by Leigh, Tara
Oh my God, Sadie. I gasp, though no air makes it around his glove. But somehow, he must sense my concern because he says, “She is fine. It’s you I’m here for.”
This man—whoever he is—is not a common criminal, spontaneously deciding to rob or rape me. Tonight’s visit has been carefully planned, expertly executed. He is a pro.
“I’m going to pull my hand away now. It would be a terrible shame to break that pretty little neck of yours.” His voice is smooth, cultured, his accent Spanish, but with a hint of British, too. He reminds me of someone I met at Worthington, who had been raised in South America but attended school in England.
Those dark eyes narrow, and I notice he has extraordinarily long eyelashes. I am a sucker for long eyelashes on guys, they can soften even the hardest features. But tonight, on this man, it only makes him look more menacing. I swallow heavily and his stare follows the bob of my throat. “A real shame,” he adds, the curve of his mouth sending another wave of unease rippling through my veins.
His hand lifts, just slightly at first, and my quick breath is the only sound in the room. His lips part, flashing teeth that have seen more than their fair share of coffee and nicotine but are perfectly even and straight. “I figured you for a smart girl. Glad you proved me right.”
“What do you want?”
“Right to the point, I like that too. Your husband is a lucky man.” He gestures at the empty space beside me before returning his focus back to my face. “Although not very smart. He obviously doesn’t appreciate what is waiting for him in his own bed.”
I shrink away from his appraising gaze, bile rising up my throat. He releases a soft chuckle, dragging a gloved finger along my thigh that had escaped from beneath my covers while I was sleeping. I am uncomfortably aware that I’m not wearing any underwear beneath my short nightie.
“Don’t worry, chica, this is a business call. Normally, I would deal with your husband, but he is not here. He is not anywhere that I can find him, and I don’t like not being able to find him. It makes me look bad, you see.”
I see. “You work with Tucker?”
“That surprises you?” A cluster of hair hovers above his lip, too small to be called a mustache. It sits, like a fat beetle, just below his nose, moving with each word. I can’t look away from it, wondering if it will be the last thing I ever see. “I don’t look like a business associate of your husband?”
I rush to backtrack. This is not a man I want to insult. “No, of course not. I’m sorry. I just—”
His throaty chuckle cuts me off. “I’m just teasing. Your husband and I have never met. He always did his job, so there was no need. But now he’s gone, and my bosses are concerned. And when they are concerned, they call me, and then I have to get involved. Do you understand?”
“Y-Yes. But I don’t know where he is either.”
His hand continues its ascent, moving slowly up my ribs, along the curve of my breast, his finger sweeping over my exposed collarbone. “Now that isn’t the answer I was hoping for, chica. Are you sure you don’t want to think a little harder?”
A tear escapes from the corner of my eye, dripping down my temple. “I don’t know. Really. I’ve spent the past few days trying to remember what happened that night on the boat. But I don’t, it’s still a blank, and the doctor said my memories might never come back. Believe me, I want to find him as much as you.”
He cocks his head to the side. “I’m not sure that’s true.”
“It is. If I don’t wind up in jail, I’ll live under a cloud of suspicion for the rest of my life, either as his co-conspirator, his murderer, or the stupidest woman on earth for not knowing what my own husband was up to.”
I can’t believe I am whining to a threatening stranger who has broken into my bedroom in the middle of the night… and yet the words keep coming. “His desk was cleared out by the time I came back from Florida. I’m looking for clues on Facebook and Instagram, for God’s sake.” Definitely not my proudest moment, but I had scoured Wren’s social media, hoping to find something to bolster the theory that she and Tucker planned his escape together.
“And? What have you found?”
His eyes drill into me, finally halting the torrent of words pouring from my mouth. Even if I had proof Wren helped Tucker and is trying to frame me, I can’t sic this man on her. I wouldn’t wish this nighttime call on my worst enemy. “N-not much. Tucker traveled overseas all the time, to many different countries.” I pause, anxiety clanging against my ribcage. “But I suppose you knew that already.”
“Yes. I know this. The question is, in which of these places will I find your husband.”
Tentacles of fear race up my spine, clawing at the back of my neck. I remember reading somewhere that the key to making it out of a dangerous situation is establishing a rapport with your attacker. “What is your name?” I ask now.
He arches an eyebrow. “You planning to friend me on Facebook?”
“No. Of course not. I—” I draw a shaky breath. “It’s just… we want the same thing, I think. Maybe we can work together.”
His lips twitch. “I’ve been told I don’t work well with others.” He looks down, and I curse my choice of nighttime clothing. My sweetheart neckline is showing way too much cleavage. “Then again, I’ve never worked with a woman before. Maybe I should reconsider.”
“No, no, that’s okay. It’s fine, really. No problem.” I am babbling. “This has to be some kind of misunderstanding, though. I mean, I’m sure Tucker didn’t intend to get your bosses upset.”
“Don’t talk about my bosses.”
I clamp my mouth shut at the implied threat, wondering if I’ve already said too much.
“Listen to me. I’m going to let you in on a little secret, chica. Your husband is a smart man, maybe too smart, although he has no common sense. Sometimes smart people are like that, they learn too much from books and not enough from life.” He scowls, shaking his gleaming head. “He was very good at taking money, especially money that came from places America is not supposed to take money from, looks like it came from somewhere else. A lot of money. But now, your husband is missing. And so is the money. Just because he cleaned it, doesn’t make it his.”
I can’t catch my breath. “He took your money?” Who steals from people with assassins on their payroll?
Tucker has always been smart, brilliant even. A good-looking savant with a powerful pedigree. He thought it made him invincible.
But who am I to judge? I thought it made him, and by extension me, invincible too.
We were both wrong.
And now it seems as if Tucker has left me holding the bag. An empty one.
Another soft, chilling laugh. “Not my money, no. Money belonging to the people who sent me. If I don’t get it back for them, they will just send someone else. And someone else after that. So, you understand then, why we must find your husband.” It isn’t a question, but I nod anyway. “I will take your word that you don’t know where he is, but you had better figure it out quickly. I am not a patient man.”
He starts to stand, but then hesitates. “Co-conspirator,” he whispers, soft as a sigh. “Is there a reason to believe you are as guilty as your husband? If you know where the money is… maybe I don’t need to look so hard for your husband?”
My breath catches in the back of my throat as he stares down at me, his eyes becoming even colder, even darker. No, please just go.
But he doesn’t. “You are beautiful, and beautiful women are often the most cunning.” His gloved thumb sweeps over my trembling lips, his palm against my jaw.
“I don’t know anything, I swear.”
His full lips quirk as he sits back, dragging the Frette sheet and duvet off the bed. Inch by inch, I am exposed. “You know what else beautiful women are good at? Lying. I’ll bet you are a good liar. How can I be sure you are being honest with me?”
I shake my head back and forth, a strand of hair catching at the corner of my mouth. “I’m telling the trut
h.” A tear slides down my cheek, then another and another. “I don’t know anything about money. Not even what’s in our checking accounts.” My voice breaks. “I don’t even know how to pay my lawyer.”
He exhales heavily and drops the linens. “Stop crying or I will give you something to cry about.”
I sniff, wiping at my tears with shaking hands. “Sorry.”
“This bastard I now have to hunt down, like an animal…” He reaches for my left hand, holding my enormous wedding ring up for a closer look and exposing a long, thin scar that goes from his jaw to his chin. “He kept you here, like a bird in a cage.”
When he releases my fingers, his smile is more menacing than his scar. “Just don’t fly free until I have the money, or I’ll have to hunt you too.”
Chapter 53
New York City
“Hey, sleeping beauty. You planning on waking up anytime soon?”
I wince at Sadie’s strident tone, my head pounding as if I’d slept on a pillow of rusty nails. My memory of last night is a further assault.
The man in my bedroom.
His questions.
His threats.
The damp rag he’d put over my mouth, just before warning me not to tell anyone about his visit. The or else was unspoken, but it was there. Whatever the rag had been soaked in put me out immediately, and must be the reason for my killer headache this morning.
A bird in a cage, he’d called me. A pretty, perceptive phrase completely incongruous with the sheer menace of him.
He didn’t know me, and yet he knew the most important thing about me. Despite my high thread count sheets, silk drapes, and Harry Winston rings, I am a prisoner. Captive inside a cage I willingly walked into.
Sadie regards me quizzically. “What’s going on with you? Did you hit the bars last night or something?”
“Yeah, I snuck out when you weren’t looking,” I deadpan. “Can you just get me an Excedrin?”
Moments later she is back at my side, loudly shaking two pills from the bottle. I groan at the noise, but accept them gratefully. “The knock on your head hurting again?”
“Mm-hmm,” I say, gulping water from the bottle on my nightstand. I cannot tell her about the man from last night. Sadie will always be my younger sister, and quite frankly, I am freaking out enough for the both of us.
“Okay, hopefully, these will work because your lawyer called. Said she was going to stop by to go over a few things with you.”
My brain feels like a cruise ship trying to make a U-turn, heavy and ponderous. “Reese?”
“Unless you hired a new one overnight.”
“Here?”
“Yep. Might want to get out of your pj’s.”
A strong sense of foreboding swirls in the pit of my stomach. Reese Reynolds making a house call? This can’t be good.
And… shit. I need to pay her.
Your husband is missing. And so is the money. Just because he cleaned it, doesn’t make it his.
Could Tucker have drained our personal accounts too? Alarm spirals its way through my intestines as I grab my laptop, logging onto my Internet browser before realizing I have absolutely no idea how to check our accounts. Tucker has always handled all of our finances. Even when I’d earned my own paycheck, it was deposited directly into one of our accounts and I simply used the credit cards Tucker gave me for my purchases. And if I needed cash, all I had to do was ask.
Who do I ask now?
* * *
“I have a problem.”
Reese’s expression remains impassive. “Problems are how I earn my fees.”
“Yes, well, I guess you have your work cut out for you.” I clear my throat, feeling a wave of embarrassment for ceding control over even the most basic necessity—access to a checking account—to Tucker. “I don’t know how to access my bank accounts.”
Reese leans back, arms folded as she appraises me critically. “Well, now, that is a problem. Although one that should be relatively easy to solve. Assuming, of course, that your husband didn’t leave you penniless.”
I chew at the inside of my cheek, afraid if I admit how plausible that scenario really is, my lawyer will walk out the door and never come back. I highly doubt my high-powered lawyer defends women who live in ten-million-dollar Manhattan penthouses pro bono?
Thankfully, she makes no move to leave. “What’s your social security number?” she asks, pulling out her phone and making a call.
I answer, and she repeats it to the person on the other end of the line. “I need a full financial work-up on Mrs. Stockton immediately, and as soon as you’re finished, I want one on her husband, too. And when you think you’re done, you’re not. I want shell companies, deposits, wire transfers, fund disbursements, fees. I want to see so far up Tucker Stockton’s fiscal asshole I’m going to need a cigarette afterward, you understand?” She ends the call, regarding me with a satisfied smile on her face. “Okay then, now that that’s settled, let’s talk about your case.”
She slides a photo toward me. “The knife. Take a look and tell me whatever comes to mind.”
Shock ripples through me as I stare at the bloody blade jutting out from an ivory handle. “It’s— It’s from the charcuterie platter. I used it to cut the chorizo.” When Detective Reardon asked me about a knife, I imagined something bigger, sharper, more lethal. “This is what I stabbed Tucker with?”
Reese frowns. “Do not admit to stabbing Tucker with anything, do you hear me?”
I nod, but inside I’m shaking. I didn’t do it. I didn’t kill Tucker. I don’t know how or why his blood got on the knife—but it wasn’t because I’d intended to hurt him.
“As far as the criminal case against you is concerned, at least your prints make sense now.” Her phone buzzes and Reese squints at it. “Looks like my guy put together a preliminary financial snapshot on you already.”
I try to slow my breathing as Reese downloads the report onto her iPad. She pats the chair beside her. “Come, let’s go over this together.”
I change seats, my brows drawing together as I study the information on screen. Beneath my name, is a bank account number and a dollar amount. $112,968.47. Below that are several credit cards. Various amounts, all under ten thousand dollars, have been noted beside each one. All three are marked “current.”
Reese glances at my face. “What’s wrong?”
“Two things. First, I haven’t used that bank in years. And second, I only recognize two of the credit cards.”
Her phone buzzes again and she picks it up, sighing. “Your husband’s financial profile is proving more difficult. I can’t say I’m surprised, given his wealth, occupation, and the charges he’s facing. Tell you what, I’m going to email you this information, and you can try to figure out what’s what. In the meantime, I’ll head back to my office and see what I can discover myself.”
I offer a tight nod. I can still feel the intruder’s hand on my hip, hear the echo of his softly accented voice delivering icy threats. The next time he shows up, and I am certain there will be a next time, I’d better have something to tell him.
Chapter 54
New York City
I crawl back into bed with my laptop, then pull up the website of the bank I used in college. I enter the account number from the email Reese sent me, and fill a dozen boxes with my name, address, social security number, and a few other identifying bits of data. After confirming my email address, I am redirected to a secure portal and just like that, I have access to money I didn’t even know existed a few hours ago.
But where did it come from?
Scrolling through previous statements, I go back months and then years to find the most recent deposit—a paycheck. In fact, those are the only deposits that were ever made into the account. Bi-monthly paychecks. The money in the account is the sum of my earnings from working at TeenCharter, all of which were paid out through direct deposits into my bank account.
Isla sorts our mail, leaving everything but catalogues, ju
nk mail, everything concerning my mother, and the occasional birthday card or wedding invitation on the kitchen counter. Bills and bank statements either go directly to Stockton Capital or are left for Tucker in his home office. No need for you to concern yourself with paperwork, he’d assured me. I give it all to an accountant anyway.
Out of sight, out of mind.
My lack of involvement in our financial affairs had never bothered me. Why would it? Money was never an issue.
Until now.
Taking another glance at my bank balance, I realize it’s barely enough to pay Reese’s retainer and Isla’s salary, let alone basic expenses like food and the maintenance fees of our apartment.
There must be more money somewhere. I just have to figure out how to access it.
Turning my attention to the credit cards, I follow the same procedure as I did with my bank, logging onto the website and entering the account numbers and my personal data. But this doesn’t give me the access I want.
Stifling a groan, I call the number on the back of my Black American Express card. The customer service representative is polite and friendly, patiently explaining that I am only an authorized user, not the actual account holder. Access denied.
My conversation with Visa is nearly identical.
But that still leaves one more card. The one that isn’t in my wallet.
I call the customer service number listed on MasterCard’s website. But the result is the same as the other two. Denied.
The stitches in my scalp feel tight around my wound, almost as if my head expanded with each wasted effort. Spotting the bottle of Excedrin Sadie left on my nightstand, I shake another into my hand.
