“It’s not my group.” That was clear—Benson wasn’t welcome at the Love is Murder Social Club any longer. He’d broken Annie’s heart—broken her trust, left her story out in the dust. She’d survived a night with Terrible Tilly, rescued and brought home, only to be denied a chance to see her and talk to her.
Gloria broke the news. “She liked you, Benson,” the matriarch had said. “She trusted you. She just needs to do what’s right.”
And at that moment, Benson knew he had only one choice and one chance. He made a call and flew to Colorado. They didn’t want to listen to him, but they were going to—he would make it worth their while.
Robin settled down before him—wary, confused.
“You aren’t writing about any of this?” she asked and pointed at every piece of discovery he’d netted about the Schubert murders, Missy’s true identity, and the backstory of a Lucia Applegate—mother to Louis, heir to mighty powerful trafficking conglomerate. “And no one followed you here?”
He’d taken, with the help of professionals, an abundance of caution. This wasn’t about him anymore.
If Benson followed the story he knew, it was Pulitzer winning journalism. Trafficked women, stolen wives, murder, a son caught in the balance. Vincent Applegate was a pawn, used to get back his nephew by hook or crook—with a group of rich widows funding a child’s protection even without a familial connection.
Because one woman said to another, “Keep my son alive no matter what,” and that was all Robin Schubert needed to fuel Lucia’s last request.
Benson loved the way the story ran through his head and ended with such a blissful, happy ending. The boy was safe. Two days more in isolation in the mountains and then off to Europe for schooling; Linda, bankrolling; Robin traveling as his chaperone. Even if they tracked him here, they’d be long gone by the time anyone started sniffing around.
The bad guys were thwarted, for now.
If he wanted to write it, he could.
But it was a story he would never tell.
A story he would choose to abandon.
In an act of bravery and trust, Benson deleted all the files from his computer and held the simple flash drive between the two of them—old school, but tangible. His digital files didn’t remain. He’d had nothing written down about Linda on the stuff stolen from him at the coast.
“I’m giving you the folder,” he said and he sat the information down into her nap. “Louis is safe.”
“His father,” Robin said, staring at the closed folder, “grew up rich, never lacking, never wanting. Louis would’ve lived the same way. But Lucia chose to testify at the federal level and Louis was caught up in that, too. In her life, as Missy, she just never got footing…”
Robin paused.
The woman whose private plane went down in the mountains—a woman who went to great lengths to protect herself and her future…for a son who wasn’t hers.
“She gave us custody of Louis two days before the cartel found her,” Robin said, filling in the gaps of Benson’s story.
“It was always about protecting the boy.”
Robin nodded.
“She knew the men would have a beat on Molly if she followed through with her plan.”
Annie had figured that out before him.
She’d tossed her phone into the ocean to prevent Vincent Applegate from tracking down his nephew. The smoke and mirrors had worked for now, only they knew solving this crime meant causing more trouble. The Cannon Beach Murders were not unexplained—as the women thought—they were left purposefully abandoned, left out in the open unsolved as a gift. Lucia couldn’t have the life she’d wanted for her son, but maybe in her death, she could keep him safe.
“William didn’t give up Louis that night,” Robin said, taking a sip of tea. “A vast network of helpers have kept him safe.”
“You faked your own death.” He tipped an imaginary hat.
“Protecting a minor child who is also a federal witness is no joke, Benson. Your girl, Annie, is lucky to be alive,” Robin nodded. “Vincent Applegate, clean in his own right, has been rumored for a long time to have been working with the cartel. I didn’t do anything my husband wouldn’t have done for that boy, too. We made a pact and William died honoring it.”
“And Annie?”
“I don’t know why he left her alive,” Robin said, confused. “Maybe she wasn’t worth the trouble to kill.”
“Maybe none of us are,” Benson said with a wry smile.
Robin smiled back, warily.
“You said you had an offer,” she said.
“All our information and a signed contract expressing that you can basically take my life if I ever publish any of this. But I won’t. Here—it’s yours.” Benson slid the files over the table ceremoniously. That’s all it was: ceremony. All of Nolan’s and his work still existed digitally, even though he’d gone to great work to tidy it up and hide it away.
“Linda is confused by your exchange,” Robin said. “You’re giving up the scoop of your career…for a date?”
“I’m giving you everything I have that’s worth anything and asking for face-time with Annie through Twoly. I think that’s the only way she’ll talk to me…is if she believes I’m a Twoly date. So. Yup. So, yes. I am.”
“That’s idiotic,” Robin said, but she sounded warm and motherly. “So, this is the girl.”
“Right. Because…she’s not some girl,” Benson said. “She’s Annie.”
Robin nodded. She took the folder and tucked it into her lap. “He was just a child,” she said, thinking of Louis. “No child should suffer for their parent’s sins. Lucia did everything she could to hide him from the people who’d harm him.”
“And your life,” Benson asked, motioning around the secluded cabin, “was worth this?”
“After they took my husband, I decided that my own life was easy to give up for the greater good. We should all feel that way.”
“He wasn’t just a boy? Someone else’s kid?” Benson asked, unable to stop himself from being a journalist, wondering, questioning, even if there wasn’t a story to write.
“No child is just anything, Mr. Douglass. Remember that. Every child is worth fighting for.”
Benson drank his tea and settled back into the leather cushions of the seat. “Tell Linda I want a date. At the Wayfarer. One date. One night. She can arrange it.”
“She can arrange you the date,” Robin said and she crossed her legs, tapping her fingers on the file folder he’d left with her. “That’s all. Face-time. She isn’t responsible for whatever happens after that.”
He gulped, aware. He’d get one more chance with Annie. Only one. And now all he had to do was make it worth it.
The Wayfarer was empty for a midday week date.
He sat and waited.
Linda was true on her promise. In exchange for a deal—he’d never share the story of William Schubert, foster dad, and Missy Price, a witness for the prosecution, a witness in hiding—her son, gone. Disappeared. And the people who wanted to find Louis wouldn’t stop until the child was no longer a threat. Dead. A child, no longer a child, no longer apart of that world.
He knew how the date was going to work: Linda talked to Rylan and scheduled him a date with Annie.
That’s all he wanted: one date.
She’d approach the table and see him there, wary and worried. But then he’d get her to smile, get her to erase the worry lines between her eyebrows and beg her to hear him out.
Only, Annie didn’t show.
The time for the date rolled by and then fifteen minutes late and then twenty.
He texted Linda.
Benson: She didn’t show.
Linda: Not part of my deal.
Benson: She knew she had a date?
Linda: Her matchmaker set it up. Wayfarer at seven.
Benson: Could she have known it was me?
Linda: If you think she might have bailed knowing it was you…then are you sure this is the grand ge
sture you’d hoped it would be?
He sat and looked at Linda’s admonishment in text. This woman who didn’t know him and didn’t know Annie, and yet knew so much already about the way things were going tonight.
He ordered another wine and waited. And at eight, he paid the bill in cash and stood, nodding to the waiter and unwilling to act the part any longer. His trip to Colorado, his sacrifice, his frustration that he thought the plan would work.
If Annie wanted to go through Twoly, then that was where he’d meet her. If Annie needed a push, he was there to provide it. Wherever Annie was—that was where he wanted to be.
The girl—Ms. Punctuality—wasn’t there.
The only thing he could imagine is that she saw him there, waiting, and turned around without a second thought. He’d imagined her tripping into a Twoly date, seeing him alone, and exploding into a large smile, impressed that he’d gone to such great lengths. That fantasy dissolved into the reality of her absence.
Benson’s grand gesture, his hired piano player and his bouquet of roses, went unused. The waiter followed him out, asking about the purchases, but Benson nearly shrugged and said, “Another guy’s date, okay?” before crawling into his car.
He slumped on to the steering wheel and let the emotion pool there for a bit.
Then he did the only thing he knew to do. Drive to Annie’s.
Carefully, he drove the Cannon Beach strip between Annie’s house and the south end of the city for two hours. When he was certain she wasn’t home or hiding, Benson pulled over and decided where to go next. His behavior was pathologically terrifying, except that he wanted nothing more than to find Annie and apologize.
He’d packed up his parent’s house in anticipation of her rejection but kept everything in the back of his car in anticipation of her forgiveness.
Annie was a no-show to Twoly and she wasn’t at home.
Without being a horrible creepy stalker, he had to go back to Portland, text her and wait. It was the worst outcome and the one most likely to net him a blow-off, but he had an ache in his heart when he thought of Annie and Benson wasn’t ready to let go.
He didn’t want to go home. To the beach house where every corner and every pillow and every shadow reminded him of the girl he was trying to find. And he didn’t want to stay in front of Annie’s, which was liable to end his night in jail. So, he did the only thing he could think of next.
Benson drove himself to the courthouse and grabbed a parking spot in the free lot. Then he curled up in the back seat and tried to get some sleep.
When Benson woke, it was nearly nine-thirty and the lot had gone from empty and dark to full and busy with activity. He startled awake and slinked out of the back seat as if he’d already committed some great crime. Wiping the drool from the corner of his mouth and the sleep from his eyes, Benson stumbled through the metal detectors and walked his way to the officer in charge of the court schedule.
“I’m looking for a Ms. Annie Gerwitz,” Benson said as he tried to look professional.
The bailiff looked him up and down and then directed him to a certain courtroom on the fourth floor. Benson wandered that way and sat down in the back row. There, in front of him, was Annie.
Her hair was tied up in a bun and she was wearing a matching suit—red skirt and red jacket. She hadn’t noticed him slip into the courtroom and the young man beside her was staring at the ground.
When the time came for Annie to speak, she raised her voice to the people there and helped determine house arrest instead of jail until trial. At the end, the young man gave her a soft hug and Annie hugged him back, her eyes scanning the peanut gallery. She noticed him, jolting a bit. He saw the pain and delight flash in her eyes before he could speak to her and help her brace for the impact.
For a long stretch, they looked at each other. Then Annie tapped her client on the shoulder and pointed to a hallway and a guard and whispered to the young man, who followed her suggestion and disappeared. Annie, however, stayed. And Benson walked up to her, his hands behind his back, his eyes misty with the entire idea of her—Annie: the woman he wanted to grow old with, standing there with such a look of defiance and pure righteous anger on her face.
“Benson,” she said.
“Annabelle,” he replied.
“Don’t—”
“You stood me up,” Benson said with a nod and she paused, thinking back in her history to imagine when she’d done such a thing. He spared her. “Twoly date. Wayfarer.”
Annie swallowed. Her mouth opened a bit and then closed, like a fish, pondering, confused. “Wait,” she said. She put a hand on her chest. He’d surprised her. “I quit Twoly…”
“A week ago…Saturday.”
“No, after the match, I’d put in a message…”
“They let me squirm,” Benson replied and dipped his head.
Annie couldn’t help but smile and then her body slumped, apologetic.
“I let them know late,” she said. “I’m sorry. I had no idea—”
No, but they did. They knew. Except, now he knew it was true: she hadn’t known it was him. She’d simply given up the place. She’d stopped the process. His attempts to find a language they could speak together kept netting him nothing. Annie, Annie. What to do with you?
“I’d hoped…” Benson said, heading into his rehearsed speech, “…Annie. I love you.”
Annie coughed. The judge at the bench asked her to clear the area and she nodded and followed Benson out into the lobby, through the benches, her face turning red with embarrassment.
“You love me?” Annie asked and she shook her head and stared at the floor. The din the courthouse surrounded them, but Benson didn’t care. He didn’t care about the stories growing all around him or the people he saw that he wanted to speak to. No, Benson saw people—Benson saw families. He wanted Annie to see that he’d given up everything for a chance with her. “I don’t know how you can love me, Benson. I don’t.”
Couldn’t she give him a chance?
“What do you want?” Annie asked. “Honestly?”
Benson couldn’t pass up the answer. “I don’t want anything, Annie. I just…I guess…I need you to know I love you. That’s all. I love you. And if…I’m just telling myself, then that’s okay. I’m okay. I don’t need you to feel the same way. I just need to be able to tell you how I feel…that’s bravery, for me. And I’m sorry that it is. I’m sorry it took me so long to understand.”
Her eyes dipped and softened.
“You love me. And that’s all,” she said, not a question, still not looking at him. “You love me and you don’t need anything else. If.”
“Then?”
“Yeah, if…then…”
Benson nodded.
“Yes, my love. Yes,” Benson replied and he wiped his eyes. “If, I love you and nothing else, then…I want to walk away and start over. I want to be with you, and I don’t need to bring anything with me. Also, I was probably going to get a beer…if you wanted.”
When Annie looked up, her eyes were full of tears and Benson stepped up and cupped her face, wiping her cheeks with his thumbs.
“It’s not even ten in the morning,” she laughed.
“Or, no beer,” he shrugged. “Take it or leave it.”
“You hurt me,” Annie said and she began to cry. “Exposed me. It’s the only thing I said I couldn’t endure…”
“I’m sorry,” Benson whispered. “You’re right. I didn’t think anyone would read it, but that’s not an excuse. I wrote something that I thought would earn me more inches and clout. Did you read my apology?”
He was tired of apologies and tired of excuses. Benson Douglass wanted a chance to start over and he wanted to do it with Annie at the center.
“What?” Annie asked and her lip trembled. “No. I didn’t. I’ve sworn off papers…also…Benson, will you ever learn?” A cascade of tears spilled down her cheeks. “You just won’t learn.”
Prepared, Benson tossed a copy of the last
issue of Front Street on to the bench next to them and she stared at it, unmoved.
“What is it that you want, Annie?” he asked. He passed by the copy and looked around the hallway. “You want a public display? You want truth? Honesty? Then it’s in there. You have to read it.”
“Stop,” Annie whispered, her lower lip quivering.
“I love you,” Benson said again. “You. So, the question is…” he paused and swallowed, “do you love me?”
Annie looked to the ground.
When she looked at him, her lower-lip was shaking and she couldn’t stare at him for longer than a second.
“Stop,” she whispered again. “I’m at work.”
“When I waited…at the Wayfarer, hoping for a chance,” he said. “I practiced what I would say to you again and again…”
“Benson,” Annie tried, her eyes full of tears. “Don’t you understand?”
“No!” He crossed his arms. “I don’t.”
His shout was a bit too loud and yet, he wasn’t willing to let her go. Didn’t she understand? He’d never met anyone like her? This was the woman; this was the moment and the song and the crescendo.
“I love you!” he cried. “Read it.”
Annie reached down and with a sniff picked up Front Street. She shook her head and turned the pages. There was a column. The byline from Benson. She cleared her throat and read out loud.
“A month or so ago, I had a brilliant idea,” Annie read. She cleared her throat and glanced up at him, gaining confidence. “I’d infiltrate a matchmaking service and find a woman to fall in love with me. Or even if I didn’t find someone to fall in love with me, I’d at least have interesting content. Only, the content I prepared was a lie. And the only truth I have to share is a story that I am not going to tell in print.”
Annie looked up. She held her gaze and then continued reading. “I hurt someone I loved,” she read, her voice, his words. “I hurt her most by taking something private and making it public—by ignoring the sacred in our moments together. When we are gifted a friend at any age, we must understand how important that connection is. I have loved the woman I want to spend the rest of my life with—the service I mocked didn’t work for me exactly, but it was responsible for me finding a person perfect for me. I was wrong to think I could turn dating into a joke and parade my failures out into the public eye. My love for this woman has taught me a bigger lesson, and if I am given the chance to love her, I will do so with my whole heart. But the intimate lessons and the details of my pain are mine alone to bear and I do so with the willingness of a man wanting to change. A man saying, I’m here. I want another chance.”
Savage Distractions (The Love is Murder Social Club Book 3) Page 27