When Fates Collide

by Isabelle Richards

  “Just let us and the other agencies do our jobs. The more we learn, the more we can protect others from getting hurt.” He has the bedside manner of a grizzly bear, but he is direct and honest. It’s what I need right now.

  “Of course, I understand. I don’t really do social media, but I’ll go under the radar. Please, do everything you can. No one else deserves to get hurt. This needs to end.”

  There is a knock on the door, and Sullivan grabs the legal pad before stepping out. Greene keeps talking, doing all he can to keep me calm, but my mind wanders while I take it all in.

  I peel the label off my water bottle while I try to piece it all together. “How does Brooke Livingston fit into all of this?” I ask as the door opens once more.

  Sullivan walks back in and tosses his pad on the table. “She was the key to it all really,” he answers. “She started banging Robertson in exchange for drugs. The girl was seriously strung out. She used to be a looker, but man, how the pretty crumble when they’re on heroin. Gavin tracked her down and tried to get her out with no luck. That’s when he came to us. If he couldn’t get her out, he was determined to help take down the whole thing. He got her to meet him a few times. She wanted cash. He gave her a little, but each time he planted a bug on her, her stuff, her car. Those wires opened the door for us in this case. We never would have gotten the investigation off the ground without it.”

  “At the time of the accident, she was driving to your house,” Greene says. “Through the wiretap, we heard Jason tell her to go and see if she could find anything, in case Ashton didn’t bring the goods. She was loaded up on a pretty nasty cocktail of drugs and booze when they crashed. Even if they hadn’t crashed, with what she had in her, I doubt she would have made it out of Poolesville in one piece.”

  Greene and Sully exchange looks and shrugs. It’s obvious they work together well. They have an excellent “good cop/bad cop” routine, and they seem to be able to communicate through telepathy.

  Greene taps the table again. “That’s all we can tell you at this time. Now, we need you to go downstairs and identify a few items from the wreck. When the cars crashed, they were both going so fast that the cars exploded on impact. Neither set of remains could be salvaged.”

  I swallow hard again. These words rattle around in my brain. Remains. Exploded. Salvaged. He speaks about it so clinically that it’s easy to forget that we’re not talking about events from a case file but rather something that happened to real people. To Ash. I let my mind drift, briefly considering what his last moments were like, and bile rises in my throat. I have to slam that door shut in my mind. I can’t go there.

  “This case has gotten a lot of attention. It’s a career-maker. Every agency that can get a piece of it will try to. You’ll be approached by everyone from IRS to ATF. Just answer them honestly. Don’t let anyone bully you. We’ll do our best to keep you posted,” Greene explains.

  Sully pulls the legal pad across the table toward him. “Before you go, is there anything you can tell us? Something we should look into? Anything or anyone that has made you nervous or uncomfortable?”

  I rack my brain, desperately wanting to give them something to go off. “You know about Preston Construction, right? Well, Ashton would sometimes make jokes that they were somehow connected to the mob. I never really paid very much attention. Ashton always liked to brag like that. But maybe there’s more to it?”

  Sully scribbles on the pad with his left hand and motions for me to continue with his right. I can’t believe he can actually read the chicken scratch he’s writing. “Tell me more. What would he say?”

  “His father was stabbed five years ago,” I begin. Sully nods and motions for me to keep going. “Ash told me it was a former employee that attacked him, but nothing came of it. There was never an arrest. I don’t even remember the police even being involved. I always found that strange. The man almost died, and nothing happened. It may not be what you’re looking for, but it never sat well with me. After Franklin’s stroke, Ashton took over the business and has been running it into the ground. I don’t even know how the lights stay on. They only have a few remaining contracts. I’ve often wondered if there was something shady going on.”

  Sullivan nods as he writes. “Good, Lily. This is very good. These are the types of things we need to know. You never know what one uneasy feeling from the wife can lead to. I think this is good for now. I’ll call you later with an update.”

  Afterward, Greene leads me downstairs to the evidence department to sit in yet another room without windows and wait. It’s cold and reeks of bleach-based cleaner. The stench adds to my growing headache, and the florescent lights buzz above me, rubbing my nerves raw. It’s as though they intentionally make this place the most uncomfortable and irritating setting on Earth.

  After about ten minutes, Greene comes back with a file box with “Preston” written across the top in black Sharpie. He opens it and takes out several plastic bags. As he opens each bag, I’m hit with a smell that makes me gag. Something rotten mixed with fire. I miss the cleaning solution smell. I look at Ashton’s burnt things spread across the table. The watch I got him a few years ago, the hat he asked me to find for him before he left, one of the cuff links he inherited from his grandfather. I touch them, expecting to feel something, some connection to him. I don’t feel anything. They just feel cold.

  “Can you identify these items?” Greene asks me.

  I open my mouth to respond, but my voice is missing. My throat feels like sandpaper, and the words will not come out. I nod. He hands me paperwork to sign and lets me know Ash’s effects may or may not be returned to me, depending on what is still needed for evidence.

  As he repacks the effects, my chest tightens. He puts the lid on the box and then seals it with evidence tape. I feel as though he’s just sealed up what’s left of my life. As he leaves the room with the box, I want to stop him and take it back. Everything is happening so fast, and I still don’t really understand what’s going on. It feels as if I’m trapped on an out of control hot air balloon. I don’t know how to get down or where I’ll land. I just want off!

  I’m suddenly desperate to go home. I need to feel connected to something that will ground me. When I tell Greene, he says I can’t go back just yet, that I’ve already been through enough and I don’t need to see that scene now. I can only imagine what that means and decide to take his word for it. I trust him. He asks me to wait in the lounge and assures me that someone will be with me soon to discuss where I can go from here.

  I sit on another ass-numbing plastic chair and take stock of my life. My house is a crime scene, I’m completely alone, and I can’t call a single friend. I’m so mad at Ashton I want to scream, but I’d have to yell pretty damn loud for him to hear me now. My head drops into my hands, and I rub my temples, hoping to fight off my growing migraine. After a few minutes, I feel someone sit next to me. I fan my fingers and look up to see Gavin’s hypnotic eyes. I get lost in them for what feels like eternity.

  Gavin takes my hands away from my face and gently wipes the tears away. Then he wraps his long, muscular arms around my shoulders, and I allow myself to lean into him. This man, whom I’ve known for about twelve hours, whose wife was killed by my husband, is the only person in the world I have left.

  Four

  “Hot Stuff, Lightweight, let’s move!” Meredith’s voice booms, breaking up the comforting moment. She claps her hands. “Chop, chop! I’ve got to get you two out of here. We’ve found press trying to sneak in, and with your growing popularity, it’s only a matter of time before you’re found again.” She stands in front of me and lowers her voice. “We’re going to a safe house. Ándele!”

  She hands me an FBI jacket, a Washington Nationals baseball hat, and some aviator sunglasses. “Try to look a little less like Goldilocks, would ya? You’re supposed to be under the radar,” Meredith barks at me.

  “I’ll do my best, but your costume department is a bit lacking. I look like someone th
at got dressed in an airport gift shop,” I snap back as I slip the windbreaker over my head. It’s over ninety-five degrees out today with a hundred percent humidity, and this unbreathable vinyl is going to be miserable. But beggars can’t be choosers, I suppose.

  Giving me the evil eye, she says, “You’re lucky I like you, Lightweight. I don’t take crap from people. Especially people I’m hiding out at my house!”

  “Oh, Meredith, you don’t have to give up your home,” Gavin chimes in. “I can’t stand the thought of us invading your space. There must be another solution.”

  She waves him off. “It’s fine, really, and easier than finding another hotel. Staff-wise, we’re stretched thin. We don’t have extra bodies to babysit you. There’s top-notch security in my building. My roommate, who’s also an agent, and I are both working this case, so we won’t be home much. So for the time being, this is fast, simple, and safe. The deal is that neither of you leaves. You keep your asses inside where no one can see you. Got it?”

  We both look at her and promise to stay put. She leads us out of the building to her car. We end up fighting traffic the whole drive downtown. Meredith lives in Penn Quarter in an amazing building, and her condo has a killer view. It’s as though the Capitol Building is in her backyard. But for me, the best part is the rooftop pool. I can’t begin to guess how FBI agents afford this place, and it certainly isn’t my place to ask.

  I walk around the living room, taking the place in. It’s a beautiful condo. Modern kitchen, hardwood floors throughout the unit. She has the place decorated with contemporary furniture—clean lines and bold hues. Amazingly, there’s no clutter. No pile of mail on the counter or stray coffee cup on the end table. Everything is so pristine that I would have guessed it were the model unit used for sales pitches. I know I’ll have to be very careful to keep everything as tidy as I’ve found it.

  “All right, you two, here’s the deal: You don’t leave. Don’t answer the phone. Don’t open the door unless I tell you to. And no, Lightweight, you may not use the pool. There’s nothing but liquor in the house, so I’ll have a patrol car bring by food for lunch and dinner. I’ll call you to let you know when it’s coming. Do not open to the door to anyone without asking to see a badge first.”

  She opens a cabinet in the kitchen stocked with liquor bottles. “My brother is a liquor distributor, so it’s an open bar. Drink yourself silly if you want. As long as you stay put.” She points around the room. “TV is there. Computer is there. Lightweight, make sure you set up your social media escape. Go to the beach, to Mexico, to the moon. I don’t care, as long as people think you’re out of town. Don’t allude to your husband. Make it sound like he could be joining you, but don’t specifically mention him. Got it? Hot Stuff, do what you need to do on your end.” She looks at her watch. “Crap, I’ve got to get out of here. Call me or Sullivan or Greene if you need anything. Until then, plant your asses on my couch.” She slams the door behind her as she leaves.

  “That chick blows my mind. I wouldn’t want to get on her bad side” I say, only half kidding. I plop down on the sofa, then smirk at Gavin. “And ‘Hot Stuff’, really?”

  He throws a sofa pillow at me and sits down on the love seat across from the sofa. “We’d better get our homework done before she gets mad. What did they tell you to do?”

  “I need to make it seem like I’ve gone on vacation. But what they don’t realize is that I’m already pretty much off the grid. For the last five years, I’ve done nothing but take care of Ashton’s dad. I’ve lost track of all my friends, minus the occasional hello from my friend, Emily. I don’t even have a Facebook account. They don’t have to worry, I’m already MIA.”

  He furrows his eyebrows in a way that’s very endearing. “That must be very lonely,” he says softly. There’s no judgment or pity in his tone, just compassion.

  I shrug. “It was what it was. I had to grow up quickly, and compromises had to be made. I couldn’t be a social butterfly and take care of Franklin.”

  “Was he ill?” he asks.

  I place the accent pillow on my lap and lean back into the sofa as I describe Franklin’s attack. “He wasn’t found until the morning. The doctors were astounded he was still alive. He was in a coma for weeks and suffered a few strokes. When he finally came out of it, he required round-the-clock care.”

  “How devastating,” Gavin says.

  I nod. “He had an insurance policy that covered the facility, so we thought he was set. A few months later, he missed an insurance payment, and they terminated coverage. Ashton didn’t want to pay for the facility himself, so Frankie came home with us, and I took care of him.”

  “That’s quite a burden. How old were you?”

  “Twenty-two. I was right out of college. At the time, we never expected it would go on as long as it did. He lived longer than anyone ever imagined. Frankie was quite the fighter. He grew up in New York, came from nothing. He worked in construction and worked his way up in the company, but he eventually scraped enough money together to go out on his own. Ended up making millions. Frankie became Franklin from Potomac. I was the only one that got away with calling him Frankie. Preston is actually his middle name, but he had it changed. I don’t know what it was originally. I’m guessing something ethnic-sounding that ends in a vowel. Something that wouldn’t go over well with the WASPs. He was determined to be rich. And he was. A lot of good it did him. He spent the last five years of his life watching his son blow through everything he had accumulated while he was stuck inside with me taking care of him. “

  Gavin gives me another shy smile and quietly says, “I obviously didn’t know the man, but something tells me if he spent every day of the last five years with you, it couldn’t have been that bad. I can think of far worse ways to go.”

  I blush and shift in my seat, uncomfortable with his flattery. “I hope I made his last years comfortable. He was a womanizer and probably a crook. He certainly wasn’t winning an award for Father of the Year, but I really cared for him. My parents passed away when I was young. For the nine years Ashton and I were together, Franklin was the only parent I had.”

  Gavin stands, turning toward the kitchen. “Thirsty? I’m going to get some water.”

  “Yes, please,” I respond.

  He opens and closes the cabinets until he finds the glasses. He fills them from the water dispenser on the fridge and carries them back to the living room. He hands me the glass. “I’m sorry to hear about your parents.”

  I take a sip of my water before placing the cup on the coffee table. “Thanks. I was really young when it happened. Old enough that I remember them but young enough that I don’t really remember what it’s like to have a family.” The room suddenly feels warm. I’m typically reserved when it comes to talking about myself. I don’t like people to know my story, especially when it comes to my parents. I’m not sure what’s come over me. I pick up my water glass again, hoping to cool my hands down, but then I realize it’s tepid. Must be a British thing. Every time Ash had gone to London, he’d bitched that they never use ice.

  “Were you able to stay with extended family after they passed?” he asks.

  I put the glass back down. “I raised myself, really. I was shuffled around between foster homes for a while. Then, I became a ward of the church of sorts. They sent me to a church-run prep school. Then I went to college. Like I said, Franklin was the only family I really had.”

  He raises an eyebrow. “Your father-in-law was family but not your husband?” he asks. Gavin shrinks back in his seat as his hand goes to his mouth. “Please, pardon me. That’s very personal. You don’t need to answer that. My question was quite inappropriate.”

  I shrug. “We’re locked together in an FBI agent’s apartment because my husband killed your wife and the mob may be after us both. We can’t contact friends or family for support. You’re all I’ve got right now. I think we’re past the point of ‘inappropriate questions,’” I say in a horrifically bad British accent. “All’s f
air, okay!”

  “I told you it was an accident. Brooke was just as much at fault as Ashton.”

  “To answer your question,” I say, cutting him off before he can go on further. I’m not ready to have that conversation with him, and it’s far easier to talk about the past than reflect on the present. “Ashton and I met in college. Our relationship was good for college. I just wasn’t smart enough to figure out that while playboys make exciting boyfriends, they don’t make good husbands. Once real life began, he wasn’t around much. Drugs to buy, girls to screw. He had access to his trust fund, the business money, his dad’s money. And he spent it all.

  “Money burned a hole in that boy’s pocket. He would go out every night, ‘til all hours. I’d see the receipts for the restaurants and bar tabs, thousands of dollars a night. That doesn’t include what he put up his nose. Let’s just say he kept the drug dealer’s kids in new shoes.

  “He would go on extravagant vacations, say they were for business. ‘Lil, I’m wooing a client. I have to take him to Monaco,’ or some crap like that. He thought I actually bought what he was selling. The truth is that I just didn’t care anymore. Whatever we had between us was long gone by that point. I stayed for Frankie. He died about three months ago. I had just started making plans to get out and break free from Ash.” I release a big sigh. “I guess he beat me to it.”

  My last statement just hangs in the air like a cloud of smoke. We’re quiet until Gavin breaks the silence. “Well, you may not need to do your homework, but you can help me do mine. I’ll warn you, in light of current circumstances, it’s rather twisted and morbid.”