looking. Maybe it was during her birthday party last year. She was taking a lot of photos that day.
I thought this was a stolen passport, but Marco must’ve made it himself. The edges are worn and there are stamps inside so it looks very real.
Celia sees me looking at it. We’re riding in the back seat of the car as her brother drives us to the airport.
“It’s real,” Celia whispers, nodding toward the passport in my hand. “He just changes the photo. It will work. I promise.”
I nod. So it was stolen. I’m leery of Marco, knowing he steals and commits other crimes. It’s a world I like to pretend doesn’t exist. Just like the world Jack told me about years ago in which a secret organization controls things, like presidential elections. I’ve tried not to think about that over the years because I don’t want to believe Pearce is part of it. Or that Garret is part of it.
Celia reaches over and holds my hand. She knows I’m nervous, so she lets me sit quietly while she talks to her brother in Italian.
As we approach the drop-off area, I store my passport in the small travel bag Celia gave me. It’s a thin, square purse that has a strap that I wear across my body.
“Be sure to write,” Celia says, as we hug on the curb next to the drop off area.
“I will.” I bite my lip to keep from crying. “Thank you. For everything.”
She gently pushes me back and holds my shoulders, looking me in the eye. “Don’t be afraid. You can do this.” She smiles. “Go back and see your son.”
She hugs me once more, then gets in the car and they drive away. People are scurrying past me with their luggage. I take my suitcase and go into the airport terminal.
I made it. I actually made it to the airport. Now if I can just make it onto the plane. The check-in process goes smoothly. I show them my passport and smile and pretend I’m Andrea. Next is the security line. Again, I try to act natural, even though I’m a nervous wreck. I make it through security with no problems, then wait at the gate.
I feel sick to my stomach, fearful that someone will try to stop me before I board. There are cameras all over this airport. What if someone sees me? Holton’s gone, but what if someone else is looking for me? What if Holton told someone I’m alive?
An announcement comes over the speakers that translates to ‘looking for passenger Jill Smithfield. Please return to…’ I relax. I heard the name ‘Jill’ and then ’Smith’ and panicked. Now my heart is beating lightning fast. I take some deep breaths, trying to calm down so I don’t draw attention to myself.
After almost two hours of waiting, I board the plane. It’s a huge plane and it takes forever to get to my seat. As I sit there, I nervously tap my foot, anxious for the plane to take off.
“You don’t like flying?” the man next to me asks. He’s about my age, wearing a suit and tie. He sounds American. I look over and see him smiling at me.
I immediately stop tapping my foot and s
mile back. “I don’t mind flying. I just get a little nervous right before takeoff.”
He nods. “My ex-wife was the same way.”
This guy better not be a talker, because I really don’t want to talk to anyone. I turn away from him but I’m stuck in a middle seat with people on both sides. The person on my other side is an older man who I’ve just noticed has bad body odor, so I turn and face forward again and close my eyes.
I hear the sound of paper crinkling and peek open my eyes to see that the guy in the suit is now reading a newspaper. The safety announcements start on the speakers above me and then I feel the plane moving. As it takes off, I close my eyes and smile. I made it. I made it on the plane. The first step in getting back home.
There isn’t a direct flight from Naples to New York so we have a short layover in Rome. I get nervous again as I change planes, but make it safely on the next one and feel relieved when it takes off.
Ten hours later, we land at JFK airport in New York. I’m happy to be back in the U.S., but I feel sick again as I wait in the long line at customs. What if they find out my passport has been tampered with? What if this Andrea person put out an alert saying her passport was stolen?
It takes almost an hour to reach the front of the line, and when I’m finally there, I hand my passport to the man and answer his questions as calmly as possible.
He looks at my passport, staring at the photo. He holds it up, glancing at me and then the photo. What’s taking so long? He didn’t do this with anyone else.
There’s something wrong. This isn’t going to work. I made it this far and now I’m not going to make it into the country.
He motions another worker to come over.
Oh, God. This is bad. They know the passport was stolen. Now what? Will they take me to jail? Send me back to Italy?
The other man takes my passport and runs his finger over the photo. He looks at me, then sets the passport down.
“It’s just worn edges,” he says to the other guy. “She can go.”
He walks off and I breathe again. I was holding my breath that entire time.
The man hands me my passport. “Next,” he says to the person behind me.
Only Her Page 12
