by Gina Conroy
Cherilyn sat, legs crossed, engrossed in the book on her lap.
“Cherilyn, can I talk to you a minute?”
She looked up. “Sure.”
I glanced at the stairs and sat in the chair opposite the blonde beauty. It wasn’t hard to see why so many men, young and old, might lose all sense around her.
She waited, hands folded, as I tried to gather my thoughts. But there was no tactful way to ask. “Was Theron Henderson the father of your unborn baby?”
She gaped at me like I had accused her of his murder.
“How? Um …” She peeked at the staircase, then crawled to me and whispered. “Danny doesn’t know who the father was. Please, don’t tell him. I don’t want to mess this up. If he knew I was involved with a professor, I’d lose him.”
“You should give Danny more credit than that.”
Her eyes grew round. “Please don’t tell him. I’m begging you.”
“That’s not my place. Still, you need to tell him the truth or you will lose him.”
“I want to. Every time I try and say the words, I get sick. I can’t believe I fooled myself into thinking I was in love with him. What I have with Danny is so different. So right.”
I grabbed her hands. “You fell victim to Henderson’s charm. No one blames you.”
“Yes, they do. There are rumors all over campus. Ugly lies saying I blackmailed him and threatened to kill him if he didn’t take me back. Can you believe people actually think I could have murdered him?”
“It crossed my mind.”
“What?” She pushed away and gathered her books from the floor.
Had I said that out loud? “I didn’t mean that.” I stood. “It’s been a long day. Don’t go.”
“I thought you were different, Mrs. Duggins.” She slung her backpack on her shoulder and stood.
“Cherilyn, I’m sorry. It’s just, I found these love letters of Henderson’s with the initials C.S. and naturally, after I learned about your pregnancy and admitting to being with Henderson, well—I have to think of Danny. He’s like family.” I blocked her from leaving.
She grabbed the keys on the end table. “Tell Danny I had to go. I’m borrowing his car. I’ll call him tomorrow.” She pushed past me and drove off.
Danny clomped down the stairs seconds later. “Was that Cherilyn?”
I nodded.
“Did she say why she took off without saying goodbye?”
I shook my head and walked toward Jack’s study. Danny trailed me.
“I said she could borrow my car any time, but why would she leave without telling me? Unless she some had an emergency or something. I should call her.”
“I don’t think it’s that serious.” I sat in Jack’s chair and inhaled the leather. “I think there are still some things she needs to talk to you about, and she’s afraid.”
“Of what? There’s nothing she could say that would shock me.”
The boy was in for a rude jolt. “She said she’d call you tomorrow.” I opened my email. Nothing from Jack.
Danny shook his head. “I just don’t get women.” He headed for the door.
Now that suspicion was fading from Jack, I felt remorse for deleting his emails, yet thankful I had forwarded them to my inbox. The reason for the sender’s secrecy nagged, baiting my curiosity. “Danny?”
He turned around.
“What do you know about email codes?”
“You mean encryptions?”
“I’m not sure, but now it’s your turn to promise not to say a word to anyone.”
“Cross my heart hope to—”
“Don’t finish that.”
He sat in the chair opposite me, and I told him about the FBI, Ms. Bomani, and Jack’s suspicious emails. Danny shook his head. “Changing grades is one thing, but interfering with an FBI investigation . . . I don’t think you should have deleted them.”
“I forwarded them to my inbox first. If I delete them now, no one will know they existed.” Except the sender.
“It doesn’t work that way.” Danny exhaled. “They may not know you deleted them, but if the FBI confiscates Jack’s computer, they’ll figure out someone deleted the originals from his computer and then forwarded them to yours.”
“How is that possible if I delete all traces of the original email?”
“Even though the emails are deleted, the computer keeps a record of what goes on. It’s only a matter of time before the FBI finds them.”
What had I done? Not only might I have caused more trouble for Jack, but now I could be accused of tampering, unless they didn’t know it was me. “Is there a way to put the deleted files back?” I stood, offering Danny the chair.
“I could try to do it remotely by logging into the university system again.” Danny sat in front of the computer. “You still have to deal with the emails you transferred to your inbox. If they look, they’ll find the trail.”
I chewed my pinky nail. “Then we’ll have to hope they don’t look for the trail.” I found a USB drive and handed it to Danny. “Copy them, then delete them from my inbox.”
“I’m not sure that’s going to help you.”
“What choice do I have? You said I can’t erase them from my computer, so why not delete them? That could buy me some time.”
“Possibly, but it’s very risky.”
“You said yourself they won’t be able to tell who deleted the emails from Jack’s computer, right?”
“Technically, no.”
“Matt, Ben, Luke, and Fletcher have been in Jack’s office. They could’ve easily been on his computer and somehow transferred and deleted the emails, right?”
Danny cocked one eyebrow? “If I delete these, how would you explain the same thing happening at home? Mrs. D., you’re the one who told me the truth will always find you out.”
Pain jabbed my heart. Guilt. I had no choice. “Delete them.”
Danny hesitated.
“If you won’t, I will.” I inhaled deep. “Please, delete them.”
Danny’s finger punched the delete button and that was that. He took the flash drive, and headed to his room to try and decipher the code on his computer. Refocusing my attention on Jack’s computer, I opened his documents to see if there might be anything else to incriminate him. After this whole mess was settled and the artifact was proven to be authentic, I knew Jack and I would have a good laugh.
A knock sounded at my front door. I jumped up and glanced at the clock. Two minutes after eleven. No one ever made house calls this late to bring good news.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
11:03 p.m.
WHEN I PEERED THROUGH the peephole, my breath caught in my throat. Ms. Bomani stood next to two official-looking men, most likely FBI. I opened the door and stepped onto the porch in my bare feet, shivering. And it wasn’t because of the nip in the air. “Have you heard from Jack?”
“No, not yet.” She handed me my phone. “Thank you for your cooperation.”
I pasted on a calm expression, despite my thundering heart. “Did the voicemail help?”
“The recording is in the lab now. They are trying to isolate the background noise and clean up the message. It is not much.”
“Thank you for returning the phone. I’d invite you in, but the kids are sleeping.” I went to close the door, but the big man with Ms. Bomani held it open. The shorter one carried an empty box. “What’s going on here?”
She handed me a piece of paper as the men slipped past me. “It is a search warrant for the contents of your ex-husband’s home office. We have already confiscated his computer at the university and discovered deleted emails in his account that have relevance to this investigation.”
I steadied my breathing, hurrying into the study. My mouth hung open as the smaller agent unhooked the computer while the other ransacked Jack’s desk.
Ms. Bomani stood beside me. “Gentlemen, we do not have to destroy the office. Take what we have come for and leave Mrs. Duggins in peace.” Then she turne
d to me. “What do you know about emails from Pharo294 to your husband?”
“Nothing.” It was the truth. Almost. “Jack probably gets dozens of emails from Egypt. That’s not a reason for a search warrant.”
“But confirmation that the heart scarab has been forged is.”
“What? How did you get the test results so quickly?”
“We sent off a sample to the micromorphology lab in Houston. They compared sediment on the heart scarab with a section from where the artifact was uncovered. They did not match.”
My mind jolted awake as if I’d been injected with a double espresso. “I don’t believe it.”
“There are still several other tests the artifact and soil section needs to undergo, but there is enough evidence for us to proceed with this investigation.”
“Okay, the scarab is a fake, but that doesn’t mean Jack stole the original.” I pressed dry lips together, my mouth desperate for a cool glass of water. “Detective Lopez says you have other, more compelling leads in this case. Why aren’t you investigating those?”
“I assure you we are pursuing all leads. Do you remember in 2003 when Tarek El- Sweissi, the former head of the National Democratic Party for the Giza area, was found with a substantial amount of genuine artifacts in his luxurious villa in Cairo?”
“Sure, it was the highest level of corruption Egypt had seen in decades. It rocked the archaeological world. Jack and I spent weeks trying to figure out how Egyptian smugglers managed to excavate artifacts at legitimate sites and export them as replicas, then sell them on the antiquities market.”
“Thankfully, with Swiss cooperation, we recovered 300 other priceless artifacts. Since then, we have taken extreme measures in policing archaeological sites to make sure nothing like that occurs again.”
I glanced at the two agents rummaging through the bookshelf. “What does all that have to do with Jack?”
“We have evidence to believe the heart scarab was stolen, then forged with help from someone outside of Egypt.”
“You’re not implying Jack’s involved in organized smuggling? That ring was busted up and the smugglers apprehended and convicted.”
“Many were, but not all. Egypt cannot afford to lose any more antiquities to these ruthless thieves.”
Tension swept in again as if the tightness had never left. “Jack had nothing to do with that smuggling ring. He’s only been in Egypt for three weeks.” This trip. “That’s not enough time to pull off something like this. How could the fake artifacts be smuggled from the country as real ones? Wouldn’t the forgeries be discovered when examined and retested?”
“If the smugglers were working with various rings around the world, it is feasible they could have professionals stationed to receive these replicas and pass them off as the real antiquities while the authentic artifacts were transported overseas and sold on the black market. If this is true, the real heart scarab could still be in Egypt.”
“Why go through all the trouble to create forgeries? Why not pass the real ones off as replicas like they did in the past?”
“Since the bust in 2003, Egypt has stricter laws and has increased their awareness on that type of smuggling. But if excavated antiquities on legitimate dig sites were processed and packaged for shipment to legitimate universities and museums, they would pass unnoticed, making it easier for authentic pieces to be exported as fakes and be moved out of the country.”
“That would mean dozens of archaeologists, museum curators, and other professionals could be involved—”
“Including university archaeology professors.”
“Excuse me, ma’am.” The agent with Jack’s computer squeezed past us.
My chest tightened. “You believe Jack was involved in this new smuggling ring switching the real artifacts for the forged ones and sending them here?”
“Mr. Duggins was team leader. He oversaw the storage of the excavated artifacts and had the only key. It is possible he was the professional the smugglers relied on at this university.”
“That is ridiculous. I would have known. There were others with access to the key. They could have been involved.”
“We are looking at everyone on site including Mr. Murdock. We are aware of his relationship with your husband.”
“Let’s say your theory is right. Where’s the proof?”
She paused and pressed her lips together. “Remains of a laboratory were found in an empty tomb in the mountain not far from the Valley of the Queens where your husband was excavating.”
The news detonated. When Jack called, I had actually heard an explosion.
“The Egyptian police are picking through the rubble, but have discovered pieces of computers and equipment necessary to produce replicas of this quality. We are waiting on the authenticity of the samples found and to see if they can retrieve anything off the hard drives. If traces of authentic and forged antiquities are found, even without the information on the computer, I am afraid the implications of a smuggling ring are substantial.”
Lightheaded, I reached for the chair in front of me. “Was there anything else found in the rubble?”
“Yes.” Ms. Bomani drew in a breath, her eyes softened as she looked into mine. “I am afraid so … human remains.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
11:27 p.m.
MY LUNGS TIGHTENED, CHEST burned, fighting to breathe as I held onto Jack’s leather chair. He couldn’t be dead. As much as he hurt me, as much anger I still held for him, I wasn’t ready to lose him. But death stalked me like a jilted lover, taking out those around me first. People I cared about, dared to love, until its sadistic appetite was satisfied and it made its final lunge … at me.
I gasped for air. Ms. Bomani helped me sit.
Was this God’s cruel form of payment for not doing something to stop my father? Payback for letting him kill my mother? For not protecting Matt when I could?
The last agent handed me a list of confiscated items as he carried a box filled with Jack’s things. “I think we’re done.”
I didn’t remember Ms. Bomani and the agents leaving as I plodded to bed. I tossed and turned through the night, sleep always eluding me. Voices from my past taunted, keeping me on the edge of consciousness. My hand reached over, searching for comfort, but as I drifted off I knew the emptiness in and around me would never be satisfied.
Jack calls to me. Eroding earth falls on my head, covering me like a shroud. My nostrils burn. Musty earth awakens my senses. Bare feet smack the cold, hard earth as I run, run, run through the dark tunnel. My toe catches in the hem of my long nightgown. I float toward the ground, then rise up and settle on two feet. Jack’s cries grow louder, propelling me forward. My small torch grows dim. I suck in a breath. Not enough to fill my lungs. My head spins.
The tunnel opens up into two. Which way? Quiet sobs escape my lips. Light spills from the one on the left. I glimpse Fletcher’s face. The silence makes we quake. Jack’s cries pour from the ominous tunnel on my right, but it is dark.
Too dark.
Before I take a step, I am there. Inside the blackness, fog chokes my breath, then extinguishes my torch. I plod on, ignoring the burning in my chest, the wails more intense. Like the cries of my mother. No, desperate howls from a baby I never nursed.
Stumbling in the dark, I reach in front of me and hit a wall. In a panic, I feel all around me. Above me. The tunnel is shrinking. The chill in the air warms. My eyes sting as I crouch, choking. Smoke! A cough expels the darkness. Bright light assaults me. I shield my eyes and gaze into an endless passageway. Screams of terror pierce my soul. I sprint toward the sound. “I’m coming.” But will I make it in time?
When my eyes adjust to the light, I find myself in a small tomb. The cries have ceased. Only dead silence. I’m too late. A sarcophagus appears. Pain sears, my heart tries to crack open, my ribcage desperate for escape. I tiptoe to the stone box and remove the lid. I gasp at the wrinkled, lifeless body in the tomb.
It’s me.
I jerked awake, then lay motionless. My wet, cotton nightgown clung to my body. No tunnel. No tomb. Only the echoing cries lingered in my head. Even though I was awake, my body still trembled. The anguish. So real. So overwhelming. Several minutes later I rolled out of bed. I didn’t have the time or energy to analyze my dream. Truth was, I wanted to forget. I had enough worries with my living nightmare.
I plodded downstairs in my slippers and made a cup of tea. 5:15 a.m. Morning had come too soon. Whether I was ready or not, I had to start another day. If I could only rewind the clock to before Jack left. Then everything would be okay. Or would it?
What if everything I thought true was actually false? If Jack was involved in this smuggling ring, maybe he wasn’t the person I thought he was. Could the life we shared have been a lie? Had it driven him from his family? Would I ever learn the truth?
No. Where was the evidence of his guilt? I wouldn’t abandon Jack like I had my mother. Like—I pushed the thoughts from my mind and sipped my tea at the table, mentally ticking off the things I needed to accomplish today, then found a scrap paper and pen in my bag. With finals completed, I had loads of tests to grade and mid-term evaluations to fill out before the holidays. I’d promised Ben I’d pick him up for lunch, and we’d meet Elizabeth and Luke at McDonald’s, then my 3:00 interview at KTXL, and Henderson’s memorial service. I found the piece of paper with the locker combination on it and scribbled my list.
Hattie bounced in the kitchen with bright eyes and matted hair.
I sighed. “You’re awake early.”
“Couldn’t sleep.” She opened the fridge, grabbed the orange juice, and poured a glass.
“Excited about the Christmas pageant?”
She shrugged and sat next to me. “I guess.”
“Something else on your mind?”
“It’s not going to be the same without daddy.”
I fought the emotion rising in my throat. “He really wished he could hear you sing, but his job is very important. They needed him on this excavation.”
“Why him? Why couldn’t Mr. Murdock be there? He doesn’t have a family.”