False Security

by Angie Martin

  Her mother warned her many years ago about her problem with men. They were Shelly’s Achilles heel, her mother had said every chance she got. Her mother had been right. Frank was the perfect example. He couldn’t be described as handsome by any means, but he was charming and great in bed. Shelly taught herself to look past the loud snoring, the tobacco he chewed, and the marijuana he smoked every so often, and married him. She wasn’t the only cop on the force with a troubled homestead, and Frank’s issues weren’t too awful.

  As time went on, her home life spiraled out of control. While she could ignore Frank smoking the occasional joint, the pills were a little harder to disregard. Then the pills morphed into cocaine, and later into heroin. It seemed no drug was off limits for Frank. Yet she loved him, and she convinced herself love was enough reason to stay.

  Maybe it wasn’t entirely Frank’s fault, Shelly thought. She accepted some of the blame for not saying anything to him, for not giving him an ultimatum to stop.

  She fished a cigarette out of the crumpled pack on the kitchen table. She struck a match and held it to the end of the cigarette until the tobacco glowed orange, then shook the match to extinguish the flame. Tendrils of sulfur from the blown-out match drifted into her nostrils. She took a long pull off the cigarette and shut her eyes. The thick smoke curled into her lungs and comforted her.

  Damn Frank. She always knew his heroin addiction would haunt her if he didn’t stop using. It almost killed her five years ago when she woke in the middle of the night to a stranger pointing a gun at her head. She had buried Frank two days earlier. Her bastard of a husband died in a car accident, and not from the heroin she always assumed would be his demise.

  The stranger standing over her bed with a gun explained Frank owed money to Graham Wilkes. Since Frank was dead, his debt of a little over twenty thousand dollars belonged to her.

  Thinking about it now, Shelly muttered a curse. Of all the people Frank could have owed, it was Graham Wilkes. Frank’s hospital and funeral bills had wiped out his measly life insurance policy before she received it. She didn’t even have enough money left to buy a new car, since he had totaled their only vehicle on his way out of this world. How could she pay off Wilkes to the tune of twenty thousand dollars?

  The stranger had the answer to wipe away her debt, and Shelly became an unwilling and unpaid addition to Wilkes’s ranks. A mostly decent cop turned informant with no hope of ever getting out. At first, it had been easier than she thought. A small task here and there. Nothing too bad and nothing to destroy the last of her morals.

  Until today.

  Shelly stubbed out the half-smoked cigarette in an overflowing ashtray and dug her cellphone out of her pocket. She dialed the number written on the card in front of her. A second stranger had given the card to her a couple years ago when he confronted her in the parking lot behind her favorite bowling alley. As she listened to the fourth ring now, she wondered if the number was still good.

  The phone clicked on the other end, as if someone answered, but no one spoke. “Hello?” Shelly asked.

  “What do you want?” an angry male voice asked.

  The cellphone shook against her ear, and she stammered out the words. “Are you still looking for someone?”

  Silence.

  She took a deep breath. She must have the wrong number. It was a long shot, anyway. So much time had passed since she saw the picture of the girl Wilkes wanted. This Rachel Thomas probably only resembled her. But this afternoon, Shelly had been positive it was the same girl.

  “Do you know where she is?” the voice asked.

  Shelly’s eyes widened. Maybe she had been right after all about Rachel Thomas being the missing girl. This could be the bartering tool she needed to get Wilkes off her back for good.

  The thought made Shelly smile for the first time since leaving the girl’s home earlier. “Yes,” she said. “I know where you can find her.”

  Chapter Ten

  Rachel reminded Mark of a child caught with her hand in the cookie jar. She stood in the doorway, her hair in a loose ponytail with rebel strands falling to the sides of her face. Hands clasped behind her back, she chewed her bottom lip. Her fidgeting bare feet stuck out below jeans rolled up to her calves.

  Mark grinned at her expression, and she stepped aside to let him in. “I got here as soon as I could,” he said. “What’s so important?”

  She motioned with her finger for him to follow her. He trailed behind her into the living room. The sight of the kitchen table and chairs positioned in front of the couch sparked his curiosity. He matched her steps around the furniture and stopped in front of the kitchen.

  Rachel turned to him and said, “I think I broke the dishwasher.”

  Mark’s eyes widened. He laughed and surveyed the damage. Soapsuds covered the floor like fog and vines of suds climbed the cabinets.

  “I wanted to help Danielle in the kitchen for once,” she said. Suds clung to her feet and gathered around her ankles as she walked toward the dishwasher. “I didn’t think a dishwasher could be so complicated.”

  Mark stayed in the living room. “I’m sure she’d appreciate the effort, but I have a feeling you called me because you don’t want her to know about this.”

  Rachel’s sheepish grin answered his question.

  “How much soap did you use in the dishwasher?”

  “I filled up both wells and closed the door on the first well. It’s the same thing Danielle always does. I turned on the dishwasher and went into my bedroom to read for a bit. When I came out to check on the dishes, I found this mess.” She pursed her lips. “I don’t get it. This never happens when she does the dishes.”

  “That’s odd,” Mark said. A thought occurred to him. “What kind of soap did you use?”

  “I used dishwasher soap.” She waded through the suds and opened the cabinet door under the sink. “We ran out of the other stuff, so I used this one,” she said. She held up a bottle of Dawn.

  Mark’s eyes widened. “Rach, that’s not dishwasher soap.”

  Her brow creased and her eyes traveled across the label. “It’s not? But it says right here it’s for dishes.”

  Mark dropped down on the living room carpet and pulled off his tennis shoes and socks. “It’s used for washing dishes by hand. Put it in the dishwasher and you get this.” He gestured at the suds on the floor.

  Her shoulders dropped in defeat. “Great.”

  “I understand why Danielle doesn’t let you near the kitchen,” Mark said. He rolled up the bottom of his jeans and stood up. “What did you do before you met her?”

  “I ate out or used paper plates,” she said, a despondent expression crossing her face. “I’m such an idiot when it comes to the kitchen.”

  “Don’t say that. The kitchen may not be your forte, but you’re the smartest person I’ve ever met.” He paused, and noticed her downcast eyes. “It’s okay, Rach. We’ll get it cleaned up before Danielle gets home. She’ll be none the wiser.”

  Rachel pointed at the dishwasher. “What about that thing? It didn’t finish running yet.”

  He squished his way through the soap bubbles and flipped the latch on the dishwasher. Suds spewed out like froth from a rabid dog’s mouth. Mark laughed, and he pushed the latch in the opposite direction, quieting the machine. “I guess we should clean out the soap before letting the dishwasher run its course. Otherwise, we might be here for days cleaning the floor.”

  Thirty minutes later, his soaked jeans adhered to his skin. The floor now showing in some areas, Mark dipped suds off the floor with a large pitcher while Rachel worked on the dishwasher itself, using a sponge to wipe out soap and suds.

  Mark filled the pitcher again and rose on his knees so he could rinse it out in the sink. His eyes fell on Rachel, and he stopped to watch her work. Rachel’s beauty ran deeper than the bronzed, smooth skin that required no makeup to hide flaws or imperfections. Her beauty flowed through her veins, rushing through her body and escaping through her fingert
ips when she touched him. It radiated from eyes an unusual shade of green and seized Mark’s heart.

  She turned her head and caught Mark staring at her. A playful smile teased her lips. “What?”

  A small cluster of suds clung to her cheek. He smiled and walked toward her on his knees. “You have some suds on your face,” he said when he reached her. He lifted a hand and wiped them away.

  She looked down and bit her bottom lip, as if embarrassed by his touch. He continued caressing her cheek, hypnotized by the feel of her skin. She moistened her lips and stared into his eyes. Her actions struck Mark in the chest with a sharp thrill and stimulated his heart. Every time he touched her, she captured his heart a little more.

  He dropped the pitcher to the floor beside him. He lifted her chin and touched his lips to hers. One of his hands settled on her lower back, while the other found the back of her head and tangled itself in her hair. Slow and sensual, his mouth moved in tandem with hers. Mark never wanted the kiss to end.

  Though their physical relationship always stopped with a kiss, Mark never pushed the boundaries. Rachel had an innocence about her that he wanted to preserve, even if his body disagreed.

  Her fingers curled into his sides and clenched his shirt. She made a soft sound, and pressed her lips tighter against his. Her hands ran down to his hips and halted. She hinged her thumbs on the waistband of his jeans and slowed the kiss. Mark wondered if she faced the same conflicts as he.

  His wet jeans reminded him of the task at hand. He broke the kiss, but lingered close to her, his nose touching hers, her soft breaths warming his skin. “You really are an angel, Rachel,” he whispered.

  She recoiled, and her eyes flew up to meet his. An almost painful shadow flashed across her face, followed by a gratuitous, content look. It wasn’t the first time he had seen this happen in the past two months, and it bothered him almost more than the walls she kept putting up between them.

  Five days had passed since Rachel’s alarm summoned the police. Since then, Mark watched her and searched for signs of things she did to make him wary.

  What he found only added to his unease. Distant eyes, as if she were in another place and time. Quick recoveries when he asked if she was okay. Impeccable, scripted answers to questions, as if she was placating him, telling him what she thought he wanted to hear instead of the whole truth.

  He had been good at dismissing it in the past. Today, however, apprehension clawed at him. “I didn’t mean to upset you,” he said.

  Her expression remained the same. “You didn’t upset me,” she said, and leaned in for another kiss.

  Mark reciprocated, and the corroding doubts vanished from his mind, as they usually did when she kissed him. It wasn’t fair to Rachel to continue to distrust her when he had no solid reason for his suspicions.

  Shelving his concerns once again, he pulled away from her and said, “We better finish this up before Danielle comes home and finds out what happened.”

  “You’re right. Thanks for helping me,” Rachel said. After a quick kiss, she rested her forehead against his shoulder.

  Mark circled his arms around her, ignoring the wet denim plastered to his knees. A little water and suds couldn’t keep him from this moment with her.

  Chapter Eleven

  The conference room door shut, followed by two sets of footsteps, one heading toward the front door, the other coming toward Paul Pettis. The deliberate slamming of the front door confirmed Paul’s suspicions, and he moved into position by the top of the stairwell.

  He listened to the footfalls, and held his breath until he caught a glimpse of Sean rounding the corner. Paul grabbed a fistful of Sean’s shirt, whirled him around, and threw him against the wall with all the force he could muster.

  Sean’s breath came out with a grunt. “What the hell?”

  “You found her, didn’t you?” Paul asked. He pulled Sean away from the wall and slammed him into it again. Sean’s small stature made him easy to toss around when Paul deemed necessary. “Where is she?”

  “Take it easy!” Sean said. “She’s in Wichita, Kansas.”

  Paul frowned. Kansas? What the hell was she doing in Kansas? He thought she should have left the country a long time ago, but she did not have the same idea. “Give me the envelope,” Paul said.

  Sean held up a manila envelope and waved it in Paul’s face like a white flag. “All you had to do was ask.”

  Paul released Sean and took the envelope. He reached inside and pulled out a thin handful of photographs. “You didn’t take many pictures this time,” he said.

  Sean smoothed down his shirt to eliminate the wrinkles left behind by Paul’s grip. “I took as many as I always do. He kept most of them.”

  Of course he did, Paul thought. He tucked the envelope under his arm and flipped through the photos. His disgust with Sean grew with each picture. When he got to the fourth picture, he almost dropped the whole stack. “Who’s the guy with her?”

  Sean ran his hands over an oil slick of gel on the top of his head. Paul never understood the dark wave of plastered hair. “His name is Mark Jacobson,” Sean said. “He’s twenty-nine and he owns a bookstore with his brother, Greg. The bookstore is right by where she’s staying. She’s been spending a lot of time with him outside of the bookstore.”

  The details didn’t interest Paul. “You gave all of these pictures to him? Even the ones with her and this guy?”

  “I had to show him—”

  “Why the hell did you show these pictures to him? You could have left the ones with the guy out.”

  “Get off my back. It’s my job to take the pictures and show him all of them. He’d kill me if he found out I didn’t give him all the photos. I’m not going to put myself in jeopardy over this girl to make you happy.”

  Paul lowered the pictures and glared at Sean. “It’s your job to find her, not get her or this guy killed.”

  “It’s my job to find her, but what happens to her or the guy in the pictures after I do my job is none of my business.”

  Paul narrowed his eyes and backed Sean up against the wall, resisting the urge to choke him to death right there in the hallway. Pushing a finger into Sean’s shoulder, he said, “You’re nothing but a slimy, sick, worthless bastard. You know what happened to the last guy like you who lived here? I put a bullet through his head. Slime oozed out with all that blood. Now, get the hell out of my sight before I do the same thing to you.”

  Sean eased his way along the wall and scrambled out of Paul’s reach.

  “And I want a copy of the written report,” Paul said before Sean could start down the stairs. “Go downstairs and bring it back to me right now.”

  “I can’t do it this time. I’d have to get the report back from him to make a copy, and you know I’m not supposed to show anyone the reports. Nobody’s even supposed to know where she is, especially not you.”

  Paul restrained his temper. Sean’s hands were as tied as Paul’s, and it did no good to take everything out on him. “I don’t care if you have to rewrite the damn thing from memory, just get it to me.” He softened his voice and locked eyes with Sean. “Please. I need to see it.”

  “I’ll see what I can do,” Sean said, “but like I said, she’s not worth me losing my life.” He hesitated by the stairwell. “Give me back the envelope.”

  “I’ll give it to you when I’m done with it,” Paul said, his tone dismissive. He waited for Sean to head down the steps before taking a closer look at the pictures.

  The first one was standard, like so many he had seen in the past. Rachel was opening her car door, oblivious to Sean’s camera capturing her face. Paul wondered why she made no attempt to change her appearance this time. She always changed the color or style of her hair, always wore colored contacts, yet there she stood with her natural hair and eye color for the whole world to see.

  The next two pictures also caught her engaged in daily activities. Getting mail, walking from her house to her car. The fourth picture straye
d from the norm. She stood beside her car again, but not alone. A man, Mark Jacobson, was turned toward her, his face dangerously close to hers. She held her head down and a smile played on her lips. Farther down the picture, Mark’s hand touched her hip.

  The fifth picture also showed Mark in front of her, but this time they were frozen in a kiss, his fingers raised to her cheek in a loving gesture. They looked like any other normal couple enjoying each other’s company on a date.

  Paul smiled at the sixth picture. It showed more of Mark than it did of her, and Paul recognized the expression on his face. His eyes radiated an innocent yearning and appreciation for Rachel. It reminded Paul of how he felt looking at his wife when he first saw her, back when the world still rotated to the east. Mark loved her, and from Mark’s expression, Rachel returned that love. With Mark looking at her like that, Paul understood why Rachel had stayed long enough in Kansas for Sean to catch up to her again.

  Paul continued studying Mark’s face, glad for the first time in three years she found someone to make her happy. Then something else occurred to Paul. Mark didn’t know the truth about her. She hadn’t told him yet, if she ever planned on telling him. His eyes lacked the torment often reflected in Paul’s eyes, in Rachel’s eyes.

  If she stayed in Kansas much longer, Mark would find out about Rachel soon enough. Once he did find out, he would wish he’d never met her.

  Paul turned to the last picture. Rachel stood next to Mark, holding his hand, her head tilted toward his, her face paused in mid-laugh. Paul touched her through the photograph and whispered a warning she would never hear. “Run, Rachel.”