Ellis, a lobbyist of sin, organized Carys’ marriage to the Chair of the Florida Gambling Control Board, Gavin Devlin. The Devlins were one the influential families who oversaw a large portion of the East Coast’s underground business and politics.
Many argued that organized crime families no longer had any pull in the United States, but they were wrong. The mafia had simply evolved over the years. No more gangsters toting Tommy Guns shooting up a rival’s brothel or booze mill; today’s bosses had to progress or spend the rest of their days behind bars. Strike that—the bosses were in prison or dead. Their sons, nephews, and uncles recognized that technology was the future, specifically cyber warfare. It was easier to hide behind a computer than the city’s streets and back alleys.
Carys pushed the visor up, her dark mahogany hair whipped around her face. “I was impressed by your restraint. Martin deserved a punch to the face.”
“He’s lucky we weren’t near the windows. I stuck the device underneath the chair, not the best place but it works. Anything after I left?”
“Just a few colorful words about you but nothing of interest yet. Crosby’s on it.” Carys paused and shifted in her seat. “Have you heard from Reed?”
“No.”
“He was last seen in Aspe—”
“I know.”
“You’ve been tracking him, haven’t you?”
“He’s too close to Jules.”
A gap of silence fell between them.
“Why bear the burden alone? He’s your husband, and he knows you were a Walker,” Carys said.
“I was never a Walker, and I’m not bearing the burden alone. You, your father, and Crosby know. My commitment to Reed is methodical, nothing more. Jules is my priority, and she needs to remain underground.”
“We can protect her.”
Isla weaved through the interstate traffic. “No. The risk is too high. Especially now with Martin dishing out threats.”
“Let me get this straight. You’re going to allow Reed to continue his idiotic mission of uncovering a phantom man he believes you had an affair with. You aren’t that kind of woman. Why continue to hurt him?”
Isla remained quiet. What was she to say? Her life was nothing but secrets. She didn’t even know what kind of woman she was. Friends and enemies blurred. All who breathed were threats not only to her but also to Jules. In their society, a child born from perversity resulted in shunning or worse. Ronan could never discover the innocence Isla birthed into the world.
Jules purified Isla’s soul.
Martin’s threats crept into her thoughts. She was an outsider wielding too much power. With the listening device in place, Isla could find out how much he did know of her, among any other shady dealings he had going on. Clearly coaxing Mia’s current drug charge wasn’t keeping Martin as busy as she hoped. She didn’t really care about his problems with Ellis or the white collars.
Isla slowed and passed through the gates of Devlin Estate. The driveway lined with cathedral palm trees wound toward the two-story waterfront fortress. She pulled to stop, and Carys gently touched her hand.
“You love my brother. I know you do.”
“He’s my husband. Mere protocol.”
“Keep convincing yourself of that, but I see right through you, Isla Pierce.”
Carys leaned over, pecked her cheek, and slipped out the passenger side. Isla believed all her lies, each deceptive word but one. The one she refused to acknowledge for fear she’d be weakened and her enemies would strike. She hated discussing Reed with Carys. Only a few knew her secret, and at the most inconvenient times they’d say such things causing Isla to think about him. Isla glanced down at her art deco engraved wedding band.
Carys whistled, grasping her attention. She winked and stepped through the open front door disappearing inside.
Damn, Carys.
Her phone rang.
Damn, Ellis.
1 in 5 girls and 1 in 20 boys is a victim of child sexual abuse.
*Statistics from Crimes Against Children Research Center*
“WHERE THE HELL is Reed?”
“You’re going to blow the speakers in my car.”
“Where is he, Isla? I’ve tried his phone a hundred times. He’s not returning my messages or texts.”
“Colorado.”
“Why?”
“You know why.”
“This has to stop. It’s disrupting business, and I can’t have that. What will it take for you to tell him the truth?”
“Really, you need to ask? The one thing you’ve denied me, instructed me to be patient—”
“Tell me.”
“I want Ronan.”
“Done.”
ISLA POPPED ANOTHER onion-flavored ring into her mouth and crunched down. Crumbs flitted onto her jeans as she perched on the kitchen counter. In the shadows of the kitchen, the sunset lit the sky on fire as ripples of atmospheric blaze mirrored Lake Worth Creek and reminded her of Jules.
Henry found an end-of-the-road ranch, secluded and in the heart of San Isabel National Forest. A stream snaked through the meadow and spruce trees. Even Isla found herself not wanting to leave. It was the longest Jules had been in one location, and she’d grown fond of the Colorado lifestyle. Henry taught her to hunt, as well.
At eleven years old, Jules wanted to know more about her family and when she could come out of hiding. Isla explained during their last visit that people wanted to harm the Pierce family and that it wasn’t safe for her to join them in Florida quite yet. Jules never disrespected her, but irritation lurked beneath the surface. Isla understood. Jules was supervised at all times, and her education was completed at home with the one person Isla entrusted her precious daughter to, Henry Walker. The only common denominator between him and his father, Ronan, was their last name. It was a name forced onto Isla by her grandmother.
Growing up in the Walker house equated to brutality. Though Ronan claimed her best interests, she knew better. Isla slipped into the dark. Strength surfaced in the black rivers of her mind.
After the death of her parents, Isla—enrolled as a freshman at Saint Agatha’s—endured lashings and sexual abuse when home from school. Bathing in holy water wasn’t enough to wash away Ronan’s touch. She needed God. She needed Michael to swoop down from the heavens and release her.
Neither came. Isla was on her own.
Henry was Ronan’s son from his first marriage. A survivor of his father’s abusive hand, Henry began his college life cross-country but came back to check on Isla. She begged him to take her with him, but he was frightened of the oil tycoon. He was the heir to the Walker throne, and Henry wasn’t about to leave the money behind with all that he had endured.
To onlookers, being a Walker meant privilege and financial comfort. No one suspected the deep twisted roots beneath Walker Plantation. There was idle chatter over the years, but the moment another famous family splashed their drama in public, the Walkers’ faded into the background.
Her life there was long ago but yet, it felt new and raw just like the gashes she’d hidden from the world as a teenager. Isla ran her fingers over the back of her shoulder. Some scars never go away no matter how much you cover them up, but she had hid them from Reed. He wasn’t stupid; he was aware of Ronan Walker’s temper and eccentric behavior. Reed never pushed her, not even when her grandmother discovered their marriage and wrote Isla a letter four Christmases ago.
Isla,
I am unsure how you managed to keep your nuptials secret from me. I assume your father-in-law had something to do with that. Whatever tales you told or will tell your new husband, we’ll deny. The Walker name is respected, and I will not allow your sinful mouth to drag Ronan through the muck and mud.
You’re just like your irresponsible mother, and like her what happened to her, you are no longer our problem since you are no longer a Walker.
Isla had tossed the creased paper into the fireplace and watched it burn. As tears blurred her vision, Reed had stepped beside h
er and took her hand into his. It was their second time exchanging any kind of affection. The first was during their wedding when Reed cupped her face and gently kissed her. Isla told herself it was a show for the families in attendance, but it had meant more.
Her lips faintly lifted as she remembered what his mouth felt like against hers . . . the bones of the house creaked. Isla stilled and looked towards the back door. Her skin twinged. After a tick of the clock, nothing happened. She twisted her wedding band around her finger. Perhaps Reed wasn’t returning. Isla kicked him over the edge and down onto the jagged shore. She never denied the affair Reed accused her of after finding receipts in her purse, a sloppy mistake on her part, but she hadn’t admitted to it either.
Isla was cruel. She wanted him to hurt and to feel every bit of the loss and anger she experienced. Reed wasn’t at fault. He didn’t deserve Isla’s rage, but he was the convenient choice, an easy target.
She hopped off the counter and tossed the empty snack bag into the trash. Her mind was fuzzy. She’d hit a wall and needed sleep, but Martin’s threats worried her. Isla wanted to track him from sunrise to sundown. At the moment, she would have to rely on the parasitic gadget she planted inside of his penthouse hideout. Once the link locked onto Martin’s cellphone or laptop, he’d travel home with the bug. Like a flea, it would seek out and attach to all his electronics, giving Isla all the access she needed.
Isla crossed the kitchen into the living room, and climbed the staircase.
The white elements of the bedroom and black tile wall refracted the low moonlight as it beamed through the curtains. Without undressing, she collapsed onto the plush bed and moaned.
Isla slept, but Ronan haunted her dreams. Again.
FROM THE CENTER of the bed, Isla watched her elderly neighbor pop out from her front door wearing only a purple robe too short for her age and white slippers. Her hair was covered with a shower cap. The woman looked around, snatched up her morning paper, and ducked back inside. She probably thought no one saw her, and she’d gotten away with her sneak and grab.
Wrong.
Someone was always watching, even if casually passing by the window or waiting for confidential information to upload about an unhinged, white-collar criminal.
It was human nature. We were encoded to observe and pick at one another’s flaws or limitations. Words and actions can trigger a person’s vulnerabilities or secrets. Isla was proficient at hiding both.
It disturbed her.
Before her parent’s death, Isla was like any other teenage girl. Braces, roller coaster hormones, and her friends were the center of her universe. Isla’s dad worked a traditional 9-to-5 job while her mom was Queen PTA and a freelance writer. They never spoke of her grandmother, and they never attended Walker family functions. Isla was busy with volleyball and hacking the school system’s computers to bump her final grade in Spanish from a C to a B+. Isla did the same for a few fellow classmates at $20 a pop which kept her too busy to question her family makeup.
And then life changed.
For years after her parents died, Isla wanted to know more about her mother’s paternal side but her grandmother blocked her at every turn. Isla didn’t even know if he was still alive. She never found a death record or a second marriage certificate. Once she located a 1950s census in Detroit, Michigan, but nothing else. Isla was always left with more questions than would probably ever be answered.
Her laptop chimed bringing her back to the present.
A window popped open.
All data downloaded.
Isla moved the cursor over to the folder and clicked. Audio files. She marked the program to highlight sections of the audio with keywords. She clicked on a sizable highlighted section.
“How unfortunate for Dawes.” Martin paused. “Pierce called in?”
Isla assumed he was on the phone, perhaps a secured landline for private conversations. She slid the volume higher.
“First quarter numbers won’t be in his favor. The board will remove him.” Silence. “Let Reed watch the good news over eggs and toast.”
She paused the recording.
Lucas Dawes was CFO of Raeford Financial, Inc., President of Open Arms Halfway House, and a former cocaine addict. Martin’s steady tone worried her. His reference to Reed bit at her gut.
Isla opened a new screen and typed in a numeric code. Symbols and jumbled words scrolled across the window. As fast as her fingers could tap the keys, Isla’s frustration grew. Martin’s accounts were cloaked. She couldn’t bypass the barrier.
On the outside, all his financials were dormant, personal and business, and she knew that wasn’t possible. Isla slammed down on the keys. Her computer sounded off, not appreciating her tantrum. What was he up to? Did he find the device? Did he know she was listening and screwing with her? Maybe a call into Detroit was in order.
Her cell phone chimed. Ironic. She tapped the speaker.
“Crosby’s dad was arrested,” a panicked Carys said.
“Shit. What happened?”
“He was pulled over last night. Cops found drugs under his seat. It’s bad. We’re talking felony bad.”
“Was Crosby with him?” Isla said.
“No, thank goodness. She would’ve punched the cops out.”
“That explains Martin.”
“Martin?”
Isla picked at the ends of her hair. “I listened to a piece of recording, and Martin was on the phone talking about him. He set this up.”
“Because of Mia?”
“I don’t know. Maybe.”
“Does my dad know?”
“I just listened to it right before you called. I assume so since the recording is delayed. Martin mentioned Pierce calling it in.” The house’s security alerted Isla of a visitor. “Damn. Someone is here, I’ll call you back.”
She ended the call as the security system announced, “Isla, you have a guest at the front door.”
“Identify, Mabel.”
“One moment, please . . . Joseph Abbott,” the electronic voice responded.
Isla tipped her head back. “Really?”
She closed her laptop and slid it under the bed. In crumpled jeans and a t-shirt, her mess of tangled hair bounced around her while Isla darted down the stairs to the front door. Her lips stiffened when she saw a side-part of black hair and dark eyes searching through the strip of lattice glass. Isla input the code and flung the door open.
“Joe Snake, I mean, Abbott.”
He gave her a slight nod. “Always a pleasure, Mrs. Pierce. May I come in for a moment?”
Isla sidestepped from the doorway and he brushed past her. Their conversation wasn’t going to end well.
JOE WAS MARTIN’S minion. His stench followed her from New York. She watched him walk around the living room, scanning the white walls, glancing down the sides of the furniture. He made her skin crawl. Interesting enough, he came from Detroit. Zagotta never took claim to Joe. Isla didn’t blame him—who would—but she didn’t trust what Zagotta said either.
“What do I owe the displeasure of this visit?”
“Have you watched the news this morning?” he asked in a bubbly tone.
“I’ve been busy, but I’m sure you’re going to tell me all about it.”
“Familiar with the phrase ‘an eye for an eye’?”
“Philosophy this early gives me heartburn. Spit it out.”
He stuck out his dimpled chin. “Get Mia out and Crosby gets her daddy back, simple and easy.”
“No.”
“Perf—what? No?”
“No.” Isla crossed the living room and reached into a large ceramic vase. “I have a better idea.” As she pulled out a stacked and wrapped pile of cash, Joe’s close-set eyes widened. “Let’s play secret double agent.”
Joe wasn’t any different from any other warm-blooded creature. He was a man; therefore, the majority of his thinking came from his dick brain. Joe craved respect. He regarded himself a lady’s man, but the only ladies h
e attracted charged by the hour. The thought repulsed Isla, but Joe craved money more. With enough, power followed. Snitches loved kickbacks.
“You’re underutilized Joe, and poorly paid.”
He cocked his head to the side. “How much?”
“Five.”
“Hefty price for a little intel.”
“No.” Isla tossed him the money. “One now, the rest when you set up a meeting with Vinny.”
“I don’t know—”
“Don’t lie. I’ll find out the truth.”
“Aren’t you the fancy tech girl? Can’t you contact him?”
Isla crossed her arms over her chest. “I could, but Martin is watching me. He’d never suspect you and me working together. Come on, Joe. Straddling territories and bosses. You’re an evil genius or an absolute moron. Either way, you’re my in.”
Joe stared at the cash, stroking it with his thumb. Isla had a catch, but he was mesmerized by the money and didn’t even bother asking her for it. He was a moron but an agreeable moron. Isla escorted him to the front door.
“I’ll be in touch soon.” Joe said but stopped. He looked at her with a mischievous glint in his eyes. “Just to let you know, your husband was spotted at The Ives Inn with a young woman, quite beautiful. Did I mention young?”
Raided of sensibility she bared her teeth. “For how long?”
“Two nights.”
Fire swept over her skin, she shoved Joe out and secured the house. Her head throbbed. Isla stomped back into the bedroom and swiped her phone from atop of the dresser. She tapped her contact list and thumbed a text message to Reed.
Isla: I know you’re back in town and not alone. We need to talk. Now.
Stripping from her wrinkled clothes, Isla walked into her closet and pulled a soft blue tee from the hanger. Even if Reed didn’t respond, she was going to Ives. If he wasn’t there, she’d track him down. Isla yanked her favorite ankle jeans from the dresser drawer. Who did he think he was? Lecture her about cheating, and he’s the one screwing around. Joe was thrilled to share his little tidbit with her. She didn’t have time to deal with Reed acting like a pendulant child. She had to get Crosby’s dad out of jail. Isla had lives to ruin, and now her husband was at the top of her list.
The Red Roots Page 2