When Professor Eastman got out of jail she could go back on her medication. She’d promised herself that. Until then, his life literally depended on her ability to stand in his shoes while still maintaining her own terms. And her terms could only be maintained if she let her brain obsess as only it could.
Side effects of turning down the volume on her OCD with medication included lapses in memory, trouble concentrating, and a constant sense of nausea that left Claire underweight for her already diminutive height. Off medication, Claire’s mind concentrated intently all the time, but not necessarily on the best things. Her eyes should have been tracking the white dashes of paint that marked her lane on the freeway, but they darted around the lanes instead, drawing invisible lines between cars, then through each the car frames to pair the body shape with the headlight dimensions to determine the make, model, and wherever possible, exact year of each car.
It was moments like these when Claire realized just how naïve she’d been when she’d come up with her whole plan to save both herself and Professor Eastman. Three weeks ago it had seemed so possible. Now Claire questioned the plausibility of making it back to her apartment without driving off the road while taking a few cars with her.
“Focus,” she muttered to herself while massaging two fingers against her temple. “Getting home is all that matters.”
Saying the words out loud didn’t change what was happening in her brain, however. Mapping cars came first, followed by all the financial numbers Chairman Li had entered in their meeting. Her immediate safety came last.
White lines, she coached herself. Focus on the white lines. Stay between the white lines until you get home. Then you can think of Li’s numbers.
Just then bright headlights appeared her rearview mirror. She hadn’t seen the car come up behind her. It was suddenly just there. A 2012 Chevy Caprice …with flashing red, white, and blue lights on top.
A cop? The car behind her was a cop?
Claire glanced at her speed again, noting that it was holding steady at 63 mph. She wasn’t speeding and her car had passed inspections two months ago. She was fully legal, and despite her internally distracted state, she hadn’t been swerving out of her lane.
This is it, her conscience seemed to whisper. They know. They’ve found you. Don’t fight this.
At the same time, an equally vocal part of her brain was saying, 2012 Chevy Caprice. Don’t fall for it.
Claire understood where the first voice was coming from. Her own guilt. But the second voice confused her.
Don’t fall for what?
Think about it.
Claire held up a hand to block the intense brights the cop was blasting at her from behind. Think about what?
If an internal voice could roll its eyes, hers did. What does Highway Patrol drive?
They drive… “Oh.”
Claire’s foot came off the brake as she switched her rearview mirror to night mode. The brights from the cop car still filled the interior of her car with blinding light, but Claire was now able to see the headlights outlined in the mirror, clear as day.
2012 Chevy Caprice. No question.
In 2014, NHP had switched over to using Dodge’s and Ford as patrol cars and the Chevy Caprice models had been retired and auctioned. So unless some department had a few old cars around, the vehicle behind her should not have lights on it.
You’re welcome, the snarky voice cooed in her mind.
Claire repeated Chairman Li’s account numbers three more times as she debated what to do next. Pulling over was the socially acceptable thing. In fact, it was quite mandatory.
What if it’s a killer?
It was always scary when her paranoia sounded totally rational.
He’s not a killer, she thought, taking a calming breath.
Right. He’s pulling you over in a fake cop car because he wants to sell you a vacuum.
It took conscious effort to dial her panic response back as logic lost the battle to paranoia.
“Verify, don’t speculate,” she coached herself, pulling a catch phrase from her many years of therapy. “Act, don’t react.”
Before she was consciously aware of what she was doing, Claire had activated her Bluetooth and was dialing 9-1-1. The call was picked up almost immediately.
“9-1-1, what is the address of your emergency?” a male voice said.
“I hope it’s not an emergency,” Claire said as calmly as possible. “I’m driving southbound on I-15, and I have a 2012 Chevy Caprice with police lights on it that is tailgating me and trying to get me to pull over.”
“It sounds like you need to pull over, ma’am,” the operator said. “Immediately.”
“I’m happy to pull over,” she said just as the car behind her started blinking its brights. “But I’m a woman and I’m alone, and I’m kind of freaking out that the car behind me is the make and model of a police car that’s been retired for a few years now. Does NHP still use any Chevy Caprices?”
“Ma’am?” the operator said in confusion. “Are you saying that you believe the car pulling you over is not an actual police officer?”
A siren joined the lights behind her, insisting she pull over. “Unless you still have Caprices on patrol, yes, that’s what I’m saying. But if you can confirm that there were some that weren’t retired and auctioned and the car behind me is NHP, I’ll be happy to pull over.”
“Ma’am, can I put you on hold for one moment?”
“Yes.”
Her voice sounded calm, but her hands were sweating and her heart was racing. She recalled Chairman Li’s numbers to try to get back some semblance of control until the operator’s voice returned.
“Ma’am?” he said. “How certain are you that the car behind you is a Chevy Caprice?”
“Absolutely certain,” Claire replied. “2012.”
“Ma’am?” He was leaning forward—she could hear it in his voice as his tone hushed slightly.
“Yes?”
“If what you say is correct, the car behind you is not being operated by a police officer. Where are you?”
“I just passed mile marker 40 on southbound I-15.”
“Excellent,” the operator said. “Now what I’m going to do now is have all the officers in that area check in and make sure none of them are currently pulling over a car. What is the make and model of your vehicle, ma’am?”
“Mercedes C 250,” she said, willing her heart to stay in her chest as the siren behind her shifted its call to become more insistent.
“Thank you. Now please hold while I contact officers in the area.”
The line went silent.
“Breathe,” she told herself, squinting against the lights filling her car. “Think of the numbers and breathe.”
Turn on your phone’s video recorder. If he’s not a cop, you’ll want everything that’s about to happen recorded.
Claire pressed record and pulled her phone out of its holder just as the brights behind her began strobing. A voice came over a loudspeaker. “This is the police. Please pull over, immediately!”
Claire raised the phone up to try to get the other car’s license plate, but he was too close and the lights were too bright anyway. Then an odd thing happened. The cacophony of sirens went silent and all the lights disappeared entirely. In the glow of her taillights, Claire saw the darkened car slow dramatically before jerking right and zooming off the freeway on the next exit ramp.
“Operator?” she called out while doing her best to catch the dark car as it sped away.
Should she chase it?
You must be kidding!
“Operator!” she repeated more insistently.
“Yes, ma’am?” he replied, coming off of mute.
“He just turned off all his lights and sped away,” she said. “I didn’t get a plate.”
“He’s no longer behind you?”
“No. Although I did get a few seconds of video.”
“I’m glad you’re safe, ma’am,” the operator
replied. “There is an officer about a mile behind you. He should be pulling you over in about sixty seconds. Would you mind turning on your emergency lights so he can better identify you?”
“Sure, but what about the guy?” Claire protested. “He’s getting away.”
“We have an APB out on the car and several other officers in the area. They’ll look for the vehicle. I need you to speak to the officer that is coming to meet you. Answer his questions and get your video on his computer, if you can.”
“Will do,” Claire said. “Thank you for your help tonight.”
“Thank you for your sharp eye, ma’am. I’ll stay on the phone until the officer arrives and take your information.”
“Okay,” Claire said, and mentally rehearsed Chairman Li’s numbers until red and blue light strobed behind her once again. This time, she pulled over.
Chapter 4
Jack didn’t even let the phone finish ringing before answering. “How did it go?”
“Margot officially needs to update her prop cars,” Ren replied. “Our girl is good. I didn’t even get her to slow down before she sicced actual cops on me.”
“How?” Jack asked, doubling his pace toward the apartments. He had to get there before Claire did. What he would do when he got there was still up in the air.
“She spotted that the car was outdated and called 9-1-1 to verify the car was retired.”
What? Part of Jack applauded her. “She’s good.”
“No joke there,” Ren said. “It’s on you now, man. May the force be with you.”
“Copy that,” Jack said, then hung up.
Evidence of the night’s business activities had to be somewhere on Claire’s person. Jack just had to get close enough to find out what and where.
But how in the world was he supposed to do that?
Chapter 5
Forty minutes later, Claire pulled into her assigned parking spot at her off-campus apartment. She was home. Finally. Even better? Her roommate’s car was in its assigned spot, so she wouldn’t be returning to an empty apartment. It would be nice not to be alone tonight.
Taking a moment to enjoy the peace of being in a not-moving car, Claire closed her eyes and did her best to relax. No dice.
What in the world was her life coming to? She’d just spent the evening defrauding a businessman in China only to almost get pulled over by a fake cop.
Part of her was disappointed that it hadn’t been a real officer. Then this whole mess would be over. If she was in jail, no one could hang Ryan’s life over her head and make demands. Her hands would be tied. Literally. And that, in turn, would set her free.
Instead, she was still playing puppet to an invisible puppeteer who allowed her most of her freedom, so long as she did what he needed whenever he needed it and kept her mouth shut after the fact. It was the same thing the puppeteer must have done to Ryan—forcing his hand and then using him as leverage against her when he fell short and got caught.
If only Claire could talk to Ryan and find out what he knew. She was doing her best, but information on how he’d been roped into this whole mess might help Claire figure out how to expose the guy who was ruining their lives.
Someday she’d sit down with Ryan and ask him all about it, but first she needed to return everyone’s money to take the target off their backs. Then the two of them needed to run like mad.
Claire still hadn’t figured out the whole running away part yet. Where to go…if Ryan even had a passport…
“He’ll know where to go,” she whispered in her parked car. “Just remember the numbers. That’s the hard part. Getting on a plane is easy.”
The words sounded good to her ears, but a sour feeling in her stomach begged otherwise.
“It’s just anxiety,” she told herself, hoping it was the truth. Then, before she could second-guess her assessment, Claire grabbed her purse, engaged her emergency brake, and locked her car with a silent prayer that there would be no more investor meetings before Monday’s evidentiary hearing for Ryan. As much of a high as it was to run the actual meetings, the stress of the aftermath was unraveling her.
Claire walked up the pathway to her apartments, her mind compulsively noting new pieces of litter and a quarter that had been dropped. As she passed the mailboxes, she could see that the locks for apartments 5, 7, and 16 were at a slightly different angle since she’d last left, indicating those people had checked their mail while she was gone.
Noticing little things like this often made Claire feel more in control, but tonight the observations did little to soothe her nerves. Her hands shook as she pulled her keys out of her purse and singled out the key for her apartment on her keychain.
You’re fine, she told herself even as invisible pressure gripped her chest like a giant vice. You made it home, and no one has any idea—
The high-pitched scream from the other side of her apartment door shattered Claire’s thoughts.
“Daniel?” That shriek had been way too high to come out of a man.
“Help!” Daniel’s voice cried out from the other side of the door.
Claire unlocked the door and pushed it open, finding Daniel cowering on the couch in sailor-themed boxer briefs. Classical music played from his bedroom, indicating Daniel had been sewing before he ended up on the couch. On the ground between them lay the lounge robe Daniel had made in his fashion design class along with his house slippers. They looked like they’d been flung at random.
“Move!” he shrieked at her, stabbing his finger at the ground like a mad man. “Take the high ground and leave the door open. Maybe it will go back to the gates of hell, where it belongs!”
Claire followed the direction of his manic gesturing, freezing when her eyes locked on something the size of her fist with eight hairy legs. “Daniel? Please tell me that is a toy.”
“That. Is. NOT. A. Toy!”
The spider chose that moment to make its move—which happened to be sprinting her way.
Claire shrieked as Daniel motioned for her to join him on the couch. “High ground!”
Was he insane? She would have to leap over the tarantula to get to him. Why in the world would she do that when she could just run away and go to a hotel for the night?
“Voldemort?” a man’s voice said from behind her a split second before Claire backed into a male body blocking her retreat. Not only did Claire scream, but her body was suddenly possessed by an Olympic hurdler as she scampered across the living room and flung herself into Daniel’s arms on the couch.
“You found her!” a flagpole of a man from the doorway said as Claire latched onto Daniel, hiding her face against his shoulder. If she didn’t see the spider, maybe it would cease to exist.
“Found it?” Daniel scoffed. “That thing tried to duel me for my sandwich before I batted him off my kitchen table.”
Claire shuttered, only vaguely realizing that the shoulder she was hiding her face in was bare. I’ve never hugged a guy who was only wearing underwear before, she thought a moment before Daniel pulled her keys out of her hand and flung them at the ground to join his slippers and robe.
“Don’t chase it this way!” Daniel yelled at the other guy.
“Come on, Voldemort,” the spider guy cooed. “Let’s get you back into your habitat—Don’t run!”
Wait, it was running? Claire didn’t want to see that, yet something compelled her to turn and look anyway.
People always said that horrible things seemed to happen in slow motion, but Claire could have sworn the giant arachnid was coming at her in fast-forward mode. In a heartbeat, she had climbed up to ride piggyback on Daniel while he responded by flapping his hands in panic as if he could fan the thing away with a light breeze.
Not only did the spider keep running, it was sprinting like an arachnid with a plan—heading straight for the couch. When Daniel backed away, Claire felt her back thump into the wall. Before he could move again, she pushed off his back to stand on the back of the couch, dropping her purse when it
threatened her balance. On the way down, it ended up in Daniel’s hands and he wasted no time finding items inside and tossing them at the spider while its owner moved in to act like a human shield.
“No!” the tall guy cried as he tried to corral the beast. “Don’t throw things at her. You might hurt her.”
Just then, Claire’s favorite lip gloss bounced off the hairy spider, stunning it.
That lip gloss was dead to her—not just the tube, the actual brand. She’d never be able to look at it the same again.
The next thing Daniel grabbed out of her purse was a small pocket mirror. He was about to hurl it when she reached out and stopped him.
“No!” she said, not really knowing what she was saying. “Broken mirrors are bad luck.”
Daniel glanced up at her with an expression she might expect if she’d just grown two heads. “Seven years of bad luck later is better than eight legs sprinting at you now.”
He was right, of course. Claire was just about to release his hand when Voldemort’s owner let out a cheer. “Gotcha!”
Claire looked down to see their neighbor scooping the spider up in some sort of modified Tupperware spider holder.
Claire was going to have nightmares about this. Lots and lots of nightmares.
“I’m so sorry,” the guy babbled. “I know Voldy doesn’t make the best first impression, but she’s quite harmless.”
Nightmares. For years. Not Claire’s definition of harmless.
“I really don’t know how she got out.”
Voldemort was a she? Somehow that made things worse.
“I really am so sorry,” the still-unknown guy repeated. “Her habitat is quite secure. Maybe I should rename her Houdini because I have no idea how she pulled off this trick.”
A tarantula named Houdini? With that single thought, Claire was pretty sure her life would never be the same again, whether awake or asleep.
Pimpernel Page 2
