“Proactive interference,” Paul would have explained. “It’s when previously acquired information inhibits our ability to process new information.”
The new information could not be any clearer. Paul was a cold-blooded murderer. Claire was an idiot if she thought that he was going to let Lydia walk away. She knew too much. She was expendable. She might as well have a timer over her head counting down the minutes she had left.
So this was Claire’s next step: She was going to retrieve the USB drive from Adam Quinn—either by asking for it or by threatening him with the gun she now held in her hands. Claire had seen what a tennis racket could do to a knee. She could not imagine the damage a bullet could do.
Lydia was right about seeking out as much information as possible. Claire had to find out why the contents of the drive were so important to Paul. Having that information would put the balance of power firmly back on Claire’s side.
Carefully, she removed the gun from the bag. The oily metallic smell was familiar. Two years ago, she had taken Paul to a gun range for his birthday. Paul had been pleased, but only because Claire had thought to do something so completely out of her comfort range. She hadn’t lasted more than ten minutes inside the range. The emotional toll of holding death in her hands had sent Claire out to the parking lot where she had dissolved into tears. Paul had soothed her while he laughed, because it was silly, and Claire knew it was silly, but she had been absolutely petrified.
The guns were loud. Everything smelled foreign and dangerous. Just holding the loaded Glock made her tremble. Nothing about Claire was equipped to use a gun. She didn’t have the hand strength to reliably pull back the slide. The recoil was panic-inducing. She was afraid she would drop the gun and accidentally kill somebody or herself, or both. She was afraid the discharged shell would burn her skin. Every time she pulled the trigger, her fear bumped up another notch until she was shaking too hard to keep her fingers wrapped around the grip.
This had all come later. Before they stepped foot on the range, Paul had asked the rangemaster for a thorough explanation of all the weapons. Claire had been surprised by his request because she just assumed that her husband knew everything about everything. The rangemaster had taken them to a glass display that showcased the guns they could rent by the hour: pistols, handguns, a few rifles, and, most alarmingly, a machine gun.
They had decided on the Glock because the brand was most familiar. The pistol was a nine-millimeter. You had to pull back the slide to load the bullet into the chamber. With a revolver, you just dropped the bullets into the cylinder, clicked the cylinder into place, cocked the firing pin, or hammer, then pulled the trigger.
Of course, the key word here was bullets.
Claire examined Lydia’s revolver. Her sister would not be so stupid as to hide a loaded gun under her back porch. Still, Claire checked the cylinder. The five chambers were empty. She did a mental inventory of the cash in her wallet. She could go to a sporting goods store or a Walmart and buy ammunition with cash because a credit card transaction would show up somewhere.
The floodlights came on.
Claire bumped her head on the deck stairs. Her skull clanged like a bell.
Rick Butler leaned down to look at her. “Can I help you?”
Claire put the gun back in the bag. She tried to crawl out from underneath the deck, but she needed both hands. She tossed the bag out into the yard. Rick stepped back like she’d thrown acid at his feet.
“I’m sorry,” she apologized, because that was her answer for everything. “I’m Claire Scott, Lydia’s—”
“Sister.” Rick looked down at the gun. “I thought she got rid of that thing.”
“Well.” Claire clapped her hands together to clean off the dirt. She tried good manners, because Helen had taught her to always be polite. At least initially. “It’s nice to finally meet you.”
“Sure,” he said. “An explanation would be nice.”
Claire nodded, because it would be nice, but she couldn’t give him one. She settled on another “I’m sorry.” She picked up the gun. She wrapped the bag tightly around the barrel.
“Wait a minute,” Rick said, because he could obviously tell she was going to leave. “Where’s Lydia?”
As usual, Paul’s timing was impeccable. Claire felt Lydia’s phone vibrate in her back pocket. He had sent the latest photo. Should she show it to Rick? Should she let him know what was going on with the woman to whom he had devoted the last thirteen years of his life?
Claire said, “I need to go.”
Rick narrowed his eyes. Either he was extremely perceptive or Claire was too easy to read. “You’re not leaving here until you tell me what’s going on.”
“I have a gun in my hands.”
“Then use it.”
They stared at each other. Somewhere, a dog started barking. Almost a full minute passed before Claire said, “I’m sorry.”
“You keep saying that, but it doesn’t seem like it.”
He had no idea how truly sorry Claire was. “I need to go.”
“With an empty gun that’s been buried in the ground?” Rick shook his head. He didn’t look angry anymore. He looked frightened. “Is Lydia okay?”
“Yes.”
“Did she …?” He rubbed the side of his jaw with his hand. “Did she slip?”
“Slip?” Claire’s mind filled with an image of Lydia slipping and falling on the floor. And then she understood what Rick Butler really meant. “Yes,” she said, because Lydia would prefer this terrible lie over the truth. “She slipped. She drank some wine, and then she took some pills, and she wouldn’t stop.”
“Why?”
Claire had lived with Lydia’s addiction for six years before their break. “Does there have to be a reason?”
Rick looked devastated. He was an addict. He knew that addicts could always find a reason.
“I’m sorry.” Claire felt like an anvil was on her chest. What she was doing was awful, inexcusable. She could read the anger and disappointment and fear in every line of Rick’s face. “I’m so sorry.”
“It’s not your fault.” His voice went up the way men’s voices sometimes squeaked when they were trying to hold back emotions. “Why do you—” He cleared his throat. “Why do you need a gun?”
Claire glanced around the back yard as if an easy explanation would present itself.
“You think she’s gonna come back here and try to hurt herself?”
The alarm in his tone was heartbreaking. His throat still worked as he tried to quell his emotions. There were tears in his eyes. He looked like such a kind, gentle man. He was exactly the kind of person she had always hoped that her sister would end up with.
And now Claire was breaking his heart.
Rick asked, “Where is she? I want to see her. Talk to her.”
“I’m going to check her into rehab. I’ll pay for it. The facility is in New Mexico.” Claire pressed together her lips. Why had she said New Mexico?
Rick asked, “Is she in your car?”
“The ambulance is taking her to the airport. I’ll meet her there.” Claire added, “Alone. She told me to tell you to keep Dee safe. She doesn’t want you to see her like this. You know how proud she is.”
He slowly nodded his head. “I can’t believe she lost her sobriety after so long.”
“I’m sorry.” Claire was out of words. Her brain was so overtaken by Paul’s lies that she was incapable of coming up with new ones on her own. “I’m sorry,” she kept repeating. “I’m so sorry.”
Claire didn’t know what else to say. She headed toward the back yard. She counted her footsteps to fill her head with something other than guilt. Five paces. Ten paces.
Rick stopped her at twenty. “Wait a minute.”
Claire felt her shoulders hunch. She had never been good at hiding her guilt because with Paul around, she was always so easily forgiven.
“You can’t take the gun.”
Claire turned around. Rick was
closing the gap between them. Her first thought was that she could not outrun him. Her second thought was that she couldn’t think of another lie.
She put the problem back on Rick. “Why not?”
“They’re not going to let you take it on the plane. You can’t just stash it in the car at the airport.” He held out his hand. “I’ll hold on to it.”
Claire forced herself to look him in the eye. He smelled of car exhaust. She could see hard muscles under the sleeves of his flannel shirt. Even with the ponytail, he was a man in every sense of the word. He’d been in prison. He looked like he could handle himself. Claire wanted to let him help her. Every problem in her life had always been fixed by someone else.
And look where that had gotten her.
“What’s really going on here?” Rick’s posture had changed. He was looking at her differently now. His arms were crossed. His distrust was evident. “Lydia warned me that you were a really good liar.”
“Yeah, well …” Claire let out a long sigh. “I usually am.”
“Is she safe?”
“I don’t know.” Claire tightened her grip on the gun. She had to get out of here. If she stood in front of this man for too long, she would ask him for help. She would let him take over. She would get him killed. “Take Dee away from here. Tonight. Don’t tell me where you’re going.”
“What?”
She could read shock in every line on his face. “Just take her somewhere safe.”
“You need to call the police.” His voice had gone up again, this time with fear. “If there’s something—”
“The police are involved. The FBI. I don’t know who else.”
He opened his mouth, then closed it, then opened it again.
“I’m sorry.”
“Fuck your sorry, lady. What the hell did you get her caught up in?”
Claire knew she had to tell him something close to the truth. “Something really bad. Lydia is in danger.”
“You’re scaring me.”
“You should be scared.” She grabbed Rick’s arm. “Don’t call the police. They won’t help. Take Dee and get her out of here.”
“Dee?” He was almost yelling. “What the hell does Dee have to do with this?”
“You need to take her away.”
“You said that. Now tell me why.”
“If you want to help Lydia, then you’ll keep Dee safe. That’s all she cares about.”
He put his hand over hers so she couldn’t leave. “I know what happened between you two. You haven’t talked to each other in twenty years and now you’re suddenly worried about her daughter?”
“Lydia is my sister. Even when I hated her, I still loved her.” Claire looked down at his hand. “I have to go.”
Rick didn’t let go of her hand. “Why don’t I just hold on to you and call the police?”
“Because if you call the police, then Lydia will be dead and the person who has her will come after Dee.”
His grip loosened, but more out of shock than acquiescence. “What can I do? Just tell me what—”
“You can keep Dee safe. I know you love Lydia, and I know you want to help, but she loves her daughter. You know that’s all that matters to her.”
Claire pulled away from him. Rick didn’t make it easy. Obviously, he was torn between letting her go and shaking the truth out of her, but he loved Lydia’s daughter. Claire knew from Paul’s reports that Rick had practically raised her. He was her father, and no father would let harm come to his child.
She picked up the pace as she jogged through the back yard. She jumped over the low fence. Every step she took forward was hounded by the ones she wanted to take back to Rick. She prayed that he would listen to her and take Dee somewhere safe. But what was safe? Paul had countless resources. Congressman Johnny Jackson had even more.
Should she turn around and go back? Rick loved Lydia. He was her family—probably more so than Claire. He would help her.
And Paul would probably kill him.
Claire pulled Lydia’s phone out of her back pocket as she ran toward the car. The latest photo showed Lydia lying on her side. The picture was darker, which she hoped meant that Paul had taken it recently rather than an hour and a half ago.
The streetlights came on as Claire got behind the wheel of the Tesla. She put the gun in her purse. She didn’t need Rick Butler. The gun was the plan. She would use it to get information from Adam. She would use it to kill Paul. Claire had felt so certain when she first held the weapon under the deck steps. She couldn’t falter now that there were other, easier options. She had to go through with this. She had to confront Paul on her own. If she knew one thing about her husband, it was that he would be furious if she involved someone else.
There could be no one else inside the circle.
She started the car. She did a U-turn back onto the main road. She passed Lydia’s home. The lights had been turned on in the front rooms. She prayed to God that Rick was packing Dee’s things, that he was doing as she asked and taking Lydia’s daughter somewhere safe.
Again, she asked herself what was safe. Fred Nolan could run Rick’s credit cards. He could track the man’s phone. He could probably find him with drones or CCTV or whatever else the federal government employed to spy on persons of interest.
Claire shook her head. She couldn’t keep running off on tangents. She had to take this in steps. She had Lydia’s gun now. That was the first step. The second step was to get the USB drive from Adam. She would pull over to a payphone and call him. Sunday night. He would be at home with Sheila. Was there such a thing as a payphone anymore? Claire couldn’t risk calling Adam on Lydia’s phone. She had watched too many episodes of Homeland to know better than that. Agent Nolan or Captain Mayhew—or both—could be monitoring Adam’s phone for Claire’s call.
Blue lights flashed in her rear-view mirror. Claire instinctively slowed to get out of the cop’s way, but the cop car slowed, too, and when she signaled to get over, he signaled, too.
“Shit,” Claire hissed, because she’d been speeding. The limit was thirty-five and she was doing fifty.
And she had a gun in her purse.
Claire was on parole. She had a weapon. She probably still had traces of drugs in her system. She had violated every single line item in her terms of parole, including ignoring a law enforcement officer’s request for a meeting.
The cop behind her made his siren whoop.
Claire pulled over to the side of the road. What was she going to do? What the fuck was she going to do?
The cop didn’t park behind her. Instead, he pulled in front and angled his car so that the Tesla was blocked in.
Claire put her hand on the gear. She could go into reverse. She could back up the car and she could hit the gas and she could probably go about ten miles before every police officer in the vicinity was chasing her down the expressway.
The cop got out of the squad car. He put on his hat. He adjusted his belt.
Claire grabbed Lydia’s phone. Paul. He would know what to do. Except she didn’t have his number. The caller ID always showed it as blocked.
“Shit,” Claire repeated.
Maybe Paul already knew what was happening. He’d made it clear that he had friends in law enforcement. He could easily make a phone call and have Claire pulled over and handcuffed and stuffed into the back of a police car that would take her to wherever Paul was hiding.
The cop hadn’t come over. He was standing beside his car. He was talking on his cell phone. They were on the outskirts of Lydia’s neighborhood. All of the surrounding houses were dark. The cop checked the empty road over his shoulder before walking toward the Tesla.
Claire’s fingers took over. She was dialing a number into Lydia’s phone as the cop tapped on her window with the back of his wedding ring.
“Hello?” The phone was answered with the usual breathless panic that always accompanied calls from unknown numbers. Was it Julia? Was it Lydia? Was it more bad news?
; “Mom.” Claire gulped back a sob. “Please, Mom, I really need you.”
SIXTEEN
Lydia hadn’t stood a chance against Paul. She had waited and waited for him to get her out of the trunk, but he just kept stopping to take her picture and then driving some more, then stopping again, then driving. He did this a total of five times before she lost control of her senses.
The first sign was a faint dizziness—nothing alarming, and weirdly pleasant. She had yawned several times. She had closed her eyes. She had felt the tension drain from her muscles. And then a big, goofy smile had spread across her face.
The trunk wasn’t just padded for sound.
She heard the faint hissing noise as Paul pumped what could only be nitrous oxide into the trunk. Laughing gas. Lydia had used it once at the dentist when she got her wisdom teeth out and she had been haunted for months by the incredible high.
The gas wasn’t meant to knock you out completely, so Lydia could only retrieve fragments of memories from that point on. Paul grinning as he opened the trunk. Slipping a black hood over her head. Tying the bottom of the hood snugly around her neck. Cutting the zip tie holding together her ankles. Muscling her onto the ground. Pushing her to walk. Lydia stumbling through a forest. Hearing birds, smelling cold, fresh air, feeling her feet slide on dry leaves. They walked for what felt like hours until Paul finally pulled her to a stop. He turned her by her shoulders. He pushed her forward. She climbed an endless number of stairs. The sound of her feet echoed like gunshots in her head.
They were still echoing when he pushed her down into a chair. She was incredibly high, but he still didn’t take any chances. First, he zip-tied one ankle, then the other, to the legs of the chair. Then he tightened a chain around her waist. Then he cut open the zip tie around her wrists.
Lydia wanted to move. She may have even tried, but despite the hours of planning, she could not get her arms to lift, her hand to arc into the perfect shape of his neck.
Instead, she felt the plastic zip ties cutting into her skin as he bound each wrist to the arm of a chair.
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