by Meg Ripley
Rachel decided to forego the pursuit of her mysterious benefactor for the time being. When the bank manager had suggested that she work with the bank’s wealth management division, she was more than happy to go along with his idea, knowing that while she had ample experience making twenty dollars last for a week, she had very little notion of how to live with millions. She knew that decisions would have to be made—whether to invest, what to invest in, how much money she really needed to live every year, all the myriad of choices that came along with a sudden windfall. Taxes, charities, debts to be paid off; did she want to buy a house, since she had the money to pay for it outright? Did she want to get a new car to replace the old jalopy she had scrimped to purchase when her first car had finally, irrevocably died?
Her phone rang as Rachel was getting out of her old, worn out car, preparing to walk into the bank to talk to someone about a safe, long-term investment strategy. She dug her phone out of her purse, glancing at the number flashing across the screen. It wasn’t a complete number; it was only four digits long. She shook her head and moved out of the flow of traffic, deciding that she would just answer it. If it was a telemarketer or scammer, at least she would know for sure. “Hello?”
There was a crackle of interference on the line, a high-pitched tone that nearly made Rachel pull the phone away from her ear, and then a distorted voice. “That money doesn’t belong to you. We’re going to get it back.” She turned her head, staring at the phone for a moment in mute shock.
“What money? Who are you?” Her mind flip-flopped between confusion, anger and fear. In an instant, she realized that whoever had called her, they were almost certainly referring to the anonymous transfer into her account.
“You got money that you didn’t deserve,” said the distorted voice on the other end of the line. “We’re going to get it back. We know where you are at all times.” The call cut out, and for a moment, Rachel wondered if it was intentional or accidental. Her hand shook and she waited for a moment to see if the number would flash on her screen again. There was nothing. Rattled, looking around her—remembering what the person on the other end of the line had said about knowing where she was at all times—Rachel slipped her phone back into her purse and swallowed against the tight, dry feeling in her throat, gathering up what little composure she had at her command before she walked towards the entrance of the bank.
She sat through the meeting, even though her mind was spinning from the phone call she had received. Logic dictated that Rachel should call the police, but what exactly could she tell them? “Some strange person with a distorted voice and an invalid number called me and said that they were going to get their money back from me.” Not only would there be nothing for them to really go on, but Rachel suspected that they wouldn’t even take it seriously. She signed the papers after barely reading them, realizing that she should have taken the time to read the fine print.
As she left the bank, she was so consumed with confusion and fear that she didn’t notice a man standing off to the side, watching the entrance. Rachel moved towards her car, looking at the ground, trying to make sense of what had happened—not only the sudden wealth, but the even more recent fact that apparently, someone didn’t want her to have it—and didn’t see the man slowly starting to walk in her direction. She heard the sound of idle whistling, but didn’t pay any attention to it as she neared her car, trying to decide where she should go next—whether it should be home, or somewhere public. “We know where you are at all times,” the voice had said. Presumably, as long as she was in public, she was at least relatively safe; she didn’t think that anyone would be stupid enough to grab her where there might be witnesses.
She turned the key in her lock and suddenly felt a hand on her shoulder. Rachel wheeled around, bringing her hands up, holding her keys tightly in her right hand to provide herself, instinctively, with something that had a little more heft than her fist itself. Her heart was pounding in her chest as her gaze fell on the man standing behind her: tall and muscular, towering over her, his eyes were covered by a thick pair of dark sunglasses, his face half-hidden behind dark brown hair that fell nearly to his shoulders. He was dressed in jeans, a tee shirt, and a hooded sweater, all carefully nondescript, in washed-out colors.
Rachel backed up until she collided with the door of her car, trying to decide whether it would be better to try and get in—potentially putting the car between herself and the stranger—or to cry out for help, struggle, call attention to herself. Before she could decide, the man smiled slowly. “You’re a woman with a big load of trouble on your hands, and you let me nearly get the drop on you—not the best strategy.” The man’s voice was light and low, almost gravelly to her ears, rippling with an Irish accent that made him sound even more amused than Rachel thought he actually was.
“I—who are you? What do you know about my troubles?” she looked around quickly, to see if there was anyone loitering in the parking lot at the bank who might come to her aid; it was almost suspiciously empty, just one or two people walking with self-absorbed determination towards the entrance or back to their cars.
“Name’s Dylan,” the man said. “As for what I know about your troubles: I know you probably got a phone call not too long ago that you have no idea how to trace, regarding a very large sum of money you recently came into.” Rachel stared at him in shock; how could he possibly know what’s going on?
“You—were you the one—” she shook her head, looking around in panic again, reflexively grabbing at her car door.
“No, Love. I’m not the one who’s after you. But I know who is—and you’re going to need me around. I got dropped off here to wait for you to come out, so I don’t have a car to my name, and you don’t really need to be driving anywhere alone just now. So, how’s about you unlock the car, let me in, and crawl over to the passenger side; then you can tell me where we’re going.” For a long moment, Rachel considered refusing. She looked around again, but there was no one around. They were alone in the parking lot. She had her phone—but if this Dylan person had bad intentions for her, she doubted he would let her get a call out to anyone. If he had bad intentions, he wouldn’t have even let me stand here this long, he’d probably have just grabbed me… he did say he was dropped off… how stupid do you have to be to take someone’s words at face value when you’ve already been threatened by someone else? She took a deep breath.
“Can I make a phone call first?” she asked. Dylan raised one dark eyebrow from behind the sunglasses he wore.
“Don’t see as it would change anything. I’d recommend against calling the police—the folks who are after you are in pretty deep with them, and at best you won’t be taken seriously.” Rachel swallowed. Should she trust him at all? “I swear to you, Rachel, I’m here to help; I’m not going to get you into the car and cart you off to someone else. Get in, tell me where we’re going, and that is precisely where I’ll take you.” Rachel hesitated a moment longer, trying to decide to what extent—if any—she could trust the stranger. She sighed; he had her blocked off. She was within arm’s reach. Rachel took a deep breath and turned her back to Dylan, opening the car door and crawling from the driver’s side to the passenger side.
Dylan swung into the driver’s side and snatched up the keys from Rachel’s nervous hands, inserting one into the ignition and turning it. As the car roared to life, Rachel pulled the seatbelt around, glancing at Dylan as misgivings filled her mind. “So, tell me where we’re going, Love.”
****
Rachel paced back and forth along the rug in her tiny living room, able to feel Dylan’s gaze on her but, for the moment, caring very little about his presence. “Do you want something to eat?” He asked her.
Rachel stopped, turning slightly to look at the man sitting on the couch, staring up at her with a slightly sardonic smile curving his lips. “What?”
Dylan shrugged, stretching his arms over his head, glancing around the room. “I asked if you wanted something to eat. Worrying i
s hungry work.” He stood in a quick, fluid movement that made Rachel take a few startled steps backward, glancing at her before he walked towards the kitchen. For a moment, she simply stared at his back, her mouth slightly open in shock. He had had the audacity to accost her in a parking lot, to bully her into giving him her car keys, and when they had arrived at her apartment, he had taken her keys with him, holding a hand out as they approached her door to forestall her. He had walked right into her house after unlocking the door and left her standing outside before beckoning her in behind him.
“What are you doing?”
Dylan turned, one dark eyebrow raised as he glanced at her. He had taken the sunglasses off when they came into the apartment; he had wide-set, dark hazel eyes that seemed entirely too full of knowledge for Rachel to comfortably meet them. “Getting something to eat. I thought I’d get you something as well—cranky women tend to be hungry women.”
Rachel crossed her arms over her chest as the blood rushed into her cheeks. “I am not a cranky woman!” she said, knowing she sounded petulant but unable to help herself. “Even if I was cranky, don’t you think mysterious threatening phone calls and random strangers who force you into your car and take your keys are perfectly good reasons?”
Dylan leaned against her fridge, his gaze traveling up and down over her body, taking her in. “I didn’t force you into your car,” he said slowly. “I advised you very strongly to get in your car and let me drive us to wherever you wanted to go.”
Rachel pressed her lips together, taking a deep breath. “You’re still a random stranger and you—you bullied me into doing what you wanted.” She scowled at him, resenting herself for going along with it and resenting him for being there, looking completely unfazed by her irritation.
“That tends to come with the territory of being hired to protect someone. And we’re all random strangers ‘til we get to know one another.”
“Stop being so reasonable!” Rachel’s hands clenched into fists. “What do you mean hired to protect someone?”
Dylan pulled himself back into an upright position, turning away from her and opening the fridge. He leaned in, and Rachel heard the sound of the fridge’s contents moving around, shuffling plastic and shifting glass on metal racks. “This looks promising,” Dylan said, standing up once more and producing a Tupperware container full of leftover steak tips and mushrooms. He looked around and plucked a wrapped-up baguette from the top of the fridge where Rachel had left it.
“You didn’t answer my question,” she said, losing her instinctive fear as her anger rose up.
“I don’t actually have to, you know,” Dylan pointed out. He moved to the counter, reaching for the knife block with one hand, pulling a cutting board down onto the counter with the other. “There’s enough here for two; sure you’re not hungry?”
Rachel closed her eyes, her fists tightening convulsively for a moment before she took a deep breath, exhaling slowly. “How the hell is this my life?” she asked no one in particular, opening her eyes and looking up at the ceiling.
“You got lucky; some people don’t appreciate it when others catch a bit of luck. And here we are.” Rachel tore her gaze from the ceiling and watched as Dylan nonchalantly cut the loaf of bread in half. He cracked the seal on the Tupperware container and opened the microwave door, putting the steak tips and mushrooms into the box with the ease of practice. Rachel took a few steps into the kitchen, pushing Dylan aside; he shifted away from the counter, and she turned towards the fridge once more, withdrawing a packet of provolone cheese.
“So, you’re not going to tell me anything?” she said, not even looking at him as she arranged the slices along the halves of the loaf.
“I didn’t say that, now did I? I said I don’t have to tell you anything.”
Rachel sighed. The microwave beeped and she ruthlessly punched the door open button, snatching up the Tupperware container and pulling the lid the rest of the way off. “What will it take for you to tell me what the hell is going on?” She finally looked at him; Dylan was smiling slightly, watching her with a look in his eyes she wasn’t sure she liked.
“Every man has a price,” he said.
Rachel held his glance for a moment longer and turned her attention back onto the food, reaching blindly to pull the silverware drawer open and taking out a fork. She arranged the leftover meat and vegetables on top of the cheese, put one half of the loaf on top of the other, and cut through the sandwich in a few fast movements, snatching up one half and retreating back into the living room. Dylan followed her into the living room and sat down with the other half of the sandwich and they both ate in silence.
“Let me get this straight,” she said, licking her fingers and brushing the crumbs off of her lap. “If I want to know who’s threatening me, who hired you, and why anyone has the slightest interest in keeping me alive, I have to pay you?”
“I seem to recall that you have a lot more money than you’re used to having—a fair windfall. I don’t think you’ll miss a thousand or so, do you?”
“A thousand or so,” Rachel said, looking at him levelly. “How exactly are you supposed to keep me safe if I don’t know who you’re keeping me safe from?”
“You don’t need to know; not right now. If the time comes when it’s necessary to your survival to know who it is, then in accordance with the job I was hired to do, I’ll tell you. Consider the thousand an expediting fee.”
Rachel turned her mind onto the problem; she had never lacked for intelligence—in spite of her dead-end career, she had always been relatively quick on the uptake, and if it weren’t for the multiple shocks of the day, she cherished the thought that she probably would have put together more of the situation sooner. “Let me see how much of this I can figure out on my own,” she said, eyeing the man a few feet away from her. “I somehow became the beneficiary of a large chunk of money that someone took great pains to send to me anonymously.” Dylan nodded. “Some other people—you won’t tell me who—are upset that I got this money and want to take it from me.” He nodded again. “Someone else hired you to keep me from getting killed.”
“I’ll give you this for free: the same person who gave you the money hired me.”
Rachel thought for a long moment. “Why on earth would someone give me a boatload of money if they knew they’d also have to hire someone to protect me for having it?”
Dylan shrugged, still smiling faintly. “Maybe they thought you deserved it. Maybe they like you. It’s not really a question I asked. I was told to keep you alive, to make sure the money doesn’t get taken from you.”
“How much are they paying you?”
Dylan chuckled. “If I’m not going to tell you who they are, how do you think you’ll convince me to tell you how much they’re paying?”
“How much money do you want for that?” Rachel raised an eyebrow, crossing her arms over her chest. Dylan’s smile spread over his face.
“That piece of information isn’t for sale, Love. Besides, you’d be a piss-poor investment for my client if you were the type to fritter your money away so easily.”
Rachel stood. “Get out of my house,” she said, keeping her voice calm with an effort.
“Can’t do that—orders. I don’t take payment from someone without doing the job.”
“I don’t even get a say in this? What if I leave?”
“Then I will be leaving with you.”
“You can’t follow me everywhere.”
“I can follow you anywhere that matters.”
Rachel frowned. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
Dylan shrugged. “You’re unlikely to be assaulted in the bathroom. One window, one door—you’re on the third floor so it’d be tough for someone to climb up and get to you there.”
“My whole apartment is on the third floor; wouldn’t my bedroom be just as unlikely?”
Dylan smiled, his lips twitching, his dark eyes gleaming with suppressed laughter. “Are you asking if I would follow you i
nto your bedroom?” Rachel’s blood rushed to her face. “The answer is yes; your bedroom’s a much larger space than your bathroom. Sure, they’d have to climb to get at you easily, but there’s that convenient balcony off the side. Besides, if you’re in your bedroom, chances are fair you’re sleeping—easy to sneak up on you.”
“They said…” Rachel pressed her lips together, feeling a spurt of fear. “They said that they know where I am at all times.” She glanced at Dylan, swallowing against the dry, tight feeling in her throat.
“That they do,” Dylan agreed. “Which is why I’m here. They know I’m here—that will have put them off their strategy for a little while. For the moment, you’re safe.”
“Can’t I just—I don’t know—give them the money? I mean…” she licked her lips. “I’m starting to think that quitting my job was a huge mistake.” Rachel cringed.
“That dead-end thing? Of course you should have quit! You’re a smart, beautiful girl and shouldn’t settle for such a thankless job.” Rachel felt her cheeks warming up again at the words ‘smart’ and ‘beautiful.’ He shrugged. “Why should you give up the money? It’s not like the people who want it deserve it any more than you do.”
“Do they deserve it any less?”
Dylan’s gaze shifted off of her face. “That would give you a hint,” he said. “I told you I’m not going to tell you anything about them unless it’s necessary to keep you alive, or unless you pay me a thousand dollars.”
Rachel slid her tongue over her teeth, considering. “So,” she said, glancing around her apartment; it looked smaller than usual with Dylan sitting only a few feet away from her. “What do we do now?”
