Herb smiled. “Selfishly, I’m glad you’re here. I could have called Jacob in early, but he gets ornery when his schedule is thrown off. I wish I could still be of use.” Herb flexed his fingers. Arthritis kept him out of his apron.
“I know you do. I’d better get to work.”
The next few hours passed quickly. Chopping, sautéing, plating, supervising a staff of four, her job as sous chef involved much more than cooking. By two thirty, the crowd had thinned enough for her to take her afternoon break. She stripped off her apron and grabbed her coat. She slipped her cell phone in her pocket. Leaving the inn through the back door, she ignored her minivan and walked toward Main Street. Sarah preferred to spend her thirty minutes of freedom outside.
She contemplated stopping home to see Em, but quickly dismissed that idea. Once she got home, her daughter would be attached to her body like a growth. Peeling her off to return to work would result in tears.
Crisp air swept over her face, refreshing her skin after an afternoon in the hot kitchen. She called home and checked in on Em. Mrs. Holloway assured her that the little girl was fine. They’d baked cookies, and Em was currently napping on the sofa. Sarah spoke to Alex and got a more detailed rundown of everything that had happened since she left at nine o’clock. Sarah hung up, feeling better about her decision to come to work. She turned her feet back toward Main Street.
Stopping at the red light in the center of town, she caught a movement out of the corner of her eye. She turned around. A block behind her, a man in a brown jacket stepped into the shadow of an awning. He stared in the store window, but Sarah could still feel his gaze on her, as if he were watching her in the reflection of the glass.
She continued to walk. In front of the consignment shop, she opened the door. The sun hit the glass and turned it into a mirror.
The man was still exactly one block away, this time inspecting the window of the butcher shop. Was he really watching her or was she paranoid?
She went into the consignment store and walked around the store once. Back outside, she glanced up and down the street, spotting the man in the brown jacket in the doorway of a gift shop. Confusion and apprehension eliminated her earlier feel-good moment. Downtown Westbury’s meager tourist traffic was highest in summer. There were a number of antique shops nestled in the few blocks around Main Street, but strangers didn’t typically wander the streets.
He was definitely following her, but why?
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
She sat in the dining room of the Main Street Inn and sipped her tea. The newspaper lay unfolded on the table in front of her. Her driver had remained in the car. While she could fake a New York accent, one word out of his mouth would attract attention.
“Can I get you anything else?” the waiter asked.
She smiled. “Just the check.”
The dining room was nearly empty. She paid her bill, left an appropriate tip, and gathered her belongings. Scanning the walls, she spotted a hallway and walked toward it. With a quick glance over her shoulder, she put a hand to the door of the ladies’ toilet. Assured that she was alone in the hallway, she bypassed the bathroom. The short passage also led to the kitchen and some rooms beyond.
Christopher’s woman worked here. Where was she? She peered around a doorframe into the kitchen. Three white-aproned men worked, but she didn’t see Sarah Mitchell.
She stole across the rough-hewn floor and peered into a small office. Another larger room beyond held coats on hooks. She didn’t see the coat Sarah had been wearing when she entered the inn that morning.
Pulling out her phone, she sent a text to her driver. He replied in a second. She left a few minutes ago. Didn’t take her purse.
With one ear tuned to the hallway, she rooted through the cabinets until she found Sarah’s purse. Then she slid the special device from her pocket into an exterior compartment of the handbag. It looked like a pen but was actually a voice-activated audio transmitter. She’d be able to hear everything that happened around Sarah’s purse. At most, the battery would last four or five days, but that was plenty of time.
She couldn’t make a decision about Christopher’s woman until she knew more about her. She slipped from the back room into the inn’s lobby without anyone seeing her and left through the front door.
A quick text summoned her driver. Soon she would know everything about Sarah Mitchell. Information was ammunition.
Cristan contemplated the knife pointed at his throat. In one swift movement, he twisted his shoulders, simultaneously grabbing his opponent’s wrist to push the blade away from his neck and delivering a hard palm strike to the face. A knee in the belly doubled the man in half. The wristlock, takedown, and disarm followed a second later.
“Again,” the instructor yelled.
His attacker, a police SWAT-team member, got to his feet. Cristan handed him the rubber practice knife. He repeated the technique a dozen times, and then they switched roles so his partner could practice. The weekly two-hour class ended with a knee-and-elbow strike drill that left him drenched in sweat. He shook his partner’s hand and left the gym while his classmates were engaging in the post-class discussion. The advanced class was full of members of the military and law enforcement, and Cristan didn’t want to get to know any of them too well. This was the same reason he drove nearly an hour to attend classes and an hour in the opposite direction to practice his marksmanship. There was both a gym and a gun range closer to Westbury, but he preferred to keep his private life private. The less his neighbors knew about his hobbies, the better.
A businessman with lethal combat skills was bound to attract attention, and if anyone knew about the cache of weapons, ammunitions, and other survival gear in his basement, interests would, indeed, be piqued. Not many real estate investors kept a go-kit containing everything from passports in multiple identities to three different types of currency.
He was still praying the video of the convenience store robbery didn’t go viral. The fewer people who saw it the better. Regardless, if Mike found out about his treasure trove of unregistered weapons, he might view the store incident with different eyes.
He stopped in the locker room on his way out. Tugging a sweatshirt over his head, he grabbed his gym bag. Then he pushed through the metal door and walked into the parking lot.
The gym occupied a warehouse-type building in the center of an industrial complex. Cold air blew across his damp skin as he scanned the ice-crusted asphalt. A sedan parked at the opposite end of the rectangle caught his attention. The building on that end of the complex was marked with a For Lease sign. No other cars occupied that section of the lot, except for that lone sedan. Light reflected off the windshield, blocking any view of the vehicle’s interior.
With a wary eye on the sedan, Cristan headed for his car. He dropped his duffel in the trunk and slid behind the wheel. Starting the engine, he slipped a hand under the seat of his car. His hand touched the handgun in the holster affixed to the underside of the seat. Next to it, a knife hilt protruded from a sheath. Satisfied his weapons were still in place, he checked his messages, taking an unobtrusive photo of the sedan and noting the license plate number.
A man couldn’t be too careful, especially one with secrets to hide.
His identification had passed the police check he knew Mike had run months ago, when Rachel was being stalked. But there were other, unofficial channels through which a curious party could obtain information for the right price. Mike’s friend Sean probably knew all about those less formal avenues. If he dug deep enough, could he find the truth?
The past could be altered, but it could not be erased.
Could this be the work of Aline Barba? After twelve long years, could she finally have found him now that he’d stayed in one place long enough?
He drove out of the lot. The sedan did not follow immediately, but he spotted it on the highway, maintaining a discreet dist
ance that suggested a professional. Anger and apprehension sharpened his senses. His mind planned. Surveillance was the precursor to danger. Instead of driving toward Westbury, Cristan detoured.
He made three stops on the way. The sedan did not follow him into the parking lots of any of the stores, but every time he returned to the highway, it was five or six cars behind him. Whoever was behind the wheel wasn’t an amateur. A person who wasn’t always looking for danger wouldn’t have spotted the vehicle.
He contemplated his options. He was not going to lead the driver to his home. His daughter’s safety was not to be taken lightly. She had talent-show practice after school today, so he had some extra time. Cristan turned onto a country road that led to a state park where he and Lucia hiked when they desired a trail more difficult than the one that paralleled the river behind the house. The sedan dropped farther back, and he imagined the driver getting nervous as the road bisected a patch of forest. The scenery changed from open meadows and farms to rocky outcroppings and trees. A sheared-off rock wall flanked the left side of the road. The right shoulder dropped off into a rocky, tree-dotted slope. In the shadows of the forest, snow still covered the ground.
He turned onto a narrow lane that ended in a gravel parking area. There would be nowhere for the sedan to hide. If it followed him on this road, the driver would be trapped. There was only one way in and out. The sedan had not yet appeared in his rearview mirror.
Cristan parked at the end. He grabbed his coat, knife, and handgun, and sprinted for the woods. A fast-moving stream rushed next to the trail. Thin sheets of ice covered still pools. He ran up a trail to the first lookout area, a rocky ledge jutting out over the water—with an excellent view of the parking lot.
The appearance of the sedan erased any faint possibility of coincidence. On this trail, Cristan rarely ran into another human in the summer, let alone in the winter. The vehicle nosed into the lot, hesitating, as if the driver were nervous.
He should be.
Cristan glared at the vehicle making a three-point turn on the icy gravel below him. The man was planning for a quick exit. If he were smart, he would drive away and leave Cristan alone. But he wasn’t. The sedan parked facing the road that led out of the parking area. Through the car window, Cristan watched the driver make a call. Getting instructions from his boss?
He should not have stayed in this town. He should have stuck to his original plan to stay on the move. He’d gotten sloppy. That needed to change.
He drew his knife from his pocket. The cold metal settled too comfortably in his grip, if not an old friend, at least an old ally. He might not trust people, but weapons and training had been faithful his entire life. Crouching, he watched the man complete his call and pocket his phone.
Cristan waited.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Sarah crossed the street and sat down on a bench in front of the coffee shop. Pretending to look at her phone screen, she scanned the sidewalk over her sunglasses. The man had stopped in front of the small grocery store and was examining the specials listed on the blackboard out front. Enough foot traffic passed in and out of the café to give Sarah a sense of safety. Pulling out her phone, she yanked off a glove, dialed Mike, and described the man following her.
The police station was only a few blocks away. A few minutes later, Mike’s dark SUV pulled to the curb next to the man. Mike got out, his burly body in full uniform. He spoke to the man, who pulled his wallet from his jacket pocket for Mike’s scrutiny. Mike handed it back. Hand on his hips, he spoke to the man for a minute, then got back in his police vehicle and drove to the coffee shop. He parked at the curb and got out.
Sarah stood, her gaze drifting to the stranger heading in the opposite direction. “Who is he?”
“A private investigator. He wouldn’t say who hired him, but he didn’t deny it was Troy either.” Mike said. “What’s been going on with the divorce?”
“The divorce is final.” Sarah told him about the scene at the hospital the night before. “But Troy says he wants me back.”
“Em’s all right?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“There’s no chance Troy hit her, right?”
Sarah shook her head. “No. The incident was recorded on the store surveillance camera. Troy submitted the tape this morning at the request of my attorney. She fell. In my opinion, he was negligent, but he claims she was never out of his sight. He just couldn’t get to her quickly enough.”
“Which could happen to anybody.” Mike scratched his jaw, his ruddy complexion reddening in the cold. “It sounds to me like Troy is looking for some leverage.”
“Leverage? For what?”
“Something to show you’re not a fit mother or something to prove you were cheating on him would be my top guesses.”
“But why? I don’t understand. We’re divorced. He has regular visitation.”
“I can think of two reasons,” Mike said. “The first is obvious. If he gets custody, he doesn’t have to pay child support.”
“I’m sure that’s part of it.”
“The second is because he wants you,” Mike said. “He is using your love for the children to manipulate you.” Mike’s voice was deep and his blue eyes glittered with anger. “He said he wants you back, right?”
“Yes, but we all know he doesn’t love me.”
“Love isn’t the issue.” Mike shook his head. “He wants you in the same way he wants a shiny new truck. You were his possession and now you’re not. You dumped him, and he isn’t a good loser.”
“No. He isn’t.” Sarah remembered Troy’s fits of temper whenever he’d lost a baseball game or struck out at bat. “I thought he was just being spiteful.”
“Think about it this way. When you were married, he had money. His family had a successful business and was respected in the community. After your clash last fall, you left him, and his life imploded.”
“None of that was my fault.”
“I know, but don’t underestimate him, Sarah. He’s not the sort of man who can lose with grace. He’ll do anything to win. That type of man is dangerous when he has something to prove, and if he thinks he’s in competition with Cristan Rojas, he’s going to take that badly.”
Sarah looked down the quiet street. Pretty shops. Not much traffic. Westbury was wholesome and quaint. She’d never wanted to live anywhere else, but now her hometown felt like a trap.
Mike sighed. “I can’t stop that guy from observing you on a public street. He left because following you when you know he’s there doesn’t do him much good. Most PIs won’t bother to follow you if you’re forewarned. But watch yourself, Sarah. Ordinary things can look bad when taken out of context.”
“But I don’t do anything.” Anger and frustration welled in Sarah’s chest. “I go to work. I take care of the girls. I visit Rachel. That’s about it.”
“I know.” But Mike looked worried. “Troy hired a private investigator. He’s serious, and I wish I knew exactly what he was up to. Is there anything going on between you and Cristan Rojas?”
Sarah felt the blush in her cheeks. “No.”
“I don’t mean to pry, but how did he happen to be at your house last night to drive you to the hospital?”
“Lucia was supposed to babysit for me. Cristan was dropping her off when Em got sick.” Sarah rubbed her head. “This is my fault. I should have driven myself, but I was worried about Emma.”
“Sarah, this is not your fault. You haven’t done anything wrong.” Mike hesitated.
“But?” she prompted.
“But I wonder if that PI is also following Cristan. I don’t know much about his personal life.”
Neither did she. “I should call him and let him know.”
“I’ll do it,” Mike said. “I want to find out more about him.”
“I know you want to protect me, and that’s very sweet of
you. But Troy is my responsibility. I got myself into this situation, and I have to get myself out. I should be the one to tell Cristan.”
“OK. I still might talk to Cristan.” Mike held up a hand. “Your divorce is your responsibility, but this town is mine. I need to know about anything that might cause trouble.”
“Thanks for coming, Mike.”
“Call me anytime. I mean it. Be careful, Sarah.” Mike got back into his SUV and drove away.
Sarah hurried back to the restaurant. A busboy carted dishes from the dining room to the sinks. Jacob was already in the kitchen, chopping carrots for soup—something Sarah was supposed to be doing. Typically, they spent fifteen minutes going over changes to the menu. She’d missed their daily meeting.
He pointed at her with his knife. His precision haircut and lean features sharpened his expression. “You’re late.”
Guilt flooded Sarah with heat. “I know. I’m sorry. I won’t leave before I finish.”
His blue eyes snapped to hers. “The kitchen doesn’t run itself.”
Offering an excuse sounded irresponsible. “It won’t happen again.”
She washed her hands and tied a clean apron around her waist. Grabbing a knife, she went to work on a pile of onions. Busy hands always helped calm her mind. But she couldn’t stop wondering how long that investigator had been following her. Humiliation ebbed in her throat at the thought of a file filled with notes and photographs detailing her movements, scrutinizing her behavior, and documenting her whereabouts. Her eyes watered. The invasion of her privacy made her feel even more vulnerable.
The sound of blades hitting wood filled the kitchen. Jacob issued orders to the evening staff members as they arrived. Tables were set, dishes and utensils inspected, the special board updated.
Jacob scanned her face, his expression shifting from irritation to concern. “Is everything all right?”
She nodded and sniffed. “It’s just the onions.”
His scowl said he didn’t believe her.
She Can Kill Page 12
