The Consequences Series Box Set

by Aleatha Romig

  Amber kicked him again.

  “Ouch!”

  “You’re gross. TMI!” Amber retorted.

  “What are you talking about?” Liz asked.

  “Fine, I’m spilling the beans. Keaton and I’ve been talking about it all day.” Amber’s eyes sparkled with untold secrets. “Both Anthony Rawlings and Claire have been arrested!”

  “Arrested?!” Liz said. “For Simon’s death? Claire had something to do with Simon?”

  “No,” Amber replied. “Not for Simon. The article said that Claire shot someone.”

  “Oh, my God, she is nuts. And you had her living with you.”

  Harry’s shoulders straightened. “I think there’s more to it than that. And no one said she’s nuts.” His modest attempt at defending Claire earned him cold looks from the two women at the table. “The woman she’s accused of shooting is the same one who was at the estate when Rawlings first took her.”

  “Didn’t you go and talk to that lady?” Liz asked.

  “I did.”

  “And Claire killed her?” Liz questioned.

  “No,” Harry replied.

  When he offered no more information, Amber responded. “I called John. He said it’s a mess. The lady’s name is Catherine, and she was shot, but her wound isn’t life-threatening. Of course, I was all concerned about Claire. He said that she’s not doing well. She hasn’t spoken to anyone since it happened.”

  “She isn’t as dumb as she acts. I bet she’s faking it to avoid jail time,” Liz said.

  Harry thought about her transition from prison the first time, the way she reacted to simple things like sky and sunlight. He didn’t want her going through that again. It wasn’t right. The FBI made her a deal. She had immunity.

  Amber’s laugh refocused him. He wasn’t sure what he’d missed in the conversation, but Liz and Amber were clinking their glasses of red wine and grinning.

  “I scored us four great tickets to the Lakers game this coming Saturday. They’re in the Google suite: drinks and food on me,” Keaton offered.

  “On you or on Google?” Amber teased.

  “I work for Google, so without me you wouldn’t be there,” he answered smugly. “I’d say it’s on me.”

  Amber kissed his cheek. “Sounds great.”

  “Yeah, sounds fun,” Liz replied. “What time?”

  “I’m sorry,” Harry said, interrupting their plans. “I need to be out of town for a few days. You have fun without me.”

  Liz’s expression dropped. “What else didn’t you have time to tell me? Do you have a new assignment?”

  “Yeah, but it won’t last long—just a couple of days.”

  “When are you leaving?” Amber asked.

  “Tomorrow.”

  Pressing her lips together, Liz slumped in her chair and sighed.

  “Well, this party just took a downturn,” Keaton observed.

  After a long drink of her wine, Liz refilled her glass and faked a smile. “Don’t be silly. I’m not that insecure. It isn’t like Harry’s running off to Iowa or something.”

  Amber’s gaze cut to Harry.

  “Would anyone else like some more wine?” he asked with a purposeful tone of innocence as he refilled his glass.

  Chapter Nine

  Late March 2014

  John

  One of the secrets of life is that all that is really worth doing is what we do for others.

  —Lewis Carroll

  MY LIFE AS IT Didn’t Appear: Chapter 3…

  IT'S DIFFICULT TO look back at a time of despair and isolate the most difficult moment. They all worked together to accomplish the same goal. In my education as a meteorologist, I learned how essential elements combined in just the right way to create the perfect storm. Finding the one element, the one piece of the puzzle that completed the devastation would be like choosing the single raindrop responsible for a ruinous flood or the upward draft that completed the destructive funnel cloud. Each drop of water or gust of wind played a role in the destruction. In my education as Mrs. Rawlings, I learned how each storm, no matter how small, played a role in creating the perfect companion.

  As a town is never the same after a destructive storm, neither was I.

  The isolation in my suite was my first storm. It should have been the kidnapping and the physical abuse: surely they contributed. They were rumblings of impending desperation, like the threatening winds before a hurricane. During those times that seemed unsurvivable, I erroneously believed I could make a difference. I held on to the hope that I could say or do something to change my destiny. While left alone—literally alone—for almost two weeks, the dams broke and I changed forever. I found myself almost wishing for the threatening precursors.

  After Anthony’s proclamation of ownership, he left my suite. Though my cheek stung from the slap of his hand, it was the impenetrable silence that hung about me like a cloud. I’d already tried and failed to escape my cell: I was alone with no way out.

  The windows wouldn’t break with the pounding of the chair against the glass. First, I tried the tall French doors that led to a balcony. Of course, the doors were locked, but I hoped that I could break the glass to get outside and climb to freedom. That seemed safer than the windows. The small panes repelled the blows. After numerous failed attempts, and despite the distance from the other windows to the ground, I tried breaking the windows. Unfortunately, no number of strikes shattered the glass, only my hope.

  The Weather Station had told me I was in Iowa. When I escaped, I didn’t know where I would go or how long it would take me to get there. I just knew that freedom was beyond the sea of trees. From my view, they seemed to go on forever. I also feared that if the windows broke, an alarm of some kind would sound; however, with each passing day my desperation grew. Running through the trees was my recurring dream—and nightmare.

  Often, I’d wake panting from the realness of my illusions with my heart pounding too quickly in my chest. During the day I imagined freedom, but with night, reality intruded: I couldn’t get free. I’d be chased and caught. Though I wasn’t sure what would happen after my recapture, I knew instinctively that it wouldn’t be good.

  Day after day, I saw only one person. The choice was extremely calculating, as the young man of Latin descent spoke little English. Three times a day, he’d enter my room and bring me my meals. Each time he’d avoid my eyes and say, “I bring Miss Claire her food.” That was all. No other words were uttered.

  Each day while I showered, my room was cleaned and clothes were taken, laundered, and returned. As the dreams of escape faded, they were replaced by desires of companionship. I had never truly been alone in all of my life. There had always been people. Even in Atlanta when I lived alone, I had friends, neighbors, coworkers, and even strangers. I never realized how much it meant to pass a stranger on the street with a nod and a smile. As the days turned to a week, I longed for a smile, a nod, anything.

  Since my waiter didn’t speak beyond his one sentence, I hoped to speak with one of the invisible people who cleaned my suite. Repeatedly, I tried to catch someone in the act—anyone—but I never did. They were too quick. One day, I was so distraught that I devised a plan. It was quite simple. Instead of showering, I would lie in wait and spring from the bathroom when someone entered the suite. The anticipation was overwhelming. I was so excited at the prospect of hearing my own voice and another responding. Such a simple desire, yet it monopolized my thoughts and took away my appetite. Finally, I left the tray of food, went into the bathroom leaving the door slightly ajar, and waited.

  No one came.

  Lunchtime arrived and my breakfast tray remained.

  The reality struck with a blow more painful than Anthony’s hand. I was a grown woman hiding behind a door, praying for the companionship of anyone. Salty, pathetic tears fell from my eyes as sobs resonated from my chest. As the day progressed, my hope dimmed. At one point I even prayed for the young man—oh, to hear him say “Miss Claire.” I knew it would gi
ve me strength. Hearing my name would validate my existence.

  He didn’t come.

  Anthony had never left me without food, and though I wasn’t hungry, I naively believed that my next meal would soon arrive. The silence and despair combined to create a time and space continuum. Did I sleep? Was this real? Every now and then I’d open the door a little wider to be sure that I hadn’t fallen asleep and missed the invisible people. The sight of my room taunted me: my bed remained disheveled and my cold eggs had turned to rubber on the plate. I believed the people were coming and was so obsessed with seeing them that I refused to shower and even waited until I could wait no more to enter the lavatory.

  Still no one.

  I continued to wait as the storm raged in my shattered mind.

  The Iowa sky became dark and the hard tile floor of the too-white bathroom became my chair and my bed. The plush purple towels served as my pillow as sleep intermittently took over. I dreamed of conversation—not food, shelter, or even freedom. I lay curled up on the bathroom floor fantasizing about speech. I remembered hours spent with friends. I recalled the sleepovers I’d had as a child and a smile would briefly grace my lips. There were nights when I’d talk with my friends, as little girls do, until we were too tired to finish a sentence. On that white marble tile I cried for the times I’d fallen asleep. Oh, to have that opportunity again. I swore I’d never again take it for granted.

  During that night the winds changed direction. My consciousness was no longer blaming Anthony but myself. Of course, no one would enter my suite. I was pathetic—a grown woman behaving like a child. Who would want to come and talk with me? I’d hit bottom—or so I’d thought.

  I’d later learn that bottom was much deeper than I ever suspected.

  The next morning when I awoke on the hard, cold floor with my body aching, I knew the storm had passed. I hadn’t hit bottom but a shelf on the floor of the ocean. It was lower than I’d ever been, but I refused to allow myself to sink further. Instead, I evaluated my elevation and concluded that I would survive, and I would never be alone again.

  That didn’t mean that I wouldn’t be without others: it meant I wouldn’t let it destroy me. He may have believed he owned my body, but as long as I was in control of my mind, Anthony Rawlings, or anyone else, would not have the ability to isolate me. With my new resolve, I showered, dressed, and walked into my clean suite. The invisible people had returned. My cold eggs were gone, and I had a warm meal waiting on the table.

  That storm taught me another lesson. If I followed the rules, I could expect favorable consequences. I’d already learned about unfavorable ones, and I had more to learn. Instead of feeling defeated, that day gave me strength. My actions had consequences: whether those were positive or negative was up to me. I was in control.

  It never crossed my mind to wonder how Anthony knew I was hiding and lying in wait in that bathroom. I just knew that somehow he did. He knew I wasn’t following my daily routine. My only hope at manipulating the circumstances of my incarceration was to appear compliant. I had another new goal.

  My theory was soon to be tested. After thirteen days, I heard a knock on my door. The young man who brought my meals always knocked once before entering, but this knock was different. No one entered. I waited. It happened again. When I called out, I was miraculously answered.

  “Miss Claire, may I enter?”

  Her question was quite comical. I couldn’t have bid her entrance if I’d wanted nor could I deny it. I was on the wrong side of the locked door. Nonetheless, I said, “Yes, Kate (name changed to protect the innocent), please come in.”

  The familiar beep preceded the opening of my door. I stood motionless as her gray eyes filled with compassion, silently confirming that I was no longer alone. “Miss Claire, I have a message for you.” Kate’s accent was unique and formal and her words were music to my heart. I didn’t care what they said, only that they were spoken to me. I longed to hug or touch her in some way, craving contact, but that would have been too much—too much for my attention-starved psyche. Unable to verbally respond, I nodded, savoring the interaction and trying to make it last.

  “Mr. Rawlings will be coming to see you tonight…”

  I listened with a mixture of fear and anticipation. The storm had broken my defenses and revealed my greatest vulnerability: I would do anything to avoid being alone, even if it meant facing him.

  The bile rose in John’s throat as he closed the book and laid it on the bedside stand. Little bits were all he could tolerate—it was too much. As he tried to settle for sleep, a line in Meredith’s book came back to him: as long as I was in control of my mind, Anthony Rawlings, or anyone else, would not have the ability to isolate me.

  He turned to Emily. “I didn’t think it was possible to hate him more than I did, but I do.”

  With her head on the pillow, she opened her tired eyes. “I hate that book. I told you not to read it.”

  “I couldn’t when she was missing, but now—”

  Emily sat up and kissed her husband. “Now, I think, may even be worse. She’s still missing.”

  John shook his head. “I just read something about her thinking she was in control—how she would never allow anyone to isolate her. I get it.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “When I was in prison…”

  Emily nodded.

  “The loneliness was the most difficult part for me. I remember reliving so many conversations. It’s like you have this continual movie playing in your head. Sometimes I’d remember something you said that was funny, and I’d hear myself laugh. It felt wrong, yet right. It helped me.”

  “John, I’m so sorry…”

  “No, that isn’t my point. My point is that in this book she talks about remembering. Em, why isn’t she remembering now? How can we, or the doctors help her remember? I mean, she has a daughter!”

  “Shh,” Emily chided. “Let’s not wake that daughter up.”

  John exhaled. “Do you ever think about what we were doing while she was going through that shit—before?”

  Emily nodded and leaned against John’s chest. “I do. I especially did while reading that damn book. I wish I could say I think Meredith sensationalized it, but it’s a lot like what Claire told me. There are more details in the book…”

  “Yeah, I could do without those.”

  “Me too, but as long as the rest of the world knows them, I felt like I should too. John?” Her green eyes looked up.

  “Yeah?”

  “I don’t think I can go back to California.”

  He closed his eyes and nodded.

  Emily continued, “I can’t leave her here in that state facility alone. I’m afraid if I go before his trial, somehow he’ll get out of it, and I need to keep her safe, keep him away from her and Nichol.”

  “I understand, but I have an obligation to SiJo and Amber.”

  “I know you feel indebted to them. Can we just take it a day or a week at a time?”

  John nodded. “Did I tell you that they called? I spoke with Amber and Harry. They’re both concerned. Amber told me to take as much time as I need.”

  Emily yawned. “She’s been great. What did Harry say?”

  “He asked if he could visit.”

  Her attention was once again focused on her husband. “He wants to visit? Us or Claire?”

  John shrugged. “Both, I think.”

  A smile fluttered across Emily’s lips. “Well, all right.”

  John’s eyes narrowed. “Why do you have that smirk?”

  “Because I like the idea of keeping that bastard away and allowing Harry to visit. If I could, I’d take pictures!”

  John hugged his wife’s shoulders and pulled her down to his pillow. “I’m glad we’re on the same team. You definitely have a wicked side.”

  “Don’t you think he deserves it?”

  It was John’s turn to yawn. “After what I just read, he deserves more.”

  "IT'S SO NICE of you to vis
it,” Emily said to Harry as she rocked Nichol.

  “Yes, I’m sorry we’re hidden away in this hotel suite,” John said, “but I’m sure you understand. We’re doing our best to keep Nichol out of the spotlight.”

  “I get it,” Harry replied.

  John sat back against the soft chair and watched as Emily lulled their niece to sleep. Although Harry wasn’t making it uncomfortable, it seemed odd to have him here with Claire’s baby. After all, there was a time when they’d all assumed he was the father. Looking at the tufts of dark hair making their way out of the soft blanket and back to the blue-eyed man with wavy blonde hair, there was no question: Harry was not Nichol’s father. Her resemblance to Anthony Rawlings was as unnerving as it was undeniable. The first time John looked into his niece’s big brown eyes, he shivered at the recognition. That was only the first time. From that point on, her eyes were hers and hers alone. The long lashes and round cheeks that turned crimson at the first sign of fussing were all Nichol—Claire’s daughter and their niece. Never could John bring himself to blame her for her father’s sins.

  “Amber couldn’t get away,” Harry said. “But she sends her love and support. She said to let you know that she understands allegiance to family. Take as long as you need John. Your job is waiting for you in California.”

  John nodded. “I spoke with her the other day. I can’t thank her enough for all that she’s done for us.”

  “Yes, after Claire left…” Emily began and stopped. “Oh, I’m sorry, Harry. I’m so sleep-deprived that I’m talking without thinking. I’m sure you don’t want to talk about that.”

  “It’s all right. There’s nothing I haven’t already heard or thought about. It was a little uncomfortable for a while, but John wasn’t hired because he was Claire’s brother-in-law. He was hired at SiJo because of his ability.”

  “But you left SiJo right after that. I hope I wasn’t the cause. We miss you,” John said.