Hailey rounded the car and pulled open his door.
He wished the fear in her eyes was for their suspects in the gallery, but he knew it wasn’t.
“I’ll call you later, but you’ve got to fix this,” Hal said.
“I don’t think I—”
“You have to.” Hal ended the call and stood from the car. Hailey was still watching him. As he closed the door and started for the gallery, he avoided looking at her face. His own fear was enough to make it feel as though he were drowning. If he added hers, he would never surface.
36
Saturday, 11:00 a.m. EST
Georgia woke feeling guilty Saturday morning. She’d let the week get away from her, and now she was woefully behind. The weekend would have to be productive. Already, she’d planned an afternoon luncheon. Patrice had called to tell her that something was going on with Evelyn’s husband, Dell, so a few of them were going over there today. Dell had always had a wandering eye, but Evelyn had done her best to ignore his trysts. Patrice said maybe Dell had found more than a tryst this time. Poor Evelyn. No wonder she was drinking so much more these days. Tonight she’d go to a show at the Centre Stage with a few friends. She was grateful to be busy, but already this morning had flown by. How had it gotten so late?
Whatever was happening with her, she needed to snap out of it. Her plan had been to wake up early this morning and go to the bank before it closed—she’d forgotten to get cash to pay the gardeners, who came on Monday. The staff was preparing lunch, but she needed to be home in plenty of time to make sure everything was set. It gave her only an hour or so.
Tomorrow, she would attend church and take a long walk. Getting her heart rate up a bit would be good, too. Traffic was light this morning, increasingly rare now in Greenville, and the block before the bank, she decided to stop at Starbucks for a soy latte. She’d read that some ingredient in soy milk ate away at the lining of the stomach, so she didn’t let herself have it very often. She did love the slightly sweet vanilla flavor, and today felt like a day for a treat.
As she was pulling out of the Starbucks on Pleasantburg, a gold Lexus almost clipped the front of her car. She raised a hand as the driver swerved around her, but he didn’t even notice her. The profile of his face was instantly familiar. The sight of Spencer MacDonald elicited a small shriek in the back of her throat. The Lexus sped away, and before she knew where she was going, Georgia had raced onto the street behind him.
She passed the Wells Fargo bank where she had intended to stop and glanced at the clock. 11:20 a.m. She did need cash. She could get it tomorrow, if only she could remember the damn code for her ATM card. She kept meaning to get that thing reset. Ahead, Spencer had stopped at the red light. She gripped the wheel and considered turning back.
The light turned green, and she moved forward, following behind a Volkswagen between her car and Spencer’s. When the Volkswagen turned right, she was directly behind him. He turned on to Furman Hall Road toward the highway. She left some space between them and followed. Highway 276 went into downtown Greenville. He might have been heading to his office. She might catch him there, and they could talk. But what would she tell him when he asked why she’d come to his office on a Saturday? She could say she was in the neighborhood and saw his car.
No. That would sound strange. She’d have to think of another excuse.
She lifted her phone and dialed his number. If he answered, she could ask to meet him. The call rang over her car speaker. Ahead, his profile appeared as Spencer glanced at something. The phone, surely. He would see it was her. He would answer.
“You have reached the voicemail of Spencer MacDonald . . .”
She stabbed the “End Call” button on the dash screen. He’d seen it was her and ignored her. Her mouth felt suddenly dry, her heart pounding. What was wrong with her?
What was wrong with him?
As she expected, Spencer turned on to 276, heading downtown. She followed. He sped up so rapidly that for a moment, she thought he must have spotted her. He changed into the fast lane and passed several slower-moving cars before swerving back, his driving suddenly erratic. She remained in the slow lane, pulse pounding. A black Mercedes SUV passed her, and the gold Lexus grew smaller in the distance. You have to catch up. Drawing a deep breath and checking over her shoulder, Georgia changed into the fast lane and followed behind the Mercedes. The odometer approached seventy-five, and she checked her rearview mirror. She’d never had a speeding ticket. She didn’t like driving this fast. But she was closing in on the Lexus, so she kept going.
Where the highway became Buncombe Street, Spencer turned left. He was heading to his office. Well, she would follow. She shifted her shoulders back as she steeled her nerves. At least they were going the speed limit again. At Academy Street, she kept a few cars between them, waiting for Spencer to get in the left lane. His office was only a few blocks from here.
But he didn’t turn left. Instead, he went right. She missed the light and watched with growing panic as the Lexus got farther ahead. There was a short break in oncoming traffic, and she drove out between two cars to follow. The driver behind her blared his horn, and she waved a hand as a belated thank-you, ignoring the gestures he made through his windshield. From there, Spencer turned onto Washington and then Main, in the heart of the downtown business district. Spencer drove into the parking lot adjacent to Wells Fargo. She drove past, pulling to the curb across the street.
When Spencer emerged from the car, she hardly recognized him. He wore a pair of sweatpants with slim legs, the kind tennis pros wore when the weather got cold. On top he had a crewneck sweatshirt, black with no logo. She’d never seen him in anything like this. He was always so dapper. Even when he worked at home, he always wore a collared shirt. What was this?
As he jogged toward the bank, she had the ridiculous notion that he might be robbing it. She grabbed her phone and stared at it. But who could she call? She set the phone back on the passenger seat and then picked it up again to dial Bella’s number from her list of contacts.
The call went straight to voicemail. An electronic voice told her to leave a message. She wished it were Bella’s voice.
Lowering the phone, she thought of the detective’s business card that sat on the table by the front door. But what could she possibly report? That Spencer was in town and walking into the bank? In strange clothes?
She stared at his car, sitting in the lot. Why would he come to this branch when there was a Wells Fargo just two blocks from where he’d first passed her? That was where she’d been headed herself. As she stared at the building, she realized she could casually run into him inside and say she’d been doing something downtown. She could confront him right here. She gathered her purse off the floor on the passenger side of the car, tucked her phone inside it, and reached for the door.
But he was already walking back to the car.
He held a large manila envelope tucked under his arm in a way that reminded her of a quarterback running with a football. He glanced around as though expecting he might be followed. She froze as his gaze scanned past her car, but he didn’t seem to see her.
Spencer acted nervous, twitchy. Why did he look so guilty? The parking lot remained quiet. There was no rush of bank employees or police running after him, so it was unlikely that he’d robbed the bank. No, he’d gone inside and picked up something. Was it valuable? Was that why he held it that way?
She didn’t have time to think.
He was in his car. She tossed her purse back on the passenger seat and slammed her door closed again. The Lexus pulled out of the lot, and she hesitated. He was a free man. He had the right to go wherever he wanted.
And yet, she wanted to know where he was going. She felt she deserved to know. She promised herself that she would never admit what she was doing to another human being.
Then she started her engine and followed her daughter’s ex-husband.
37
Saturday, 11:20 a.m. MST
&nbs
p; Schwartzman’s arms ached as she held the house key Roy had brought her loosely between two fingers. Some hours earlier, her right hand had lost the strength to grip it with enough tension to saw away at the thick rubber of her collar. Even after working at it for the past twenty-four hours, the metal edge had made only a tiny divot. Afterward, she’d been unable to sleep. The house was silent, the air outside still, but her mind managed to conjure noises. Every time she almost dropped off, she was jolted awake by some imaginary sound, sure it was Tyler Butler coming for her. The night sky was pitch, the moon nowhere in sight, the clouds like ash smeared across a dark page.
Her head raged. She lay on the bed and watched the snow fall through the window. She should have been elated. Snow meant water, but it felt like too little too late. She recognized the signs of her own dehydration and knew she needed more water than the snow could provide. To conserve energy, she had spent the majority of the last day in bed, trying to rest. Yesterday, she ate two yogurts from the refrigerator and several handfuls of cereal to try to quell her hunger, but the food made the thirst so much worse. Every couple of hours, she got out of the bed and switched the cup on the windowsill for an empty one, letting the water melt beside her bed while the snow filled the other one.
What had begun as a rabbit-like fear had slowed into something deeper, more insipid. Lethargy. Dread. And she was helpless to prevent it. Hal would not find her, and Tyler would hurt her, and then Spencer would come. Whatever her ex-husband had in store for her, he would not let her get away again. Would he kill her? It seemed likely, but she also knew he would not do it right away.
He would want her to suffer.
The torture she had endured these last days was nothing compared to what Spencer would do to her. This she knew for certain. With some difficulty, she sat upright in the bed and drained the water from the cup on the table. The snow fell more lightly now, though the sky remained a solid bank of gray. She glanced at the spot on the wall where she’d used the key to keep track of time—six fine lines scratched into the drywall. The count was probably off by a day or two, but it was close enough.
She’d been here almost a week.
Exhausted, she stood from the bed and padded into the bathroom. The cord stuck along the track, and she had to stop several times to yank it along, her face hot from the effort. She was not sweating. Her body lacked the necessary hydration for sweat production. She hadn’t peed in almost a day and a half. She ran the water in the sink and splashed her face with the cool liquid, pressing her lips tight against the water. She yearned to drink. Her thirst was overwhelming. But so was her fear that Tyler Butler would be back, and that if she were unconscious, he would assault her.
She would have to drink soon. The baby needed the water. She needed it. She set the empty cup on the back of the toilet, hoping that placing it an arm’s distance away would dampen the desire to fill it to the brim with water from the sink and drink. As the hard plastic clanked against the white porcelain, an idea floated into her head.
Setting the cup aside, she pulled the cover off the toilet tank. Water. At the bottom of the tank, beneath the flapper, was a thin layer of silt, but the water in the back of the tank should be clean. Bacteria could make its way from the bowl to the tank. It was a possibility. But it was certainly cleaner than the water in the bowl. What she didn’t know was whether it was drug-free. But she felt desperate now.
It was worth a try.
She dipped her cup into the water, lifted it to her mouth, and took a swallow. As the drug was tasteless, there was no way of knowing whether the water was drugged. It tasted of dirt and rust. It was as wonderful as any water she’d ever had. She took another small sample, maybe four ounces in total, and swallowed it down.
Leaving the bathroom, she made her way into the kitchen to distract herself. She opened the refrigerator, expecting to find the same contents from the day before. But tucked into the butter dish was a folded piece of paper. She glanced over her shoulder and retrieved the paper. As she unfolded the page, something fell to the floor with a little clink.
She looked down and saw a small black key like the kind that fit a luggage lock. On the paper, written in red crayon, was the word key in large, child-like handwriting. A crooked red heart was drawn beside it. She created slack in the cord running to her collar and slowly lowered herself until she could reach the key with her fingertips. She gripped it in her hand and folded the note into her pocket.
In the bathroom, she twisted the collar around her neck until the clasp was at the front. Then, working by feel, she tried to find a way to fit the key into the collar. The cord pressed uncomfortably across her face, and no matter how she turned the key in her fingers, she could find no place where it should go. Frustrated, she paused to draw three deep breaths and tried again. She was reminded of her time in surgical rotation in medical school. Procedures often lasted six or eight hours while the surgeon worked in fine, tiny movements to remove a tumor near vital organs or repair a blood vessel only two millimeters across. She closed her eyes and focused as though she, too, were performing some lifesaving surgery, letting her shoulders relax as her hands manipulated the small key.
After some time, her legs began to shake, and her hands cramped. This required endurance, and she had none. She lowered the key and opened her eyes, sitting on the toilet seat to rest. Her body ached from going so long with so little movement, and she knew she ought to be stretching and trying to exercise. She would need her strength to fight whoever came for her. As she studied the walls around her, she realized she felt no effects from the drugs.
Was it possible the toilet water wasn’t drugged?
Lifting the porcelain lid off the back of the toilet again, she filled the cup and drank it, then a second. If she was right, she had a clean source of water. Why hadn’t she thought of the water inside the toilet tank sooner? Would they drug it now that she’d started drinking it? She scanned the ceiling, but she found no sign of any recording device in the bathroom.
She replaced the toilet lid and lifted the key off the countertop. For the first time, she noticed the tiny print on one side of the key’s hard metal head. It read Samsonite.
38
Saturday, 11:12 a.m. PST
Hal stepped out of the interview room with Hailey on his heels. The artist had confessed to shooting the two men in Union Square—one who’d been sleeping with his wife and the second who had been in the wrong place at the wrong time. Roger’s team had collected the gun and was running ballistics. Police had found a box of bullets in the artist’s studio, and several were marked with the same gold paint they’d found at the scene. The artist admitted that he’d been working with the paint just before he’d loaded the gun; the paint had been transfer. It would be an easy case to try, and the DA would be pleased.
Marshall was in the hall to greet them. “Nice work, team.” Their captain shook hands and clapped backs. “Press conference at four. Mayor will be here.”
“Yes, sir,” Hailey said.
Hal said nothing but made his way to his desk where he sorted through messages on his phone. Three from Roger. Two from Naomi in the lab. Two from his mother. His sisters. How he longed to see Anna’s name on his phone. He still had her listed under “Schwartzman.” He vowed he would change it. As soon as she was home.
Out of the corner of his eye, he watched Captain Marshall return to his office and close the door. It was unusual to see the captain in the department on a Saturday, but a double homicide at one of the most popular tourist spots in the city had had everyone working overtime. The shooting in Union Square was solved now; there was only the man who’d been stabbed on Stockton.
Hal turned to Hailey and leaned on his desk. “Roger’s got a print off the knife found in the trash can at Post and Grant. He’s running it now. With any luck, it’ll give you a suspect.”
Hailey looked up, her gaze narrowed. “Give me a suspect?”
“You don’t have to cover for me.”
“
What are you doing?” she asked, her voice quiet, though they were alone.
“The FBI is dropping their tail on MacDonald. He’s heading back to Greenville. I’ve got to go.”
She said nothing, and he appreciated that she didn’t try to stop him. “What should I tell Marshall?”
“Nothing. I’ll deal with it when I find her.”
Hailey watched him.
The words remained unspoken between them. If he found her. But he couldn’t think that way. He had to believe he would. And if he had Anna, nothing else mattered. He’d happily give up this job. There were other jobs. But Anna, his baby . . .
Hailey stepped forward and gave him a short, tight hug. “Be careful, and call if we can do anything.”
“You’ll—”
“I’ll follow up on the case.”
He didn’t thank her. That was the kind of relationship they had. He thought of all they’d been through, and then he turned his attention to getting to Greenville.
On the drive home, he booked a flight and called Telly twice.
He was almost at Anna’s when Telly called him back.
“Hi, Hal.”
Hal knew immediately that Telly wasn’t going to South Carolina. He was going back to Dallas. “You have information on MacDonald’s itinerary?”
“Yeah, but I can’t—”
“I know. You’re going to Dallas. I need you to send me the itinerary. I need to know when he arrived in Greenville. Can you do that?”
“Of course. But what are you going to do?”
“What choice do I have, Telly? The FBI is quitting the case.”
“Hal, we’re not quitting. We just have to shift priorities. We’re out of leads—”
“I don’t care, Telly. Just send the itinerary.”
“I’ll send it now.”
“Thanks.”
“There’s something else, Hal.”
Hal gripped the wheel. “What is it?”
Expire Page 18