“You have nobody left here, Ethan.”
“I have Phil.”
“Phil?” Her desperation turned into disbelief. “That jerk never liked me.”
Ethan chuckled, trying to lighten the mood. “That’s true.”
“It’s not funny.” Raleigh punched him in the chest, the old, hot-tempered version resurfacing.
And that was when he thought of the obvious. “Raleigh, I think I have a better idea. How about you stay? We’ll go public with everything, put an end to it all, and then we can live our life the way it’s meant to be lived. No more of this hiding, okay?”
She looked away, her face twisting with the pain that she couldn’t get her way. Ethan knew that look, remembering it from all of those years ago.
“Ethan, I can’t stay. It’s too dangerous for all of us, not just me, not just you, but everyone.” She angled her head. “If this is going to work, you need to come with me, Ethan. Please.”
Before he could object, or ask more question, or even provide her with an answer, she placed a finger on his lips to quiet him.
“Then let’s just sleep on it, okay?” she said, her voice cracking as she buried her face into the crook his neck. Although she moved with the grace and ease of a woman wanting to cuddle with the man she loved, Ethan felt her tears burning into his skin. She was crying.
Chapter Seventy-Four
When Ethan woke the following morning, the spot in bed where Raleigh had slept was empty. For some time, he lay still on his back and stared at the ceiling, waiting to hear the toilet flush or detect the smell of breakfast creeping its way upstairs. When none of that materialized, Ethan rolled onto his side and stared at the area where he’d last seen her, questioning whether she’d even been there at all.
The sheets were bunched up and her pillow was indented.
So she was definitely here, I didn’t imagine that.
In fact, if he pressed his face into that indentation in her pillow, he could inhale the scent of her. But Ethan knew from experience that the traces of Raleigh’s presence wouldn’t last long. In a month’s time, all of that would be gone, so he kept his face pressed hard into the down pillow and inhaled deeply until he could barely breathe beyond his choked sobs.
She’d been back.
He’d had her.
And once again, she was gone.
This time, possibly for good.
Chapter Seventy-Five
A week later, with deep bags under his eyes and an empty ache that stretched through his entire body, Ethan convinced himself to finish renovating the formal living room. It wasn’t just the lighter hardwood that he’d replaced. He’d painted the walls, replaced the trim with retro, wood-stained borders, and replaced the ceiling’s smooth finish with popcorn stucco. He’d found a sofa at IKEA and paid a local upholsterer to change the fabric back to a late-2000’s plaid, matching the one they’d originally moved into the house in the very beginning. It was all they’d had; now this room was like a shrine to their days of post-marital bliss. And that Wednesday, when he stripped away the plastic sheets at the threshold and entered the finished formal living room for the “first time,” Ethan stepped so far back in time that his stomach dropped like it had when he realized he was chained to a mortgage payment he could barely make.
Now, if only the dog park next door was re-converted into a crack house, this would be like old times . . .
As he dropped back onto the sofa, Ethan reminisced about those early days. Their early careers, ParkerPharma for Raleigh and Exact Data Systems for him. Raleigh had only ever worked at ParkerPharma, enamored with the company’s size and progressive approach, their commitment to making the world better. And “better” had meant so much to Raleigh.
She loved her work; always early to leave for business trips, not because she didn’t love me, but because she wanted to do better, like a real-life Robin Hood.
ParkerPharma had always been about pioneering new drugs, a reality that their website still boasted about. How Raleigh had stumbled upon her “cure” for opioid addiction remained as much a mystery as how she’d slipped back into his life and then out again with the same ease. Not for him—he ached more now than ever before—but for her, as if she didn’t care or notice the damage she caused whenever she wasn’t in his arms.
She’d been back, he’d had her, tasted her, listened to her; that hadn’t been his mind playing games with him.
And if I can get her back once, I can do it again.
He knew that now. He accepted her insane story as truth, so he would need to be more careful, more calculating. No more cell phones, no more location service, no more traceability.
One thing Ethan regretted was not promising to run off with her. If he had promised her, even if he’d been lying, he never would’ve watched her go. He should’ve taken a page from Travis Maltby’s playbook and tied her to the bed, held her prisoner until he could wrap his head around everything she’d said.
The doorbell interrupted Ethan’s quiet moment. As he walked down the main corridor to the front door, he listened for hints from the house that Raleigh had somehow snuck in and returned.
All he heard was silence.
On the front porch, he discovered Agent Mike Klein. The federal agent wasn’t smoking, but he had his back to the house while he surveyed the street where he’d parked his black Ford Taurus. As if someone might want to steal it.
“Agent Klein,” Ethan said as the older man spun around and pasted a cordial grin to his face.
The federal agent hitched a thumb over his shoulder, indicating the street he’d just been watching. “Fall colors are starting to settle in,” he said, his voice its usually gruff, stern tone. “Must be nice out here, next few weeks before all of those leaves are on the ground, huh?”
Ethan shut and locked the door once Klein was inside. He hadn’t noticed the changing colors, too wrapped up in the mystery of his wife. When Klein removed his polished shoes, he started deeper into the house. Ethan followed him, stopping at the formal living room where the federal agent paused and whistled.
“Like stepping back in time, Ethan.”
“Thank you.” Minus a few design cues on the sofa, the room had turned out to be a true replica of the original.
Klein raised an eyebrow. “Not sure I meant that as a compliment.” Their staring contest lasted a little too long for Ethan’s liking, but he didn’t give in. “You know, she’s not coming back, Ethan.”
“I know.” It killed him to admit it, but he knew. Not permanently, anyway. This would never be his and Raleigh’s house again. She would never tidy up the kitchen here like she had at the A-frame. She’d never whistle a tune while she swept the floors in a pair of her underwear and one of his old work shirts. They’d never make love in this retro living room like they had so many times in the original it was meant to replicate—the landing at the top of the stairs was as far as they’d get.
The memory made him smile. Sadly.
Klein grunted and continued to the kitchen area. Following him, Ethan wondered if the federal agent might grab a bottle of water from the refrigerator. He didn’t. In fact, Klein didn’t even sit on a stool; he remained standing, leaning against the counter as he crossed his arms and watched Ethan.
“The incident in that boathouse, Ethan.”
Ethan nodded, although the boathouse and his experience with Travis Maltby was something that still confused him. And not just because he didn’t know how all of the pieces fit together, but even Klein hadn’t asked him to make an official statement. Even when he’d been erroneously arrested for beating Raleigh, he’d been asked to make a statement. Yet, after the dramatic incident at the boathouse, Ethan had been allowed to literally walk away?
Maybe there was some truth behind Raleigh’s paranoia. Maybe there was a lot of it.
“Ever since Paul Hyatt disappeared, you’ve run into Thomas Braun and then Travis Maltby.”
Ethan nodded again. “I followed the clues, Agent Klein. They l
ed me to Raleigh.”
“Uh huh.” Klein unfolded one arm and scratched at his jaw, thinking things through. “The delivery woman said she hadn’t gone out to the boathouse.”
“That’s a curious little fact, isn’t it?” Ethan asked. Raleigh had been insistent that Klein had tracked him through his location service. “I mean, she had keys to the front door but didn’t think to look for Maltby so that he could pay her?” Ethan shook his head. “I don’t understand it, either. Unless she wasn’t the one who called.”
Outside of blinking a couple of times, Klein didn’t offer a response to that.
“So what brought the FBI out to that remote cottage, Agent Klein?”
The federal agent stared back before offering a shrug. “Maybe it was the local cops. Or another cottager who caught you trespassing.”
“And maybe the woman I saw in the window really was Raleigh, Agent Klein.”
Klein stared at him, his expression tense with frustration. “Walk me through it again, will you?”
Groaning, Ethan told him about Raleigh in the boathouse. Her hand on his shoulder. Her whispered words. The argument he’d heard when she’d left, right after he’d felt something slide along his thigh, the sensation of her hand sliding his phone back into his pocket.
“Then where is she now?” Klein asked. Like asking a kid where the reindeers’ footprints were on the morning of Christmas day.
Ethan hesitated, something that Klein clearly picked up on. The agent shifted and grabbed the edge of the countertop. He wanted to hear this. He had far more interest in Ethan’s alleged insanity when he talked about a woman that didn’t exist than Ethan himself had demonstrated when his own wife had talked about the craziest and wildest conspiracy theory he’d ever heard.
“Wait, wait,” Klein said, raising a hand. “She was here, wasn’t she?” He waited, and when he saw the truth in Ethan’s face—how can he read anything on my sad, distant face?—he motioned back toward the hallway, toward the renovated formal living room. “What did she think of the living room, Ethan?”
Ethan realized that Klein was mocking him. Shaking his head, Ethan allowed a regretful admission. “She didn’t see it.”
“That bank account in the Barbados—”
“Damien Parker’s.” Ethan nodded to the laptop, folded on the counter next to where Raleigh’s phone was permanently plugged into its charger for life support, its battery having lost all ability to retain a charge in the past couple of days. “Who has also been MIA for quite some time, hasn’t he?”
Klein nodded. “His father’s assistant says Damien hasn’t been to the office in almost a year.”
“Agent Klein, I have a question.”
Klein motioned for him to go ahead.
“Why would the FDA not approve a drug Raleigh was working on at ParkerPharma?” He couldn’t understand that, regardless of whether Raleigh had been telling the truth. “It seems to me that the drug Raleigh was working on in particular can help turn around some of the worst opioid overdose statistics in our country.”
When Klein said nothing, Ethan motioned to the closed laptop.
“Until Raleigh showed up in Boyle Mills, the town’s overdose problem had the Detroit Press predicting that one hundred percent of its residents would be dead by next year. One hundred percent is a pretty bold statement.” Which explained Moe and the heavy volume of “patients” who’d entered the community health center like zombies so close to its closing time.
Klein scratched his head.
“I’m just trying to understand, Agent Klein.”
“Ethan,” Klein said, closing his eyes and shaking his head, “please stop and listen to yourself.”
“Whatever happened to Paul Hyatt, Thomas Braun, and Travis Maltby—the three medics from the last night I saw my wife—it wasn’t an accident.”
“I know,” Klein said, nodding firmly.
“And, why are you still involved in her case, Agent Klein?” Now it was Ethan’s turn to cross his arms. “I get it when she was thought to have been kidnapped.”
“Well now, you’re the one who asked me to, Ethan. And there’s the matter of the quarter million dollars. Plus, the cold case got some legs with Hyatt’s accident, and the victims that followed from that night.” Klein’s face registered disbelief. He raised a finger, and that was when his tone changed. “I’m not convinced this is as obvious as it seems.”
“Am I under investigation? The man who asked for the money is dead—”
“According to you, Braun asked for the money,” Klein pointed out. “We’re not exactly sure that Thomas Braun was indeed the one who made that request, are we?”
Losing his patience, Ethan pointed a finger at the federal agent. “You saw the note!”
“Our analysts didn’t find Braun’s prints on that paper. And since the account belongs to a man who hasn’t been seen in nearly a year, a man whose own family states he’s had some questionable business practices . . . it’s obvious why we’re interested in you, don’t you see that, Ethan?” Klein shrugged. “Which brings me to how you managed to find your way out to Travis Maltby’s summer home.”
“Jeez.” He waved to the fresh dressing on his nose. “Not too obvious, huh?”
“With the exception of Paul Hyatt, each of those medics died after you interacted with them.” Klein was on a roll now.
“I wasn’t involved with any of their deaths. Now that is obvious.” Ethan couldn’t help but shake his head.
Klein tilted his head and leaned forward, as if he was going in for the kill. “And if you’re so sure that Raleigh’s alive, why would you have taken the insurance money in the first place, Ethan?” Klein sighed.
And that was when Ethan knew; Klein knew nothing. He was grasping for some remote fragment of truth, his accusations as weak as Raleigh’s mother’s own memory. Between whatever garbage his superiors at the FBI were telling him, and the borderline schizophrenia that Ethan had been allowing him to see, Klein was lucky to know which way was up, much less the day of the week.
“Listen, Ethan. I’m not here to attack you. I’m not here to make it look like you’re the bad guy in all of this. I’m two years out from a full pension.” He motioned to his leathery face. “I’ve seen enough tragedy in my time that it’s not always easy to believe there’s a single ounce of good left in this world.” He was nodding, almost as if he was trying to convince himself. Ethan saw that the older man’s eyes were half-pleading but full-on desperate at the same time. “If your wife discovered the cure for opioid addiction, good for her. Good for the world.” He clapped his hands, applauding.
Not wanting to give anything away, Ethan simply stared back at Klein.
“These late days into my career, all I’m looking for are hard and factual evidence, Ethan. If my boss tells me to keep an eye on you and help you find your wife, I know it’s the hard and factual evidence that will make it happen.” He motioned at the ceiling. “But Raleigh’s nowhere to be found. She’s as gone today as she was seven and a half years ago. And yet you’ve been paid two and a half million dollars from your insurance company and the people nobody was ever able to track down that night have shown up dead. All of them. So, more than anything? I want to believe you’re part of that one ounce of good in this world, Ethan. I want to believe your wife is out there, pulling strings like some grand puppeteer. But that’s just not the kind of leap of faith I’m capable of, not as a federal agent, not as a human being who’s lived his life based on hard and factual evidence.”
“The drugs,” Ethan said. “The drugs they administer at these health centers—”
“A methadone variant, Ethan.”
“Who produces it? ParkerPharma?”
Klein shook his head, subtly.
“If not ParkerPharma, is it one of companies where Hyatt served as a consultant?”
Klein said nothing.
So, Raleigh wasn’t making it all up. These companies were avoiding the FDA altogether, convincing desperate commun
ities to give their solution—which they’d clearly marketed as a methadone generic brand—a shot. With aggressive fatality rates predicted for Boyle Mills alone, those desperate communities would have given witchcraft a shot if it meant saving their taxpayers’ lives and futures.
“Ethan, you knew that when the state police showed up, they’d shoot and kill Travis Maltby, right?”
He hadn’t known.
But Raleigh had.
Chapter Seventy-Six
Seven Months Later
The March breeze outside of Chicago’s O’Hare International Airport felt like a kick in the face as Ethan hurried across the parking garage’s top level to where he’d parked his Jaguar, now covered in four inches of snow as white as its paint. There were few cars on this level, six in total, including his Jag; most travellers opted for the sheltered levels below at this time of year, but that increased the likelihood of door dings and scratches. People were rarely delicate with their luggage in airport parking areas, but up top where there was no protection from the elements, those folks wouldn’t damage his vehicle.
After lifting his suitcase into the back of the Jaguar, Ethan hurried to the driver’s side and got the engine started. The instrument panel flickered to life, slower than normal because of just how cold it was—negative sixteen according to the outside-temp reading.
Before slipping back out of the vehicle, Ethan activated the heated seats and waited for the sensation to return to his fingertips before donning his gloves and grabbing the winter brush out of the passenger-side foot well. He needed to clear the snow and frost away from the windows.
But when Ethan stepped out of the Jag, his heart nearly popped out of his chest.
“You,” Ethan said, the word dropping out of his mouth.
The man in the winter jacket with the fur-lined hood and leather gloves nodded. Ethan could make out the edges of his blond hair, the thick beard, even though the man had pulled the string of his hood tight around his face. Something the photographs of Damien Parker didn’t quite capture was just how entrancing his blue eyes truly were.
The Last Night (The Last Series Book 2) Page 29