Getting back to a normal life was difficult. Connor followed the news for a while, hoping the police would catch the bombers. At first, things seemed promising. Using blast-radius technology and video surveillance from Albright Mall, they were able to identify a man named Logan Wright as their prime suspect and even made an arrest. So at least there was that. The other four bombers, though, would likely never be found. The talking heads on CNN and MSNBC speculated one or all of them might be dead, but there was no way to know for sure.
Oliva checked in with him and his mom regularly while she wrapped up her investigation. Mostly crossing the Ts and dotting the Is. Matt, or Austin as he now called himself, was in jail. Frank was dead. So the only thing that seemed to really be in doubt was who had killed Frank’s wife, Heather, in Prague. Connor wasn’t sure how much that mattered anymore. The story Roland had told Olivia tracked almost entirely with the one Austin had told him. The only difference was that, according to Roland, Frank had operated alone.
He never got the details of the murder, though. Those Olivia kept to herself. Connor didn’t need to know them and didn’t want to. All he cared to hear was that his mother was innocent.
Frank’s motive: That was simple enough. Kim made good money as a doctor and had inherited even more. Frank had wanted the lifestyle she could provide, and had set out to leverage the grief Kim believed they shared to get it.
When Connor asked Olivia why she hadn’t told him Matt had been set up the night she called to warn him he had escaped from prison, she said she hadn’t been able to confirm whether it was true and didn’t want to alarm him unnecessarily if it wasn’t. Besides, no matter who had killed Heather Callahan, Matt had abducted Frank and Kim, and at the time she was convinced Connor might be in danger as well.
The details of the murder Olivia put into her case notes, of course. And, if Roland was to be believed, it had been surprisingly simple.
Roland said Frank had ordered room service the night before and stashed the steak knife they’d delivered with the meal in his suitcase. He had also ordered fresh towels that morning and every morning previous to get an idea of how long it would take room service to come. The answer was, on average, ten minutes. So the morning of the murder, with the steak knife hidden in his suitcase, he waited until Heather was in the shower, then called Matt and asked him to come over to the room. Frank needed to run down to the little shop in the lobby, he said, and asked if Matt could wait for the towels that were on their way. He made a point of being vague about what he needed, trusting Matt’s imagination to fill in the blank, and even then he knew the request probably sounded odd. But Matt was a friend, so even though he seemed a little confused by the whole thing, he agreed to wait.
Then Frank took the elevator down to the first floor, grabbed a toothbrush from the lobby shop (it was the first thing he saw), and, as he exited the hotel, made a point of waving to the receptionist.
He came back in through a side door he had scouted out on their first day and took the stairs back up to the twelfth floor. The towels had arrived while he was gone. He thanked Matt, sent him back to his room.
When the murder was complete and he had showered off the blood, he left the same way he had come and meandered around the city long enough to make sure the maids found the body.
As he had hoped, the facts seemed to fit perfectly with his story of an affair. Bada-bing, bada-boom. Matt was in jail. Frank was married to Kim. And little Connor was already starting to forget he’d had a father before Frank had entered the picture.
There were only two questions Olivia felt like she couldn’t answer by the time she closed the file, but neither mattered all that much.
The first was why Matt had been released from prison early. Oldrich had never given her a good answer, because unbeknownst to her, he had questioned the chief about the bribe and was told, quite pointedly, to keep his trap shut. The chief was tired of not getting his, he said. And what did it matter anyway? They were Americans. In other words—not his problem.
The second was what had motivated Aden to organize the attack. Matt didn’t know, he said. Aden had kept everything compartmentalized. But, at least in this case, she had a theory. A search of Aden’s computer pointed strongly to a website called BeyondUnderstanding.com. The name sounded like hippie bullshit. But when she browsed the content, she noticed a lot of cult-like language that endorsed mayhem as the route to freeing society from its “materialistic bonds.”
Kim struggled with her emotions. She was angry with Matt and Frank and, maybe most of all, herself. She cursed herself for believing Matt would cheat on her, then cursed Matt for locking her in a cage. She cursed herself for spending the last fifteen years with Frank, then Frank for putting all this in motion.
At least her brother Henry had come back up from Florida to help her through it.
Connor was surprised when, this time, the big man gave him a hug. But he was dealing with a lot of the same issues his mother was and probably looked like he needed it.
When Henry finally released Connor, he looked over at Olin, who was standing on the far side of the living room, and said, “Who’s this?”
Connor told him and added that Olin would be staying with them for a while.
“As long as he needs to,” Kim clarified, which, since Olin and Connor had both postponed college until next fall, would be at least a year.
But the invitation to stay had not come immediately. Connor had been in touch with Olin and Dylan regularly after they got back from Austin’s cabin, but had put most of his energy into dealing with his own emotions and making sure his mom was okay.
All things considered, Dylan seemed to be managing (which didn’t surprise Connor), and Connor was glad to hear the police had been able to track down Olin’s car.
But eventually Connor had learned Olin wasn’t handling things as well as he pretended to be. He didn’t have any family outside of his parents and, like Connor, no close friends. It was him and his pain, alone in the house twenty-four-seven. That wasn’t okay, so Connor had asked Kim about having Olin come and stay, and Kim had readily agreed.
The only thing Connor wasn’t sure how to handle was the money Austin had left him. (Even though Connor had come to terms with the fact that Matt and Austin were the same person, he still referred to him as Matt when he was talking about the time before Prague and as Austin when referring to recent events.) Austin had only had that money because people had died, and Connor didn’t want anything to do with it. But he couldn’t bring himself to throw it away, either.
No matter how it had come to him, it still had value.
Maybe for some more than others, though. Because there was one other victim in this whole thing. Two, actually. Adriana and her daughter.
Connor had a suspicion the “Carlos” Austin had told him about was Adriana’s husband. And when Dylan, who seemed to be pretty good at tracking down information on the web, confirmed he was the man who had robbed Aden’s liquor store, he was certain of it.
The only problem was Adriana had said she didn’t want to see Connor again, and he doubted she would answer the door no matter how long he stood there knocking. Leaving the cash in an envelope on her porch wasn’t a good idea, either. Odds were it would be gone before she ever had a chance to find it.
However, there was one more option. Adriana might not open the door for Connor, but she might open it for someone else.
He was right.
When Kim knocked, Adriana answered right away.
From the car, Connor couldn’t hear what the two women said, but the body language told him everything he needed to know. After waving her hands in front of her chest and shaking her head, Adrian finally accepted the money. She looked down at it like she couldn’t believe it was real.
“You did a good thing,” Olin said, who had come along for the drive.
Connor didn’t respond until he saw Adriana hug Kim and close the door. “I’m just glad all this is over.”
Then Kim
got back in the car, and Connor saw something he hadn’t seen in a long time. Kim was smiling. It was like a glimpse into a world that used to be and, he now knew, could be again.
It was just a matter of time.
UP NEXT: THE REDWOOD CON
High-rolling illegal gambler Liam Parker finds his girlfriend dead in her apartment, and it’s not long before the police charge him with her murder. Desperate to avoid a lifetime behind bars, Liam’s hunt to clear his name uncovers unexplainable secrets about the woman he thought he knew. And with the police revoking his bail and his freedom under threat, he goes on the run in pursuit of two strangers . . . and their deadly answers.
Readers are calling it “a masterpiece of a twisty book” and said it is “a must-read.”
THE REDWOOD CON
Elise Whitman
Elise charged into her apartment, trying not to think about what she had done tonight. Her Pomeranian followed her to the window, jumping on her leg, yapping to get her attention. She patted the dog on the head. “Not now, Chloe.” Then she pulled her phone out of her purse to see if she had a message from Liam. She didn’t. She cursed herself for not waiting to hear from him before calling the others and sent a text.
I need to see you.
Gripping her phone in one hand, she crossed her arms over her chest and waited.
Elise had only lived in this apartment for three months. It was small, hastily decorated. The quasi-retro furniture from Value Interiors wasn’t her. Still, she’d come to like the place a lot. Part of it was because, at twenty-eight, it was the first apartment she’d ever had in her name. The other part was the location.
From the window, Elise could see the quiet, tree-lined street that ran in front of her building. The old three and four-story condominium buildings lining most of it were charming. The neighbors were friendly, and she could walk to a grocery store and a coffee shop.
She hoped that after tonight she wouldn’t have to leave. She hoped that by being honest with Liam her life would become something new and better than it was now. But if he didn’t take the news well, she knew she’d have no choice. She’d pack up the things she could as soon as everyone was gone and disappear.
She looked at her phone again. Still no response. It had only been a minute, but she didn’t have time to wait, so she sent two more messages, back to back.
I’m serious.
I need you to come over right now.
Then Elise got a bottle of Smirnoff from the kitchen to calm her nerves. She didn’t have any glasses, so she filled a mug to the brim, took one big gulp. She placed the mug on the coffee table and paced the room, rehearsing what she was going to say. She’d only get one shot at this. She’d better make it count.
And, of course, she looked at her phone again.
Come on, seriously?
What was taking so long?
She sent another text to Liam: Why don’t you answer me?
Finally, she got a response: I’m on my way. We need to talk.
Although Elise could tell she’d gotten under his skin, she didn’t care. What mattered was he was coming over. After tonight, the last thing he’d be thinking about was those messages.
She returned to the window. If she craned her neck, she could almost see the entrance to her building. She thought it would be a good idea to keep a lookout, know who showed up first. But her mind wandered, back to what she would say and how she would say it—“Liam, you’re in danger”—and when someone knocked on the door, sending Chloe into a tizzy, she had no idea who it was. Since she was expecting company, she didn’t bother to check the peephole. She just tossed her phone onto the coffee table and turned the deadbolt.
Liam Parker
Liam sat at the lone poker table in Midwest Design’s private room. The space was small but elegant, with polished hardwood floors and walls made of smooth brown tile. A combination of inset lighting and modern, ornate sconces cast the space in a warm glow. The only way in or out was through a door that opened onto the company’s darkened public spaces.
At this hour, there were very few people in the building. The doors to the street were locked. A lone security guard manned the lobby nine floors below.
The night had started with six players. The two who remained at the table with Liam were Emily Stewart, a regular, and a new guy he had taken to calling “the Grunter.” Their dealer, according to the nametag pinned to his tuxedo vest, was Jacob.
Emily had stately features and short, black hair plastered to her head with large quantities of gel. Having already folded, she could do nothing with the jack that appeared on the river but scowl at it. Liam wasn’t sure if that look meant the card would’ve helped her or hurt her—his guess was the former—although it didn’t matter either way. Once you’re out, you’re out.
Now he had to convince the Grunter to do the same. With a pair of twos, bluffing his way through this hand was about the only way to win it.
Liam doubled down on his bet.
The Grunter rolled his shoulders around in his tailored sports coat. He looked from his cards to those on the table and back. He shifted a toothpick from one side of his mouth to the other. Then, as Liam had come to expect, he grunted.
“All right,” Jacob said, “play it or fold it. Make a move.” Jacob was smiling and Liam could hear it in his voice. He didn’t intend to aggravate the Grunter, he was just gregarious. He’d introduce himself to every new player, welcome back every old one, ask about their work, their family, and their pets.
Still, aggravate the Grunter he did.
“Shut up.” The Grunter looked at Liam and Liam winked, trying to unnerve him. It almost worked too. The Grunter closed his cards into one hand, tapped them on the table like he did when he was about to fold, and hesitated. The corners of his lips curled down and his nose wrinkled up as if he smelled something rotten. “No,” the Grunter mumbled. He scooped up a stack of chips and threw them into the pile. “You got shit.”
Liam didn’t know what to say. The Grunter was right. Still, he felt like he needed to say something. But his phone vibrated in his pocket, distracting him. He pulled it out, saw a text from Elise: I need to see you.
Before he could settle on his next move, two more texts came in rapid succession.
I’m serious.
I need you to come over right now.
He ground his teeth together. Fine. Elise wasn’t going to give up until she got what she wanted, and the Grunter wasn’t going to fold. Sometimes the closest you can get to a win is to quit. He placed his cards face down on the table and got to his feet.
“You’re out?” the Grunter asked.
“I am.”
The Grunter threw one fist into the air and laughing with a sort of hee-haw chuckle. “Boom!” He tossed his cards onto the pile of chips—a four of hearts and an eight of spades. “I don’t know what you had, but it couldn’t have been worse than that.”
He was right. It wasn’t. A pair of twos would’ve beaten him. But, Liam thought again, once you’re out, you’re out. So, as Emily groaned and the Grunter gleefully stacked up his chips, he did his best to smile and walked away from the table.
He cashed out and said goodbye to Ava Perez, the owner of Midwest Design. She nodded to one of the two men standing guard by the door and the man opened it. Liam navigated his way around the tables where designers and clients would huddle during the day, looking at photos, fabrics swatches, and sketches, and took the elevator to the underground garage.
He trekked the thirty feet through the cold to his Tesla, got in, and started the engine. Before he could put the car into drive, his phone vibrated again. Elise, no doubt. He took the phone out of his pocket and read the message.
Why don’t you answer me?
He typed: I’m on my way. This isn’t working. We need to talk.
Before hitting SEND, though, he thought about the morning they’d spent down at the lake, sitting on the beach and watching a sailboat ease its way across the dark horizon. They wer
e on the tail end of their first date. Dinner at Alinea had turned into drinks at Eno, which had, through a series of events long since lost to the bottle, turned into quiet conversation near the water.
They’d learned a lot about each other that night; they’d both grown up in Oak Park and in households they would be hard-pressed to call middle class, their moms went to church and their dads liked fishing, they both worked in advertising, both liked ’70s rock, and neither one of them cared that discussing politics was taboo.
He deleted the line “This isn’t working.” Elise might interpret that to mean he planned on breaking up with her, which wasn’t the case. Elise was something special. But they did need to talk. She had to start giving him some space.
Liam traded his parking spot in the garage for one on the street near Elise’s building. The midrise had a fob-activated security door but, unlike his building, no concierge, and most people paid the security protocol little mind. So it was no surprise when a young woman on her way out held the door for him.
The elevator rose to the fourth floor in fits and starts, then opened onto a long, narrow hallway that forked at each end. The paint was fresh, but the lights along the ceiling bathed the walls in a grayish-yellow that could make you think otherwise. From the look of it, the carpet hadn’t received the same care. Worn thin, Liam suspected it had seen a decade’s worth of traffic since it had last been replaced.
He headed down the hall to Elise’s apartment, Unit 423, and knocked. Per usual, Chloe started to bark. The Pomeranian wouldn’t quiet down until Elise opened the door and the dog got to sniff his shoes. Only thing was, she didn’t open the door.
After thirty seconds or so, Liam knocked again. “Elise! Open up. It’s Liam.”
When that didn’t work, he tried to call, waited an impossibly long time for her voicemail to answer, and didn’t bother to leave a message. Something was wrong. Even if Elise was mad, she’d at least open the door to tell him.
A Reagan Keeter Box Set: Three page-turning thrillers that will leave you wondering who you can trust Page 23