Rundown (Curveball Book 2)

by Teresa Michaels

  “There isn’t really much to pack besides her bedroom. If you guys don’t mind emptying the refrigerator and pantry, we can probably get out of here in a few hours.”

  “We checked the kitchen,” Everett informs me. “Both the refrigerator and pantry are empty.”

  “What about dishes?”

  “There were a few plates and glasses in the cupboard, and some utensils but that’s it. We’ll box it up.”

  Hmm.

  Walking back to her bedroom, it strikes me that when I had been here months ago I’d been the last person to walk through these halls until now. I only stayed long enough to pick out a dress for her burial, but apparently I failed to notice that she was living like she was about to leave. If it weren’t for her bedroom being full of pictures and books, I’d swear this place was staged for selling.

  Holding onto the overhead doorframe, my eyes roam over her belongings. I swear I can sense her presence. Slowly walking around the room, I stop and sit on the corner of her bed trying to decide where to start, as the 42-inch TV mounted on the wall turns on, displaying six views of the house. What the hell, Alexis? Clearly she was into high-tech gadgetry, but this is over the top…not to mention expensive. What was she so paranoid about?

  Turning my attention back to the task at hand, I carefully wrap the picture frames cluttered on her nightstand. The first is the same picture I have of us playing at the barn near my parent’s house. The second is of me, her and our parents when she graduated from her master’s program. There’s one of her and me the day I got drafted by the Red Sox and another one from my first game. The other three are of her with college friends. I pick up the one of her and her friends studying when they were in undergrad. Running my thumb over the image of her face, I can’t help but think of how young she was and how tragic it is that there isn’t a photo more recent than these. It breaks my fucking heart. I quickly wrap the items and place them in a box.

  Pushing my emotions to the side, I open the drawer of her bedside table, finding only a few things―a Kindle, a Seduko book and her retainer. I toss the first two items into the box for Goodwill. Picking up her retainer, my mind is flooded with memories; Alexis tormenting me and my friends when I had sleepovers; she and I sneaking down to the kitchen for cookies in the middle of the night; and waking up to her saliva drenched retainer resting on my nose on April Fool’s Day.

  I do my best to fight the suffocating sensation that’s overwhelming me. I promised myself I wouldn’t break down, but fuck it. I’m past thinking that men don’t cry. Life without her hurts…bad. I clench the plastic and metal mold in my fist and let it all out. My head drops to the other hand, all my weight resting on my elbow that’s propped against my leg. Why does this have to be so fucking hard?

  I want to open my eyes and find her watching me like I’ve lost my mind. Why did she have to die so young? I give myself a few minutes to grieve and then force myself to get on with it. Wiping my face, I can’t help but laugh at myself. Of all the things that could break me, I lose it over a mouthpiece.

  I stand up, head over to her bookshelf and begin placing all but a few items in the box for donation, but not before I wrap Alexis’s retainer and stuff it in my pocket.

  In less than an hour, all of her books and trinkets have been packed and her bedding has been bagged up. I ignore that constant ache in my chest and start working on her walk-in closet. One by one, I remove her clothes from their hangers and fold them before placing them in the bag. It’s as if I’m handling her belongings as carefully as I’d handle her.

  When all the clothes are out of the closet and the hangers are stuffed in a bag, I notice a built in safe on the sidewall that went unnoticed until now because it was hidden by garments. Unlike her other gadgets, the safe appears to be old school. My hand hovers over the dial, trying to think of what the combination could be. First I try her birthdate, which fails. Next, I try our parent’s anniversary, no luck. After another five failed attempts I dial 1-4-3, Alexis’s code for ‘I love you’. When the damn thing unlocks, I fist-pump the air as if I’ve just won the World Series.

  “I’m headed out for—“

  “Damn it, O’Conner.” I jump.

  “A perimeter check,” he finishes.

  “Is that really necessary?”

  “I need fresh air.”

  “Fine,” I mutter. “I should be done in about 30 minutes.”

  I watch as he walks out of the closet and pauses near the pile of folded clothes. He turns back towards me and watches me silently for several seconds. “Take all the time you need, son.” He’s gone before I can respond. For a crotchety man, he’s not half bad.

  Returning my attention to the safe, I pull the door open. At first glance, there isn’t much inside—a thick manila folder underneath Alexis’s passport, some cash and an empty case for an SD card. Hmm, I’ll have to remember to look for her camera.

  I move the items off of the folder and take it out. Based on how thorough her security system is I’m expecting detailed documentation of all her affairs, like bank records and her will. What I don’t expect is for the contents to alter my life. I walk back into the bedroom and stop mid-stride when I read the label of the folder: Innovation Airways – Evidence of Corruption.

  All the air leaves my lungs as I read the label a second time. What the hell? I somehow find my way to the edge of the bed and open the folder.

  Thumbing through the inch-thick stack of papers that is mostly comprised of email exchanges, a few things stick out. The majority of the emails have a logo at the bottom of a black spider with a red marking. Capitalized, bold letters with cobweb-like filler make up the word ‘THREADS’, which is typed over top of the spider. The email addresses on the majority of emails are between two people—dashes2@bwthreads.org and 515@bwthreads.org.

  BW Threads?

  I stare at the intricate logo design, mainly the spider. BW, BW, BW, I chant over and over again.

  Black widow.

  Curious about what this organization is, I take out my phone, pull up Google and do a search. Nothing comes up. Strange. I quickly snap a picture of the logo so that I can do more research later, stuff my phone in my pocket and sit back down to begin reading.

  From: 515@bwthreads.org

  To: dashes2@bwthreads.org

  Date: February 16th

  Subject: Rumor has it…

  The new face of IA is looking to get his sister a job. Her coding skills are superb, and from what I’ve gathered from her graduate advisor at MIT, she respects authority, is a hard worker and is perhaps a bit naïve. Sounds like the perfect understudy for you.

  This was written just a month or so before Alexis started at Innovation Airways in their IT Security department. How could anyone know I wanted to get Alexis a job there, I wonder as I set the piece of paper to the side and select another.

  From: dashes2@bwthreads.org

  To: 515@bwthreads.org

  Date: April 20th

  Subject: Confirmation needed

  The opening act will begin promptly at 6:30am on October 2nd of next year. If you’d like me to reserve the Widow a ticket, I need confirmation.

  “Opening act?” I mutter to myself. Noticing the date, I put two-and-two together. October 2nd was the date of Innovation Airways maiden flight, and the only widow I know was sitting next to me on the plane. Holy shit. These people planned to sabotage the plane over a year before it happened? How did no one else know this? Come to think of it, how did Alexis know this when these correspondences predate her employment? I can’t believe that someone would want to hurt Breanne. Maybe the reference is to someone else.

  Setting the note down, I reluctantly move on to an email exchange between Alexis and some Henry Ridges guy, discussing the code she wrote and asking for a few changes. At the time, she’d been employed at the airline for a number of months. Alexis responds saying that the code will make the system vulnerable to hackers getting personal information and using it for financial gain, or worse
, make the plane susceptible to attack. The response from Henry Ridges is ‘do it’. The entire exchange is forwarded by dashes2 to 515, along with his comments, “we’re cutting this close. I’ll do my best to manage her, but I need her to send me the final coding before anything further can happen.”

  Red letters are stamped on the front of the next page, which appears to be a printed copy of a system user’s access log to some folder. Henry Ridges. Directly underneath that with an arrow pointing to it is ‘dashes2’, and in the bottom corner are the Roman numerals 515 with a circle around them. Both are written in Alexis’s handwriting.

  So is Henry her manager and dashes2?

  I hold my forehead with one hand before picking through the next few emails, which predate the others and outline the time, date and details of someone’s death. What the fuck, Alexis? Overwhelmed, I abruptly stand, flinging the documents onto the bed. Linking my hands above my head, I pace the room in silence, playing out the information. It’s a lot to digest and I still have no clue what any of it means. There’s more to go through, yet I’m not sure I want to at this point. Needing a break, I walk over to the window and watch people go about their business without a care in the world. How did my life get so complicated?

  After several minutes of deliberating, curiosity gets the better of me and I pick up where I left off.

  From: dashes2@bwthreads.org

  To: 515@bwthreads.org

  Date: August 31st

  Subject: Delivery

  A delivery to the Widow has spurred interesting research activities.

  515 responds almost an hour later instructing dashes2 to do a background check on a new recruit that ‘the Widower’ recommended, and if he checks out to put him “on it”. Dashes2 agrees.

  From: dashes2@bwthreads.org

  To: 515@bwthreads.org

  Date: September 2nd

  Subject: Reference check

  The new recruit that the Widower referred checked out. We should meet with him and the others prior to the main event. On a separate note, I caught up with a man that goes by Major Arnold as I was leaving the Architect’s office and he was just as eager about the possibilities we discussed. The Architect did not feel the same.

  Two minutes later 515@bwthreads.org responds with a simple message: Some bites have no cure.

  “This just gets more and more interesting,” I say to myself at the sight of Arnold’s name, and the introduction of another player. What’s up with all the code names? I move on to the next couple of emails and have to read them twice. Alexis went from challenging her manager with specifics about coding issues, to the extreme opposite. She agrees and complies with every request he makes.

  Utterly dumbfounded, I go to the next item, which consists of three receipts stapled together and a copy of a shipping label. I’m about to flip back to the front when the name of the package’s recipient causes my world to stop.

  Breanne Sullivan.

  For fuck’s sake.

  I lose track of how long I stare at the label. I wish I could say my mind is racing a million miles a minute, but it’s not. I can’t comprehend why my sister would have Breanne’s name and address, let alone send her something. I shake my head for clarity and finally return to the first invoice. It’s for a local jeweler, dated September 9th of last year. There’s no description other than the word ‘necklace’ and the amount - $1,495.00.

  Who spends nearly $1,500 on a necklace?

  Baffled, I move on to the next receipt, suddenly wishing I hadn’t. This one is for a silver jewelry box. This can’t be real. I flip to the third statement and discover it’s from the same jeweler that the necklace was bought at, though this bill is for engraving services. If there hadn’t been three versions of the same phrase―a phrase I’ve seen before ―I wouldn’t have believed it. Alexis didn’t just know who Breanne was; she designed, ordered and sent Breanne the necklace and jewelry box. But why?

  I grab my forehead in complete bewilderment. Why the hell would Alexis buy that pendant and jewelry box for Breanne, especially when it was designed in way that implied it was from Mark? I start over, looking at each individual invoice again. I’m inwardly pleading for some logic to jump off the page. All I come up with are more questions. My head drops into my hands and I press the heel of my palms into my forehead, groaning in frustration.

  As I mentally compile the clusterfuck of information I’ve just consumed, certain elements and phrases stand out. I comb through the pile on the bed until I come back to the email that specifies ‘Widower’, and then flip to another one, noticing it says ‘Widow’. I honestly thought they meant the same thing, but the way the messages are written, it’s clear to me that dashes2 and 515 are talking about two different people.

  I pull out my phone and quickly search for the definition. Widow is the term for a woman who has lost her husband. Widower applies to men. Being that Breanne was on the maiden flight, she must be the ‘Widow’, which means she was purposely put on that aircraft. But who is the ‘Widower’? Convinced that answers must be somewhere in the folder, I flip to the next item, which is a folded obituary section of a newspaper. Circled in red is the obituary for Mark Sullivan.

  My head might literally explode.

  I pinch the bridge of my nose and try like hell to deal with this. Why the hell does Alexis have this shit? Looking up at the TV, I watch Everett wrap the few small belongings left in the living room. Maybe he can make sense of this. I decide to review the rest before sharing when a thought occurs to me.

  Shuffling through the mound of paper, my brain kicks into overdrive. I recheck the dates of the email outlining a death, and compare them to the dates of Mark’s obituary. They line up. I immediately think Mark is the ‘Widower’, but dismiss the idea because the dates on the emails occurred up to a year after Mark’s death.

  From the beginning, I had a feeling Mark was connected and now I know for sure he is, but how he’s involved remains a mystery. Adding to the confusion is the fact that the necklace and jewelry box were purchased about a year after Mark’s death, and only a few months after Alexis started working at the airline. This is also around the same time she went from having concerns with the code, to agreeing with her manager’s approach.

  Not getting the connection, and refusing to be kept in the dark, I frantically flip through the few remaining documents. 515 references the pilots for the maiden flight, describing them as ‘plumbers’, whatever that means. Another one calls out that the coding Alexis has been working on, linking thumbprints to bank accounts and other personal information, is almost complete. That same day, Alexis emails her manager requesting time off. Her request is denied and she responds with her resignation. It’s the day she was leaving for Boston―the day she died.

  And then it hits me.

  Her death wasn’t an accident.

  Stunned, I look through the stack again and then put it back in the folder. None of this adds up. What I can’t understand is that if Alexis was aware of the conspiracy to take down the plane, why didn’t she tell anyone and why did she remain working for the airline for so long? Another thing that strikes me is that Breanne and I were linked long before we met.

  Pushing off the bed, I stride to the door when a crash from the other room startles me. Immediately, I look at the TV and witness two men accost Everett, who is putting up one hell of a fight. Fuck. I look down at the pile of evidence in my lap and scramble to put everything back into the folder. I lock the bedroom door and quickly push the small bookshelf against it as quietly as possible; hoping they don’t know anyone else is here. What if I’m holding what they want? The doorknob to her bedroom jiggles, justifying my concern.

  Bang. Bang.

  The force of someone’s body slamming into the door torments me as I try to figure out what to do. I grab my phone and the folder and then dash to the closet. Haphazardly, I jam the folder back in the safe and slam the door, but not before a few pieces of paper fall out. I pick them up, stuff them in my pocket and p
anic. They can’t find this. Fisting the paper in my pocket, I take it out, fold it flat and stuff it into the only place I can think of.

  The banging gets louder and it’s clear I’m in deep shit. The door bursts open just as I’m pulling out my phone to dial 9-1-1. It’s too late. Two men charge at me, knocking me to the floor. Kicking and punching, I claw my way to the door of the bedroom as a sharp sensation pricks my neck. I attempt to push the men away and collapse. I’m dizzy and sweating. My vision is cloudy, my ears ringing. My entire body feels warm and weightless, yet heavy at the same time. I hear muffled voices around me and then everything goes dark.

  SEVEN

  Call It a Hunch

  Premonitions are a strange thing. There’s nothing tangible to cause the haunting feeling of problems or tragedy looming, yet they exist as if they’re real—a warning whose meaning is held just far enough out of your grasp that it torments you endlessly. This is how I felt when I went to sleep last night, and it continues to linger this morning.

  Sitting in a waiting room, watching countless women in various stages of either pregnancy or menopause, I fidget with my phone, badly wanting to hear Drew’s voice. He never texted or called last night and I imagine he either fell asleep while packing up Alexis’s house, or he’s broken up over the situation and isn’t ready to talk. Either way, I thought I would have heard something from him, but then again I only have glimpses of how he deals with grief. We still have so much to learn about each other.