by Kira Peikoff
“What do you mean?” she asked, not sure she had the capacity to take any more.
“I started to feel like someone might be following me, or watching me. Then the other day, on my way to the hospital, some guy on the corner of Sixty-third and West End bumped into me so hard I fell into the street, right in front of a cab that had to slam on its brakes.”
“You never told me that.”
“I told Yardley”—his doctor colleague who also worked in the ER—“and mentioned my recent sale. Did he think I was being totally paranoid? I just wanted reassurance. But I couldn’t believe what he said. Apparently there’s been talk at the hospital of one or two patients dying from weird accidents after selling their policies, but no one can prove the connection. So far it’s just quiet rumors. The targets seem to be people like me—idiots who accept offers way above market rates, so they think they got a deal.”
“You can’t be serious,” she said, even as she could see a distressed vein popping out on his forehead. “Why doesn’t anyone go to the police?”
“What could they do? There’s no evidence of foul play. Whoever is behind this is careful and slick.” He stared at her with naked dread. “And I think I’m next.”
CHAPTER 15
Isabel
10 days before, Key West
Isabel stayed away from crowds. She disliked being jostled and bumped, elbowing her way through layers of people, shouting to be heard above competing voices. But today, she insisted on visiting the tourist trap of Mallory Square—the waterfront gathering of Key West’s nightly sunset celebration.
Richard Barnett had demanded to see her in person for some kind of emergency meeting. But now that he knew of her suspicions, she didn’t trust him enough to return to his off ice, alone. This was the most public place she could think of.
When she arrived at 6:30 P.M., the jugglers, unicyclists, and fire-breathers were in full entertainer mode, taking turns hopping into the center of a captivated circle of onlookers. Behind them, an inimitable performance was playing out in the sky: the sun was sinking to meet the turquoise waters of the Gulf, accompanied by a dramatic palette of pinks, oranges, and purples.
Isabel hung on the outskirts of the cheering crowd. Dressed in skinny jeans, sandals, and a black tank top, she aimed to blend in. Her colorful dresses and purses were stashed away. Anything that attracted attention made her uncomfortable these days. Thankfully she’d be back on location in two weeks, this time in New Zealand, with a crew surrounding her night and day. Good luck to anyone who wanted to stalk her there. Or maybe, as Richard Barnett suggested, she was just being paranoid. In that case, going back to work soon would serve as a much-needed distraction.
She scanned the strangers around her—sunburned teenagers in board shorts, middle-aged couples snapping pictures, little kids perched on their fathers’ shoulders, white-haired retirees licking cones of green key lime ice cream. No one seemed the least bit aware of her, let alone after her. Could Richard be right? She felt herself starting to relax and enjoy the spectacle, until a finger tapped her shoulder. She tensed up and spun around.
He was towering over her, one hand brimming his eyes to shut out the sun. Even with his face in shadow, his heavy brow conveyed distress. She saw that he must have rushed straight from his office to meet her, because he was panting and the armpits of his tan suit were dark with sweat.
He leaned down and spoke into her ear: “We have to talk.”
The scent of his cologne poorly masked his cigarette breath.
She stepped back with a grimace. “Hi to you, too.”
“Not here. Follow me.”
He hurried away from the whooping crowd toward the edge of the plaza, where a bronze dolphin statue was spouting water from its mouth into a shallow coin pond. It was the farthest they could get from everyone else while still remaining in the bounds of Mallory Square.
She followed behind, walking quickly to keep up with his long strides. When they reached the fountain, he turned so they were face-to-face. She kept her distance a foot away and folded her arms. He gazed down at her with concern—and a hint of tenderness. Coming from the sarcastic jerk who lived off death, it didn’t seem plausible. Vampires weren’t known for their humanity.
“You were right,” he blurted out. “You’re in trouble.”
She squinted up at him. “How do you know?”
“I talked to Robbie.” He pulled out an iPhone and tapped it a few times. “Listen, I recorded the whole thing.”
As he played it back on speaker, she felt her heart climb into her throat. A gut feeling might be rationalized away, but evidence of it made the danger suddenly real. Instead of a shadowy knife glinting at a sideways angle, here was the blade thrusting out right under her nose. She listened to every nuance, every loaded pause. Robbie Merriman’s message could not have been more explicit, even if his words weren’t: he wanted her dead.
In ten days or less, someone—somehow—was going to make sure of it.
When the recording clicked off, Richard didn’t waste a second getting to his point: “He’s not going to touch you. I’m going to help you out of this.”
She pressed her fingertips to her forehead. “I don’t see how.” Her mind flashed to her vulnerable mom and brother, and their relaxed bungalow’s single lock. Now that her dad was gone, they were more unprotected than ever. “What about my family?”
“You’re the only one he wants. It’s the money he’s after. So as long as I find someone else, he’ll let this go.”
“Seriously?” She threw her arms out. “You have ten days to find someone who has a big policy and is about to die and is willing to sell? That probably doesn’t even exist!”
He coughed, patting his chest a few times. “Sorry. I understand your skepticism, but . . . what other choice do you have?”
She racked her brain, glancing from the fountain to the darkening sky to the dispersing crowd a few yards away. “I don’t know. I could go into hiding, fly to New Zealand early—but I don’t feel right leaving my family now, even if you don’t think they’re in danger. What if he uses them to get to me?”
Richard pursed his lips. “You could try going to the police.”
“And do what, get a restraining order for a ghost?”
She had her own additional reason for not involving the authorities. If they found out the truth about Andy’s illegal immigrant status, she would never forgive herself. It was why her mother made a point of never calling the cops, even when a homeless man had once tried to break into their home.
Richard glanced toward the remaining onlookers and the street performers, who were packing up. “If only we knew who he really was—and where . . .”
Isabel eyed him suspiciously. “And after all your years of making deals with this guy, you never thought to check him out? You really had no clue?”
“Honest to God, I never had a reason to. He paid well, on time. I deal with so many investors on a daily basis and dozens of clients. You think I have time to become a private investigator?”
“Then how do you have time to help me?”
“Just trust me.”
She gave a derisive laugh. “Now I’ll sleep well.”
He frowned at her. “I’m serious.” As if by instinct, he reached into his suit pocket and pulled out a thin white cigarette.
“Don’t,” she said. “Not around me.”
“Fine.” With a sigh, he slipped it back into his pocket. “Look, I know I tend to come off as sarcastic, but I’m being real right now.”
She shook her head at his cluelessness. “You want to talk about real? My fiancé’s loyalty wasn’t real. My dad’s good heart wasn’t real. My mom’s good health wasn’t real. My own good genes weren’t real. And you expect me to take you at face value?”
He winced. “I’m sorry.”
She felt tears prick her eyes. “How am I supposed to trust anything?”
“Because I—” he broke off, clearing his throat. When he glanced aw
ay, she noticed that he was clenching his jaw.
“What?”
“I feel responsible.” He looked at the ground. “I didn’t know who I was dealing with.”
“I guess I still find that hard to believe.”
The hair on her arms stood up as she realized that she was completely on her own. Anyone around her could be the perp—including Richard Barnett himself.
They were pretty much alone on the plaza. The sky was dark, the crowd thinned to a few remaining stragglers. She hugged her arms as a cool breeze gusted off the water.
“I have to go. Just leave me alone, okay? You’ve done enough.”
“I’m going to take care of this,” he said. “I wish you could believe me.”
As if to seal the deal, he plucked a shiny penny from his briefcase, rubbed it between two fingers, and tossed it into the pond. It plunked to the bottom. He looked back at her with his eyebrows raised.
“But I know your wish,” she said. “So now it won’t come true.”
She turned on her heel and strode toward Duval Street, where half a dozen pubs promised to keep the carefree island spirit alive long after sunset.
But no matter how much she wedged herself among the patrons, she couldn’t escape the feeling of eyes on her back.
CHAPTER 16
Joan
5 days before, New York
Adam sat before Joan and Greg in horrified silence. His eyes narrowed to pinpoints as he glanced back and forth between them. He dug his nails into the armrest of their black leather sofa, an artifact of the home they would soon no longer inhabit. His compact, muscular body was quivering with fury. Joan tore her gaze away from his face and looked at Greg, who was perched on the edge of his recliner. His shoulders were hunched forward and he was holding his elbows as if trying to minimize his own presence in the room.
“Let me get this straight.” Adam shook his head, tugging at the collar of his polo shirt. “Dad screwed up, you’re going broke, and now you have to move?” He stared at Joan, dumbfounded. “And you’re just going along with it?”
She winced at how pathetic the situation sounded aloud. Since Greg’s confession five days before, she’d gone through her own stages of anger, grief, and ultimately sympathy for his decision to keep her insulated from his own panic. It was the wrong choice, yes, but Greg was nothing if not an alpha male. She understood that his actions were motivated by a deeply masculine desire to protect her without admitting to weakness. Besides, his life was very possibly in danger, so how could she leave him now? Only a sociopath would be capable of deserting her partner at his most vulnerable moment.
But Adam couldn’t sympathize with her decision to stay because he didn’t know about the threat. She and Greg had agreed it was better not to upset him more than was strictly necessary.
“It isn’t quite that simple,” Greg muttered. He barely raised his eyes to his son’s. “The economy—”
“You gambled away your money!” Adam flung his palms up. “Who are you? What kind of idiot does that?”
“Adam,” Joan cut in. “Your father made a mistake. He had honorable intentions. He was trying to keep our lives afloat.”
“This is a betrayal.” Adam ran a hand through his hair. “I can’t believe you’re just going to let him get away with it.”
Joan glanced at Greg. Her red-faced husband was squirming in the throes of shame, crossing his legs and sighing. He kept his eyes plastered to the floor. She knew there was only one thing he hated more than admitting defeat: suffering in the presence of others. It was a wonder he was staying put, a testament to the respect he knew they deserved.
“He’s punishing himself plenty,” she said to Adam. “Can’t you tell?”
“It’s not enough. Look what he’s done to you, Mom. You have to move!”
“Just for the time being,” she allowed. “So we can rent out this place for additional income. I’m just sorry we’re not in a position to help you and Emily out, but your father thinks there might be some other money on the way.”
Adam cocked his head. “Oh, like when you get your royal flush?”
“I’ve stopped gambling,” Greg said softly. “I’m joining a twelve-step program.”
Joan raised her eyebrows as if to say See? He’s not all bad. But Adam wasn’t buying it. He rolled his eyes at the ceiling. In his disdain, she recognized something else brimming to the surface: resentment. Greg’s focus on success had nearly estranged the two of them in last decade, since Adam graduated from college. Greg had pushed him into law school, doing his best to smother his son’s musical passion before it derailed his future. But Adam cared more about happiness than wealth. For years, their argument had been unbridgeable. The chasm between them mirrored the broader one between their two generations: Greg, who’d grown up with nothing as the son of a postman, saw his son’s peers as spoiled and entitled, while Adam thought his dad’s crowd mistakenly prioritized financial stability over personal fulfillment, so they were rich, but miserable.
Now, in Adam’s self-satisfied little head shake, Joan could see that her son felt validated at last. If money had meant less to Greg, he could have let go of his losses and downsized their life. But Adam was naïve. Joan grasped that money was just a proxy for the real issue: the very core of Greg’s identity. As long as she’d known him, he had been driven by the singular ambition to succeed, to give himself and his family the luxurious life he’d always wanted but never had. Without the wealth he’d worked so hard to attain, who was he? How could he face himself?
But he would make it back somehow, she thought. Even if it took a long time. He’d already promised to take on more shifts at the hospital, plus some more freelance consulting. Not that she cared so much if they lived in one modest bedroom or a palatial penthouse. Whatever their address, safety mattered most. Especially now.
“I need to get home,” Adam announced, interrupting her worries. He stood up and caught her eye, refusing to look at Greg. “Emily’s about to pop. In the meantime, I really hope you’re doing the right thing.”
His hard tone belied his true meaning: You’re digging yourself in deeper by staying with him.
His incisive stare contained another message, too—a conversation contained in a glance only she understood. Her mind darted to the unsettling event he was surely trying to resurrect in her memory: The time a few years ago that Adam had stopped by his father’s office for an impromptu visit, only to be greeted with Greg’s uncharacteristic wrath. Shouting had ensued, a fist slammed on the desk—didn’t Adam know how to pick up a phone first? He’d interrupted a very important phone call, et cetera. I’ve never seen Dad lose his temper like that, Adam had told Joan later. It was like he was a different person.
Of course, Greg had recovered his senses and apologized afterward for overreacting, so Joan brushed it off. Lack of sleep, long hours in the ER, the pressure to keep up his charity—it all had to catch up with a man once in a while. Just because Adam resented his father for the outburst didn’t mean it was significant. In fact, Joan was annoyed that Adam even still thought of it. Her son had a maddening affinity for grudges.
She tried to keep her voice even as she addressed him. “Thanks. We’re dying to see the baby the second he’s born.”
“I’ll keep you posted. But I think it’s best if Dad doesn’t come.”
Greg gasped. “You’re not going to let me meet my grandson?”
Adam’s gaze was steely. “Not until you prove I can trust you again.”
“He’s not a criminal!” Joan snapped. “He made a mistake!”
“Gross negligence takes victims, too,” he retorted. “The punishment’s in a different kind of court.”
Then he marched out, letting the door slam behind him.
She and Greg stared at it. The heartbreak was plain in his eyes.
“Give him some time,” she said. “Just let him calm down.”
Greg got up and locked the bolt on the front door. He peered through the peephole, the
n slid the gold chain lock closed as well. When he returned to the living room, she blurted out the announcement she’d been holding in all day:
“I’ve decided to go back to investigative reporting.”
A look of displeasure crossed his face. “Honey, I’m going to fix this. I’ll do whatever it takes. You don’t have to do that.”
“I want to.”
“But you can’t make much money. Plus you haven’t worked in twenty years.”
“It’s not about the money. I spent my career fighting to expose corruption and I was damn good at it.” She crossed her arms. “You think I’m just going to ignore it now, when the biggest scandal of our life is right under our noses?”
He grimaced, but in a rush of excitement, she sprung from her chair and skipped across the room to clutch his hands. They felt cold and limp.
“I’m going to start today,” she said, gazing up at him. “Maybe I’ll run into a bunch of dead ends, but I’m going to try, before you and other innocent people get hurt.”
“But it’s just rumors. How can you do anything if the cops can’t?”
“They need a warrant and probable cause. I don’t.”
He enveloped her in a hug, wrapping his strong arms around her shoulders. “You always were the spunkiest girl in the room.”
She leaned into his chest. Beneath his starchy button-down shirt, his heart was thumping fast. She sensed the feeling worming its way through him: Fear. She felt it, too. It was fear of the unknown, of evil that lurked in close quarters waiting to strike. It was too vague to confront head-on—which made it all the more frightening. But that wasn’t about to stop her.
They stood embracing for what felt like a long time, united at last by a common goal—and a common enemy.
CHAPTER 17
The Diary of Richard Barnett
1 day before, Key West
I found you a fall guy, Isabel. Just like I promised. A sad old schmuck whose time is near. He didn’t take good care of himself, physically or otherwise. His ex-wife thinks him depraved, a description he doesn’t dispute. He’s got no kids to leave behind, so no one will miss him much. Has he lived a good life? Done noble work? Doubtful. He gave up on all that a long time ago.
