The Secrets We Keep

by Hannah Davenport

  He lets go of my neck and I collapse to my hands and knees, coughing as I gulp deep breaths of air. He squats down, and with one finger under my chin, he lifts my face until I’m looking into his unforgiving eyes. “Where?”

  “Mm . . . mm . . . my apartment.”

  “You’re lying. We’ve already checked.”

  “N . . . nn . . . nn . . . n-no, I’m not. My couch . . .” I say breathing heavily and stuttering. “The bottom of the cushions, I took the seams out, lined them with money, and then sewed them back up. It’s there!”

  Davie glances at someone in the corner, but I can’t see who. I hear a low voice say, “I’ll have him check.”

  Searching my eyes, he says, “You better hope it’s there,” and I understand exactly what he’s saying. He pushes up to stand, and with an irritated glance my way, he says, “I’ll be back.” Trembling, I watch as everyone leaves the room and then I crumple on the floor.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Ariel

  My left eye is swelling shut, there’s a throbbing pain in my head, and I expect Davie to barge in at any moment. It won’t be long until they’ll discover that I don’t have all of the money, just some of it.

  Some of it paid for a down payment on the apartment. I guess they could always sell it and get the money back. That gives me a little hope. But only a little.

  It’s dark outside, and I haven’t seen or heard from anyone. I can’t sleep. Not for worrying about what will happen next. If he did this from just asking about his money, what will he do when he finds out it’s not all there?

  Sometime during the night, I doze off and wake to sunlight streaming through the window. I can barely see out of my left eye, and I’m afraid to look into the mirror.

  The door swings open, and in strolls Davie with a half-empty drink in his hands. The alcohol seems to have calmed him some. “It seems you have a short reprieve. There are FBI agents posted outside, but as soon as my men get a chance . . .” He winks and takes a swig of his drink.

  If I can only put the liquid medicine in his drink, but it’s impossible while he’s holding it.

  “You better hope my money is there.” One last drink and he turns around and stalks out, leaving my hands trembling by my sides.

  No knock or warning of any kind, and in walks a large burly man carrying a plate of eggs and toast. Honestly, I’m surprised they’re feeding me. He doesn’t speak as he sets the tray on a table and walks out. I hear the loud click of the lock.

  That night, Davie pays me another visit. The look in his eyes is more terrifying than when I first saw him. He drains his glass of dark liquid, and by the looks of him, it’s not his first drink. Frank always became violent when he drank, but when Davie’s eyes roam the length of me, I want to cover up.

  He sets his glass down and stalks over. I take small steps backward as my breathing becomes shallower. One hands snakes around my waist, slamming my body against his. I try to push away, but he’s too strong.

  His lips brush my ear as he says, “If I can’t get my money, I’ll take it other ways. You owe me.”

  No! No no no no. With as much strength as I can muster, I pound his chest with my trapped fists. He laughs, the sound so menacing my toes curl. Just as his hand snakes under the skimpy dress, rapid gunfire sounds in the distance.

  Everything turns to chaos. Another man rushes in and speaks to Davie in hushed tones. Davie’s face transforms to worry.

  More gunfire.

  Somewhere down the hall I hear, “FBI . . . Drop your weapons!”

  Davie yanks me to him once again, my back to his front. He grabs the knife that’s strapped to his ankle. The blade is cold, sharp, as he presses it to my neck. “I am not going to prison,” he whispers in my ear with a flat, determined voice. I’m frozen in place facing the door when it bursts open and three people rush in with weapons drawn.

  Tears stream down my face. I swallow my whimpers of fear and pain as he presses the tip of the blade into my skin.

  “Drop the knife,” the one in front says, his eyes never leaving Davie.

  Davie presses harder, and I feel a trickle of blood running down my throat. I squeeze my eyes shut.

  “Let me go or I’ll kill her.”

  I have no doubt he’ll do it, too.

  “That’s not going to happen. The only one that will die today is you. Choose.”

  Just as I think he’s going to drop the knife, I feel it slice into my throat.

  Shots fire.

  Blood gushes in my hand as I cup my throat.

  Davie’s grip on me releases, and I hear a heavy thump behind me.

  A man rushes forward and catches me before I hit the floor. “I’ve got you,” he says as he scoops me up in his arms. He carries me from the house as if I weigh nothing.

  Outside, I hear at least one chopper overhead, maybe more. People wearing FBI jackets are everywhere but all I can think is today is the day I will die.

  With me still in his arms, the agent climbs into the back of a waiting helicopter and yells, “Let’s go!” and we take off.

  It’s a short ride. At the hospital, the staff hurries out with a gurney while the guy gently lays me on it. They rush it inside, and in the distance, I see my rescuer standing there, watching, with my blood on his hands.

  “What do we have?” the doctor asks while the nurses place gauze over my throat, someone else places an oxygen mask over my face, and I feel a stick in the bend of my arm. Everything is happening so fast.

  “A knife wound to the throat,” a female voice says.

  The doctor leans over, and I see his round rimmed glasses and sagging skin as he stares at my neck. “I need to take a quick look.” I feel him lift the gauze. He twists his head to get a look from different angles and then says, “It’s not as bad as it looks.” Looking up at someone in the room, he says, “Call the OR.”

  Surgery? The doctor leans over and says, “The knife barely nicked the carotid, but it needs to be repaired right away.”

  I’m whisked away, the ceiling tiles passing by quickly until I’m in the OR. Someone else is leaning over me. He’s wearing a blue hospital cap and a mask. “I’m Dr. Arnold, the anesthesiologist, and I’m going to give you some medicine in your IV.”

  I feel strange.

  Warm.

  My eyes close.

  Zack

  I’m standing on the landing pad as they rush Brylee into the emergency room. Her blood covers my hands and I’m torn. I want to be with the others, searching the compound, but Brylee needs to be protected.

  I glance over my shoulder, nod for the pilot to take off, then I head inside the hospital. The first stop is the bathroom where I scrub the blood from my hands and arms. There’s nothing I can do about my bloodstained clothes.

  I’m sitting in the waiting room for about thirty minutes when the doctor walks out. Quietly he asks, “Are you with Jane Doe?”

  I stand and cross my arms. “Cut throat?”

  “Yes. She’s out of surgery and will be fine. I’d like to keep her overnight if that’s possible.”

  “If she needs to be here, fine. But if she’s able to travel, I need to get her away from here as soon as possible.”

  “I understand. Give her at least two hours, maybe three, and I’ll make sure she’s ready to go.”

  “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome. Come on, you can sit with her in the recovery room.”

  The doctor leads me through some double doors, down the hall, to a room lined with monitors and beds. In the far corner, I see Brylee.

  The monitor beeps with the beat of her heart. The bandage on her neck is clean, and she appears to be in a restful sleep.

  “She was lucky. The knife barely nicked her artery.” I look up and see a nurse with short black hair standing there.

  I scoff. “Lucky.” I can use a lot of words to describe Brylee, but lucky isn’t one of them.

  The nurse checks the dressing, vital signs, and the IV before flashing me a
smile as she walks away.

  I pull up a chair and sit down. Brylee’s blonde hair fans the pillow. Her left eye is swollen, her wrists are a little raw, and there’s a big dressing that covers her throat.

  I know that she’s lived alone, no family, no real friends, not even me. There is one, though. As much as it pains me to do so, I pull out my cell and punch in a number.

  “Hello?”

  “Mr. Damonte, it’s Agent Cummings—”

  “Have you found her?”

  “Yes—”

  “Is she alright?”

  “Yes and no—”

  “What does that mean?” He sounds angry.

  “If you give me a chance, I’ll tell you.”

  “My apologies. How’s Ariel?”

  “She just came out of surgery and will be fine.”

  “Surgery? What happened?”

  “She had a nicked carotid artery that they repaired. She also has a swollen eye and some bruising.”

  “Tell me where she is and I’ll be there as quickly as I can.”

  Now comes the hard part . . . for him. “Mr. Damonte, I’m afraid that’s not possible.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Her name is not Ariel, it’s Brylee Ann Nolan, and she needs to be in protective custody until the trial ends.”

  “Now you listen here—”

  I click the phone off and slide it back into my pocket.

  Her eyes flutter open, but she’s still heavily sedated.

  Staring at Brylee, I think about how hard her life has been. One heartache after another, always living in fear. When the trial ends, and Frank and the rest of the Diaz family are behind bars, I hope to change that for her.

  Two hours pass before the doctor walks in. “Doc,” I say, getting to my feet.

  “Agent.” He walks to the bottom of Brylee’s bed, snatches the clipboard, studies it.

  “She’s been waking up a little, but then she falls right back to sleep.”

  The doctor glances at me briefly and says, “That’s normal.” He looks back at the clipboard. “Her vitals are stable, there’s no more bleeding—”

  “Can we leave now?”

  He whips off his glasses and rubs his eyes. “It is not normal procedure, but these are unusual circumstances.” A brief pause. “I’ll do the paperwork and then she’s free to leave.” He hesitates, and then pulls a pill bottle from his white coat pocket. “She had this hidden underneath her clothes when she came in.”

  He hands me the bottle, and when I unscrew the lid, I see red liquid in the bottom. Not much, maybe two or three tablespoons.

  I sniff, but the smell is faint and unfamiliar. I frown and ask, “What it is?”

  “The bottle says Nifedipine.”

  “Any idea why she would have this?”

  “No, sorry.” He rubs his forehead then says, “If there’s nothing more, I’ll get the paperwork ready.”

  “No, that’s all. Thank you, doctor.”

  His face looks anxious. Nothing stays quiet for long in a small town.

  ~~~~

  We’re in the car heading out of town. Brylee is stretched out in the back seat. My mind spins with where to go, what to tell her when she wakes up.

  I click on my cell and call Tyler.

  “Hey, kid,” comes his immediate response.

  “How’s everything there?”

  “Good. It’s going to take us a while to go through everything, but we’ve found even more US estate holdings, not in the Diaz’s name.”

  “That’s great.”

  “Yes, it is. Like I said before, it’ll take us a while, but we’ll get through it.”

  Not that he can see, but I’m shaking my head. I glance at Brylee through the rearview mirror, but she’s still asleep. “Brylee’s out of surgery. Per Hobbs’s orders, I’m taking her to a safe house.”

  He chuckles slightly. “That’s a smart idea, and I’m sure you volunteered for the job. Which safe house are you heading to?”

  “No offense, but I think the fewer people who know, the better.”

  Silence. I know Tyler is upset, and why wouldn’t he be? We’ve been partners for two years, and I sound like I don’t trust him. It’s just one less person for the Diaz family to get to, if there are any left after the raid. Tyler’s smart. He’ll realize that once his ego is out of the way.

  “You have a rental? Or some way not to be traced?”

  “Yes. I left the SUV at the command center.”

  “Stay safe, kid.”

  “I will, thanks.” And with that, I click off and pop the battery from the back of my cell.

  Every now and then, I look over my shoulder and see Brylee still sleeping. Good. Before we left, I asked the doctor to give her something to help her sleep most of the trip. Make it easier on her.

  We drive all night, and when the sun peeks over the horizon, I rub my sleepy eyes and look for the next available hotel.

  After checking in at the Hampton Inn, I carry her to our room. Any onlookers will assume that she’s a lucky bride and I’m carrying her over the threshold.

  Once inside, I gently lay her on the full-size bed, the one farthest away from the window and door. I stroke the hair away from her face. She’s so delicate, so strong. How can anyone endure so much in such a short time?

  With the stroke of my fingers, she moans, “Luca . . .”

  My eyes briefly close in frustration, and then I move away and sit on my own full-size bed.

  Her squeaks of panic startle me awake. Glancing at the bedside alarm clock, I see 11:00 a.m. My eyes land on Brylee, who is staring at me with fearful eyes.

  I roll over and click on the light between our beds and try to put her at ease. “Brylee, I’m agent Zack Cummings with the FBI and you are in protective custody.” Slowly sitting up, I raise my hands, palms forward. “I’m going to get my ID.”

  My coat hangs on the back of the chair that’s underneath the desk. Carefully, not to frighten her any more, I slowly walk over, slide my hand in the pocket, and pull out my credentials.

  To appear a little less threatening, I sit on my bed and turn my ID and badge so she can see them.

  She licks her lips, her eyes darting between my ID and my face.

  “I remember you,” she says in a raspy voice, her eyes now staring straight at me. “You took me to the hospital.”

  “I did.”

  She tries to sit up, and wobbles slightly. I jump to my feet and steady her. “Careful, you’ve had a lot of pain medication.”

  Her hand goes to her throat, tentatively feeling the gauze. “He cut my throat.” I nod. “Why am I not in the hospital?”

  I sit back down on my bed, facing her, and say, “It wasn’t safe.”

  Her eyes close, and I think she’s going to cry. Please don’t cry. I never know what to say or do when a woman cries. It’s just this uncomfortable moment when she expects me to do something, but I don’t know what that is.

  To my surprise, she says with resolve, “They’re still after me.”

  “It’s possible.”

  “What about Davie?”

  “Dead. It’s unfortunate. I’d rather have taken him into custody.”

  “He was drunk and said he wasn’t going to prison.”

  “That explains it.” My mouth stretches wide in a yawn. “Let me get a little more sleep and we’ll head out.”

  She nods, then lies back down on her bed. I prop my pillows behind my head, stretch my legs out, and cross them at the ankles, my .40 cal Glock lying on my lap.

  By three p.m., we’re on the road again, only stopping by McDonald’s for some hamburgers and fries, and one coffee and one tea.

  “How did you know?” she says when I hand her the tea.

  “You look like a tea drinker.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” She takes a sip from the straw.

  My lips curl up slightly as I hand her the bag of food.

  It’s silent for most of the trip. Interstate turns to fo
ur-lanes, four-lanes turn to a two-lane country road, country road turns to gravel. Up the winding mountain until we reach the cabin at the top of the Great Smoky Mountains.

  “It’s beautiful,” she says, looking up and out of the passenger-side window.

  It is beautiful. A two-story log cabin nestles amongst the trees at the top of the mountain. The sun’s descending out of sight, leaving streaks of red shooting across the partly cloudy sky.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Ariel

  We pull into the driveway of a massive log cabin. The wraparound porch is larger than my apartment in New York. It sits at the top of a mountain, no real level yard, just a slope. Huh, maybe that’s an added advantage. You can definitely see someone coming.

  The car stops, giving the garage door time to open before Zack pulls inside.

  The garage is bare, just a few empty shelves lining one wall. One red five-gallon gas can sits in the far corner.

  Zack pulls a key from his pockets and opens the door. He steps inside first, looks around, then waves me in.

  It’s breathtaking. Round wooden beams hold up high ceilings and then double as rails for the staircase. Wooden floors are covered in thick rugs. It makes me want to kick my shoes off just to feel it squish between my toes. High windows show off the view of the mountains. With the fall leaves, it’s a gorgeous sight. But it’s also more open than I’m used to and my heart races with anxiety.

  “All clear,” Zack says as he walks back to the living room. “You can have the master bedroom.”

  I glance back at the large window before I face Zack. “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome.” His eyes linger on my throat. “The doctor said not to get your dressing wet for seven to ten days, depending on how it looks.”

  “Okay.” I give him a slight smile, one that doesn’t reach my eyes. “I’m going to take a bath and lie down for a while.”

  I perform the menial task of running water in the oversized corner bathtub, gazing around at the expensive white tile while I wait for the tub to fill.

  Slowly, I strip the clothes from my body, one garment at a time. My mind is blank. Everything is too much and I think I’ve found my breaking point.