by Cara Putman
“I’m sorry, but how can I help? Your client has to want the protection.”
“Yes, I know.” She blew out a breath, stemming a wave of annoyance. “I’m worried her husband found out and did something.”
“Has he been violent before?”
“Yes.” Kaylene had caught her husband in an affair, which had been the proverbial straw that destroyed her ability to carry on as though nothing were wrong. When he beat her for confronting him, she knew she must escape and had shown up at the Haven.
“Give me her name, and I’ll check after I take care of something else.”
“Thank you.” She gave him Kaylene’s name and headed outside. In fifteen minutes she was back in her office at the Haven comparing notes with Taylor. “I don’t understand.”
“That makes two of us.” Taylor’s usually smiling face wore a mask of concern as she meet Emilie’s gaze. “Kaylene was as committed as any of our clients.”
It was true, and that was what had Emilie tied up in knots. She moved to her desk and tried to focus on other case files, but her thoughts continued to stray to Kaylene. A news alert beeped onto her phone: Multiple shooting at Ravens Park home. She ignored it. Just another sensational headline.
Her desk phone intercom clicked to life.
“Yes?”
“There’s a Detective Gaines for you.”
“Thanks.” She grabbed the phone. “Thanks for getting back to me, Detective.”
“Your client’s name is Kaylene Adams?”
“Yes.”
“She won’t be meeting you at court. She’s headed to the morgue, and suspected of shooting her daughters.”
CHAPTER 2
The shadows lengthened outside the office as Emilie stared at the blank screen. After the Haven closed she sometimes took advantage of the quiet to get out her laptop and work at her other job: freelance investigative journalism for an online newspaper that wanted to be the next must-read. Almost no one beyond her tight circle of girlfriends understood she had dual roles, but each fed a separate part of who she was. Lately, though, the writing didn’t flow. It felt stymied, and she hoped by staying late she could knock out her next article.
Instead, she kept imagining Kaylene’s body covered by a sheet. Her body heaved onto a gurney. Her body thrust into the ambulance.
If only Kaylene had called her Friday rather than Saturday, so they could have gone to court immediately to file the protective order. Maybe then Kaylene would be alive. Emilie’s head knew she’d had no choice but to wait, but her heart felt as though she’d betrayed her client.
The online headlines screamed that the police believed Kaylene had killed one daughter and critically wounded the other. It felt like a waking nightmare. A grainy video that appeared on a couple of the local news station websites seemed to support the theory. One viewing, and Emilie felt her stomach rebel against the lunch she’d eaten as she’d scrambled to find any explanation for the tragedy.
She’d tried to watch it a second time, but she couldn’t face it.
Now she had to get this article written, but the words wouldn’t come. Even terrible words would be better than none—she could always edit it later.
But the blank screen taunted her . . . the cursor blinking her failure at the top. This was not normal. Had the Muses abandoned her? She leaned across the surface of the desk. The coolness of the pressed wood felt good since the air-conditioning automatically slowed after hours.
After a moment she groaned and pushed back upright. There was no point staying any longer. She should go home, where she could at least stare at the computer screen from her bed in comfy clothes and with bare feet. The ridiculous heels she wore pinched her toes. They were a torture device, but part of her uniform and the identity she presented to clients. She wanted to remind them that they could be both strong and feminine. They could know who they were and be confident. It was possible, if one portrayed the right image. It might be an illusion, but no one else had to know. Tell yourself that, Emilie, she thought, wondering where her ability to help people and her words had gone.
She shoved a couple files in her bag, grabbed her car keys, and turned off the lights. The hall was quiet, the faint hum of the refrigerator whispering in the darkness as she passed the kitchen. One of the safety lights buzzed, as annoying as the mosquitoes that swarmed along the Potomac.
She felt a vibration against her side, and she stopped to rummage through her bag. How was it that the pockets always deepened when she scrambled to find a ringing cell phone? When her fingers finally clasped it, the call was gone. All that remained was the screen showing a number she didn’t recognize. Oh well. If it was important they’d leave a message. She’d learned if they didn’t, she shouldn’t call back. No need to invite conversation with strangers who were usually telemarketers.
She jiggled the back door as she walked past. Good, it was already locked. Occasionally the cleaning crew forgot or, more likely, assumed the last staff member would lock it. So she always checked.
After that it was a quick lap through the rest of the warren of hallways to turn off lights. She loved the cheerful framed artwork, drawn by clients’ children, that brightened what would otherwise be a boring beige hall. Inexpensive interior decorating with a message. It had been the receptionist’s idea, when she first arrived, to soften the space and make it more inviting, but Johanna soon realized that a nonprofit’s funds didn’t allow for splurges. Then she landed on the idea of dollar-store frames filled with artwork children created. The result was charming and colorful. Then a donor noticed and wrote a check for larger pieces to be framed and displayed in the entry and conference rooms.
The result was unique and perfect.
Emilie stopped to examine an acrylic Kaylene’s daughter Kinley had painted. The girl had been delighted to wait for her mom in the children’s room, once she’d spotted the art supplies. When Emilie and Kaylene returned an hour later, Kinley hadn’t heard them come in. Tongue protruding past her teeth, she was concentrating on adding a thin brush of white along a tree trunk.
Tears filled Emilie’s eyes at the memory.
Kinley had glanced up. “That white edge is meant to add highlights.” The words sounded so self-assured coming from a nine-year-old.
Kaylene had grinned and tugged her daughter’s ponytail. “Guess all those art lessons are worth it. You’ve created something beautiful.” As she looked down at Kinley, the worry lines seemed to fade along her eyes, and the tightness at her mouth eased. “Kaydence is our math and science gal,” she’d told Emilie. “Kinley is our creative.”
“And you love me for it.” Kinley’s grin was big enough to split the sky.
There was nothing in the child’s face that day to indicate she feared her mom. Nothing at all.
Emilie walked out the front door, checking to make sure it locked behind her before proceeding down the sidewalk to the parking lot. She could have used the back door, but when she left after dusk she preferred to walk along the busy road before darting into the lot and unlocking her car at the last moment.
It might seem paranoid, but she didn’t want to give anyone an opportunity to sneak up on her or into her car because she’d carelessly unlocked it while she was fifty yards away. That wasn’t a good idea in her line of work.
She tried to peer into all corners of the parking lot before entering it. Even then it wasn’t until she was almost to her car that she saw a person in the shadows. She hurried to unlock the car and climb inside and then quickly relocked the doors from the inside. The person stepped forward as she turned the car on and put it in reverse. Then they—she couldn’t tell through the lens of the rearview mirror if it was a man or woman—let the weakened light from the street brush across their face, a safe move thanks to the hoodie that cloaked their features.
Emilie wanted to scream in frustration. Who was this person? Before she could do something, anything to fight back—but what? call the police? could they arrive in time?—the person was
gone. Vanished in the shadows. If she could see who it was just once, she could do something to fix this and make them stop.
She pulled out of the parking lot and turned onto the street.
She needed to get home. Somewhere safe.
Someplace where she could pretend no one stalked her and made sure she knew it.
FIVE MONTHS EARLIER
He buttoned the top button of his tuxedo shirt, then adjusted the bow tie. Tonight’s fund-raiser for the Haven would be his first step into public view since the business trades released the amount he’d been paid for Interlntell. The dollars were large enough to have those who wanted to be his friends circulate where before they hadn’t acknowledged him. Tonight he simply had to smile and endure. Shake a few hands. Feign interest and leave as soon as he could.
He’d never quite fit into the social scene, a fact he could trace to middle school when his interests diverged so completely from those of his mindless classmates.
Today would be different. He knew he could exceed expectations. A few extra zeros in his bank account helped with that.
He was no longer the skinny, nerdy kid who sat in the back row drafting code and forming ideas while the rest learned useless information like the dates of wars and theorems he’d mastered as an eight-year-old. He was the celebrated CEO of a company that revolutionized the way people lived. Where most people looked around the world and saw colors and shapes, he saw zeros and ones. He saw programs that could affect the world around him.
The fact that his dad was a high-tech exec had provided a shortcut to his own launch. He’d barely waited until high school graduation. College classes and his business kept him focused. He’d worked hundred-hour weeks, and two months ago it all paid off when he sold his business for a cool half a billion. Because of the way he’d structured the business, more than half of that landed in his own very fat bank account—a fact touted by the financial magazines and papers.
Society would see him through a very different lens now.
Money could do that. It could turn the awkward into something worthy of attention and time.
He left his bathroom and marched down the stairs and out the front door to where the Lincoln Town Car waited. He’d wear the aura of a wildly successful businessman, maybe even flaunt it a bit. All with good taste.
He slid into the backseat and ignored the driver’s small talk. He needed to think about what he would do if she was there. The woman he’d glimpsed during a tour of the Haven. A key member of the staff, she’d be at the event and was the reason he’d agreed to attend.
Forty minutes into the reception, each second ticking by with excruciating slowness, he was ready to leave. Those who knew his new situation fawned cloyingly. It annoyed him and demeaned them. He scanned the crowd of strangers, searching for her brilliant blonde hair, but didn’t see her.
His listened to a couple of men ten years older than he joking about their accomplishments, though it sounded like a string of conquests. So inappropriate in a setting like this.
“You still listening?” A man in a polka dot bow tie, whose name tag he hadn’t bothered to read, elbowed him.
“Can’t help myself.”
The man seemed to think his reply was humorous. Further proof he wasn’t worth the time.
“Hey, look who’s here.” The man on the other side of Mr. Bow Tie, clearly his equal in laziness and low expectations, pointed to the door. “Now there’s a sight for sore eyes.”
Mr. Bow Tie whistled through his teeth, a shrill and grating sound. “Mighty fine indeed. I wonder if she came alone.”
Obviously she had. There was no one beside her to remove her coat or take her arm and lead her through the space. If she had come with him, he would proudly lean into her every word, let her know how much he adored her. Women liked that kind of thing . . . he’d been told. Time hadn’t allowed him to find out for himself.
But as the blonde stopped to speak to a couple of women who dripped with diamonds but hadn’t aged as well as they thought, he knew he wanted to find out more than her name.
Bow Tie elbowed him again. The man really must stop that. “Wouldn’t you follow her around like a puppy dog just to get her to acknowledge you?”
Bow Tie’s friend, Alexander—name tags were useful for memorizing the names of people who were annoying—chortled. “Woof woof.” He frowned. “But she looks like an ice queen.”
“I always hated that moniker.”
“Moniker?” Bow Tie leered at him. “An odd word.”
“Guess money can’t change everything.” Then Alexander’s grin faded. “Although maybe that’s exactly what Miss Ice Queen wants. A man with resources.”
Anger rose in him, but he decided he’d had enough of these two buffoons. He walked away, cutting through a cluster of people without noticing or caring who they were. She was there, the woman who’d entranced him with a glance. He would woo her . . . step by step.
She was talking to another woman. Her blonde hair curled around her shoulders in loose waves, so light. He wanted to touch them. Her off-the-shoulder dress revealed perfect skin, and her smile was friendly and curious. Did she know how beautiful she was compared to the hot-house flowers next to her?
Her friend noticed him first.
Then she turned, curiosity in her expression. “Hi, I’m Emilie Wesley. You are . . . ?”
CHAPTER 3
What did one wear to a funeral home to shop for a coffin?
When he woke up Monday morning, Reid Billings assumed the week would be like any other. Seventy hours of meetings, money, and routine. Then Monday’s events happened. His boss came to him first. Social media and news websites were not the way to learn one’s sister was dead and accused of taking her child’s life.
Nothing could have prepared him for this.
He stood in front of his closet, numb, dreading the task before him. It shouldn’t be his place to make the funeral arrangements, but Robert had refused.
Could he blame his brother-in-law? He didn’t know what to think . . . His head was conflicted and his heart bruised. He rubbed his hands over his stubbled chin. He should probably shave, but he couldn’t quite care.
Reid sank to the floor. In moments his world had changed, careened off its axis, and he staggered to find equilibrium. Kaylene had always been a nurturer. She’d mothered him to death, to the point his friends had called her his other mother. Though they’d drifted apart after she married, he knew she had lived for her girls. He couldn’t imagine she would do a thing to hurt them, let alone try to end their lives. He’d watched the online video before his assistant Simone’s warning e-mail arrived that he shouldn’t. Now he couldn’t get the image of his sister holding a gun and dying out of his mind. What kind of news service allowed something like that to air where children . . . or the grieving family . . . could see it?
He rubbed his eyes, swallowing the lump that threatened to block his throat. He didn’t allow emotions to touch him—that’s what made him so great with finance and managing other people’s money. He could distance himself from the push of the pack. While others might rush over a cliff together, he kept a distant view. It had protected his clients through the vagrancies of the markets.
But this was different from anything he’d ever dealt with. He felt paralyzed, trapped in his own body, a spectator as a great wave of emotion he didn’t know how to manage washed over him.
Why, Lord? This isn’t right on any level.
He knew the world was evil. Just watch the evening news or open an Internet browser, and the brokenness leapt at you. His work on the board of a children’s home illustrated the fruit of broken families. But somehow he’d believed his family was immune.
His cell pulsed inside his pocket. While he wanted to ignore it, his boss didn’t care if he was mourning and guilt-ridden. And if it wasn’t Marvin Fletcher, it could be a response to one of the dozens of calls he’d made for the kids at Almost Home. The nonprofit needed an influx of funds quickly or two of th
e homes would close. He wouldn’t accept defeat, not when he had clients with pockets almost as deep as Warren Buffet’s.
He reached for the phone, still hesitant. It could be another person trying to ferret out information about Kaylene. The media calls had started slowly, but through the last twenty-four hours had escalated. He glanced at the screen as the phone rang again. Some of the tension leached from his neck. This was a call he’d take.
“Billings.”
“You okay?” The deep voice shored him up. Brandon Lancaster had been his best friend since backing into Reid’s car freshman year at Virginia. The burly defensive lineman had looked sheepish as he crawled from his truck and stuck out a hand. Before long the two were meeting for lunch most days and then rooming together junior year. After two years in the pros, Brandon now ran Almost Home, a foster child ministry for hard-to-place kids, while Reid spent his time making more money for those who already had wealth.
“No.” There was no other answer to that question.
“God’s still here.”
“Yeah, I know.” He did. His head knew. He was just having a hard time convincing his heart.
“Chinese?”
“Huh?”
“Man’s gotta eat.”
Not really. “Okay.”
“I’ll bring it at six.”
That would give him time to get home from his appointment at the funeral home. “See you then.”
Reid hung up and leaned his head against the closet. Man might have to eat, but that didn’t mean he wanted to. There was no sense telling Brandon that. The guy still ate as though he were a lineman for the college football team.
All right, God. I know You’re here even when I don’t sense You, but I need You to show up.
’Cause otherwise, this life had gotten too hard to live.
Two hours later the private memorial ceremony was planned, the casket selected for when Kaylene’s body was eventually released, instructions about buying a cemetery plot given. Reid walked to his car, loosening the tie that screamed Wall Street. The somber eggplant color had seemed right when he selected it; now it hugged his neck like a noose.