Cant Let Go GO PL

by Barbara Freethy

As the class ended, she answered a few questions about the exam, then gathered her things together. She was about to leave when a man in a dark suit entered the room. He was in his fifties and had short, pepper-gray hair and dark eyes. He walked toward her with a deliberate, purposeful step, the expression on his face intensely serious.

  Peter Hunt was an FBI agent, and one of her father's best friends. He'd gone to Yale with her dad. He'd been in her parents' wedding. He'd been Uncle Peter to her for as long as she could remember. And he had never, ever, visited her at work.

  A chill ran through her.

  Something was wrong—terribly wrong.

  Following Peter into the classroom was Karen Leigh—a tall, stylish blonde in her late-thirties, wearing a navy-blue pencil skirt and cream-colored silky blouse. Despite the hot weather, Karen looked impeccably cool.

  She'd met Karen once when she'd stopped in at her dad's office. He'd told her how much he respected Karen's instincts, which was why he'd made her assistant special agent in charge of the organized crime division, of which he was the head. The fact that both Peter and Karen had come to see her did not bode well.

  She tried to stay calm, not jump to conclusions, breathe, but her chest was tight, and she couldn't get any air into her lungs.

  "Sophie," Peter said, his dark eyes somber. "I'm afraid we have terrible news."

  "I'm sorry, Sophie," Karen added, compassion in her gaze.

  "Sorry about what?" She didn't really want an answer, because she knew that whatever they were going to say would not be good. "Where's my dad? Has something happened to him?"

  "He was in an accident," Peter said gently. "A car accident. He didn't make it, Sophie."

  "What?" she gasped, putting a hand to her heart. "What do you mean—he didn't make it?"

  "Your father drove through a guardrail and flipped his car into a pond. He died at the scene." Peter delivered the statement in a slow, purposeful manner. "I'm truly sorry, Sophie. This is not the kind of news I ever wanted to give you."

  She immediately started shaking her head in denial. "There must be some mistake. My father is not dead. He can't be dead. He's healthy. He runs every day. He's going to barbecue ribs for me this weekend—his famous pork ribs. We're getting together on Sunday to watch the Yankees. We're going to talk about my trip to Egypt next month." She blew out a breath. "Oh, God!" Her legs felt suddenly weak as she realized none of those things were going to happen.

  Peter grabbed her arm and led her to the chair by her desk.

  She practically fell into her seat.

  He squatted down in front of her and looked into her eyes. "Breathe, Sophie."

  "Tell me it's not true." She silently implored him to say it was some awful joke, but she could see the pain in his gaze.

  "I wish I could. I really do. Alan was a good friend. I can't believe he's gone, and I know how difficult this is going to be for you. The two of you became so close after your mom died."

  Burning tears pressed at her eyes. She put a hand to her mouth, feeling like she was going to throw up. His words reminded her of the last time she'd heard horrible news. But her mom had been sick for years. They'd said their good-byes more than once. She'd known the end was coming, and it had been a blessing, because her mom had been suffering.

  But this? This sudden end to her dad's vibrant life was impossible to accept. It had been him and her against the world since she was sixteen.

  "Where did it happen? The accident? Was it here in the city?" she asked.

  "No, it was a few hours away—in northern New Jersey," he replied, as he stood up.

  "What? What was he doing way over there?" she asked, even more confused. "Did it have to do with a case?"

  "To be honest, we're not sure why he was in that location," Karen interjected. "We're trying to figure that out. When did you last speak to your dad?"

  She had to think for a minute. "Two days ago—Monday night. We haven't seen each other in a few weeks, and he asked me to come by on Sunday. I didn't actually commit to going to his barbecue, because I have finals next week, and I need to finish writing the test this weekend." She drew in another tight breath. "You're sure there's not a mistake?"

  "I'm sure," Peter said. "There's no mistake."

  "Was there another car involved? Were other people hurt?"

  "We're not sure if another vehicle was involved."

  His answer confused her more. "My father just drove off the side of the road? That doesn't make sense."

  "It appears he was driving at a high rate of speed."

  "What time did it happen?"

  "Around two o'clock this afternoon."

  Two hours ago. Her dad had died two hours ago, and she hadn't known, hadn't felt anything change. How could that be?

  "Where is my father now? I want to see him."

  "He's at the medical examiner's office in New Jersey, and you can't see him yet, Sophie," Peter said. "Not until they're done with the examination."

  She looked at him in confusion. "They're doing an autopsy?"

  "Yes. We need to know if Alan had a medical emergency, or if there were any substances impairing his judgment," Peter replied.

  "My father did not take drugs. He was in great health. He barely drank. You know that." Anger ran through her. How could Peter speak so clinically about her father?

  "It's protocol," he said. "We're also working with the New Jersey police to determine whether another vehicle might have caused the incident and left the scene."

  "Who found him?"

  "There was a 911 call from a hiker. He saw the accident from a good distance away, so he couldn’t render aid, but the police arrived within minutes. It appears that Alan was killed on impact, Sophie. He didn't suffer."

  "But you don't know that for sure, because no one was there for at least a few minutes." The thought of her father knowing he was trapped and dying made her sick to her stomach.

  "Sophie," Karen said, bringing her focus back to the conversation. "I know you're devastated by this news. We all are. But I need to ask you a few questions."

  "Like what?"

  "Did your father tell you about any problems in his life, at work, with friends or coworkers?"

  "No, but he rarely spoke about his job with me. He always said there was so much he couldn't talk about that it was easier just to avoid everything."

  "What about a woman? Was there someone in his life?" Karen continued.

  "I don't know. He went out to dinner sometimes. He had female friends. He didn't discuss them, and I didn't ask."

  "When you spoke to your father on Monday, did he say anything about any meetings or plans he had this week?" Karen continued.

  "I don't think so. We mostly talked about me and the archaeological dig I'm organizing." She felt guilty now that she hadn't asked her dad more about how he was doing and what was going on in his life. Perhaps she'd missed some important clue or sign of what was to come.

  "What about Harrison Delano?" Karen asked. "Your father had a dinner on his calendar with Mr. Delano scheduled for tonight. I understand from Peter that Mr. Delano was a friend from Yale."

  "Yes. They kept in touch." She glanced at Peter. "You know Harrison. Why don't you just ask him?"

  "We will; we haven't had a chance yet," Peter replied. "We wanted to speak to you first."

  "Why are you asking me these questions? What do my dad's dinner plans have to do with his death?"

  "Karen has been going through Alan's calendar to see if we can find any clues," Peter said.

  "I'm trying to piece together a timeline for the week," Karen added. "Your dad was in the office yesterday and left before three, which is early for him. He didn't come in this morning, and he didn't call in sick. I tried to reach him on the phone several times, but he didn't pick up or return my calls. I was concerned because we have several important cases that require his attention, so I went to his house, but he didn't answer. As far as I can ascertain, the last person to speak to him was the security guard in o
ur office building when he left yesterday afternoon. I would love to find someone else."

  "Well, it wasn't me." She licked her lips, realizing the truth behind the questions. "You don't think it was an accident, do you? Because FBI agents don't just drive their cars off mountain roads."

  "We're not discounting any possibility, Sophie," Peter said. "Figuring out what happened to your father is our top priority."

  "We will get answers," Karen promised, determination in her eyes. "Your father was loved and respected by many people in the New York field office and all over the country. We will do right by him."

  "I hope so." At the mention of her father's extended network of friends, she realized that she needed to start making calls, think about planning a funeral, talk to her father's estate attorney, go to his house and get the big notebook from the drawer in his desk that he'd told her had all the information she would need if anything ever happened to him.

  She'd never wanted to look at that book or open that drawer, even though he'd reminded her every time he'd updated it. After her mother had died, he'd realized how difficult it was to find passwords, and he'd vowed he'd never leave her with messy problems to clean up. She'd told him she didn't want to think about him being gone. They had years—decades—to get organized.

  Another tear slipped out of her eye, and she brushed it away with her fingers. There would be time for crying later. "I need to start making calls."

  "I'm happy to help with arrangements, Sophie," Peter said, pain in his gaze now that they'd gotten past the questions. "There's no need to rush into anything. You can take your time."

  "I can't even begin to think of everything I need to do," she murmured. "All the people I need to tell."

  "I can take care of the Yale group," he offered. "Harrison Delano, Michael Brennan, Senator Raleigh, Diane Lewis and anyone else I can think of. I need to interview each of them anyway to find out when they last spoke to your father."

  "That would be good."

  "And, of course, everyone at the Bureau—in the New York field office—and around the world will be notified," Karen put in. "Your father mentored a great many agents when he was an instructor at Quantico." She paused. "I've had the opportunity to experience his generosity and brilliance firsthand. Alan made me the agent that I am, so I can assure you that we will find out what happened to him. We will do him proud."

  "Thank you. I appreciate that."

  "Why don't we take you home now?" Peter suggested. "We can continue this conversation at your apartment. As much as I wish we could just discuss funeral plans, we have quite a few more questions to ask you, and I think doing that at your place would be the best idea. You'll be more comfortable there."

  She doubted she'd be comfortable anywhere, and the last thing she wanted to do right now was answer questions. "I need a little time," she said, their expectant gazes and determination to jump right into crime solving a bit overwhelming. "Thank you for the offer of a ride, but I only live a few blocks away, and I could use some air."

  "We'll walk with you then," Karen said.

  She frowned. "I—I don't want to be rude, but I really need some time to myself."

  "You're right. Look, why don't you go home and regroup?" Peter suggested. "We'll meet you at your place in two hours—say around six thirty? We'll bring Indian food. As I recall, it's your favorite."

  "I'm not hungry." She couldn't imagine eating ever again.

  "I'll still bring something," he said. "It's important that we talk sooner rather than later, Sophie. We don't want to let the trail go cold."

  "But I don't know anything about my dad's activities."

  "You might know more than you realize."

  "All right," she said, getting to her feet. She didn't want to argue; she just wanted to be alone.

  "Good. And please don't speak to any reporters before we speak again," he added.

  His statement made her realize that her father's death was going to be publicized. She would need to make her calls fast. She grabbed her bag and led the way out of her classroom.

  They parted company at the stairwell, and she went up to her third-floor office alone.

  She sat down at her desk and stared at the framed photo taken of her and her father at her college graduation. He'd gotten her a lei from Hawaii, and the beautiful pink flowers added color to her white gown. Hawaii had been one of their favorite vacation spots. Her parents had gone there on their honeymoon, and every year after that, they'd made a trip to the islands. They'd even thrown her mother's ashes in the sea off Oahu in a beautiful twilight ceremony. It was what her mom had wanted.

  Where would her dad want to be buried? She had no idea. She would have to go to his house and check the book—the damned book.

  How could she do this again? She was twenty-eight years old and she was going to have to bury a second parent. It wasn't fair.

  She breathed through the pain, knowing she was barely holding it together, but she had to think about what to do next. First, she had to get up. She had to go home, make calls, tell people what had happened. The only relative she had left was her Aunt Valerie, her mother's sister, who lived in Australia with her husband and children. She hadn't seen them since her mom had died twelve years ago. But before that, her aunt had been a mother to her while her mom was sick. She definitely needed to call her aunt.

  She reached into her bag and pulled out her phone. She kept it on silent during the day, and she'd had back-to-back classes since noon, so she hadn't checked it in hours.

  Now, she saw four voicemails from the same number—it wasn't a number she recognized.

  Telemarketers didn't usually call that many times or leave messages.

  Her dad's voice came across the speaker, stabbing her in the heart.

  For a moment, she thought that Peter and Karen were wrong, that her dad was alive, that there was some mistake, but as she listened to the messages, she heard emotions in her father's voice she'd never heard before. He sounded frantic, worried, terrified, and his words were rambling and not making sense.

  The first message ended abruptly, and as she moved through the rest of the voicemails, her bewilderment grew. Her dad was talking in riddles. Setting up clues to hunt for, offering apologies, telling her to be careful, not to trust anyone, but never saying exactly what was going on, why he was calling, where he was, what he was doing.

  The last message cut off in mid-word. She heard a horrible crash and then nothing.

  Her stomach turned over.

  Had she just heard the moment when her father had driven through the guardrail?

  Had he died because he wasn't paying attention to the road, because he was talking on the phone?

  Or had he died because whatever danger he was running from had caught up to him?

  She called the number back, but there was no connection, no service, nothing.

  As she stared at the number, she wondered why her dad had called her from a phone other than the one he normally used. Not that it was that unusual for him to have more than one phone. He'd always had a separate phone for his work as an FBI agent and one for personal use. But he hadn't used either of those, and she wondered why.

  He was obviously in trouble. He'd talked about trust and making bad choices. What were those choices? What had he done? And why hadn't he called someone for help—someone like Peter or Karen? Surely, he trusted Peter. They'd been friends forever.

  But he hadn't called Peter; he'd called her. He'd told her what he needed her to do, and she would do it.

  Jerking to her feet, she threw her phone into her bag and left the office.

  She walked as quickly as she could to the edge of campus, then joined the streams of people on the crowded streets of New York. Everything felt surreal. Life was going on normally for everyone else, but not for her.

  Sweat beaded her brow as the summer heat beat down on her head, but she couldn't let the weather slow her down. She suddenly felt as if time was not on her side. Peter and Karen were com
ing by her apartment at six thirty.

  She needed to be gone by then. She'd change her clothes, pack a quick bag, and get in her car.

  But those plans came to a crashing halt when she turned the corner and saw two men get out of a dark SUV and head into her building. They wore slacks and button-down shirts, and while they didn't look dangerous, there was something about them that made her pause.

  Through the windows in her building stairwell, she could see the men going up to the upper floors. Her gut told her they were on their way to her apartment.

  Her dad's words rang through her head: Don't trust anyone, especially not anyone from the police department or the FBI. Get rid of your phone as soon as you finish listening to these messages, so they can't track you.

  She took her phone out of her bag and stared at it for an indecisive minute. He'd told her to throw it away, but if she did that, she'd never hear his voice again.

  She couldn't do it—not yet.

  She'd hold on to it for a while longer.

  But she would do what else he'd asked. Turning on her heels, she walked in the other direction. She had to find a place to hide, to listen to the messages again, and figure out what to do next.

  As she tried to blend into the crowd, she felt more alone than she ever had before. Was there anyone who could help her?

  She had friends, but how could she bring them into this situation? How could she put them in danger? Especially when she didn't know what the danger was exactly.

  She had to follow her dad's instructions, as cryptic as they were. He'd made it clear she was in danger, and since he was dead, she had to believe him. She had to find a way to save herself.

  She pulled out her phone again and let the voicemails play through her ear as she walked away from her life.

  Buy PERILOUS TRUST

  Book List

  The Callaway Family Series

  #1 On A Night Like This

  #2 So This Is Love

  #3 Falling For A Stranger

  #4 Between Now and Forever

  Nobody But You (A Callaway Wedding Novella)

  #5 All A Heart Needs

  #6 That Summer Night