Remember to Forget (25 page)

Her hands trembling, she clicked on a link titled
Security.
How far could she go trying to get into Kevin’s account before she set off a red flag somewhere?

She shoved down the fear that crawled up her throat as she skimmed the text on the screen in front of her. It was all about encryption and firewalls and a complicated network of other terms that might as well have been Chinese for what she understood of them.

There was a toll-free number listed to call with questions. But the account was in Kevin’s name alone. She didn’t even have the authority to sign his checks for the apartment bills. Every month she’d written out checks for the bills and turned them over to him to sign. He didn’t trust her to stay within his budget.

Or had he somehow known the day would come when she would need access to this account? Had he known she would someday find a way to escape his grasp?

She stared at the link labeled
Log in.
Holding her breath, she clicked
on it. A series of boxes appeared, asking for a User ID and a password. She put his name in the field labeled
User ID.

She had no idea what his password was. She typed in the numbers of his birth date. Her hand hovered over the keyboard before she summoned the courage to click
Submit.

A new page started to load, but it contained a message in red letters:
User ID and password are invalid. Please try again.

She tried again with a different password—
her
birthday—and got the same message, with a link to have the password sent. Of course if she did that, it would be sent to Kevin’s office and he would know what she was trying to do.

She knew Kevin’s e-mail address at work. Maybe that was what was supposed to go in the User ID space? She tried that. This time the message merely said the password was invalid. She must have the User ID right. She tried other passwords. The anniversary of the day they met. The day she moved in with him. It was crazy, trying to pull a password out of thin air. They’d never celebrated these dates. She doubted Kevin even knew them, but she couldn’t think of any other combinations to try.

On the fifth try, a new message appeared, printed in larger letters over a triangular warning symbol.
For security purposes, this account has been temporarily suspended. Call the number below to reactivate your account.

Her blood ran cold. Could the bank detect when someone was trying to access an account? Might they flag her attempts to access Kevin’s account and report it to him? She’d read news accounts of criminals being tracked by their computer usage.

Her pulse revved. She shoved away from the desk, almost toppling the chair in the process. At the commotion, a nearby library patron looked up from his book to glare at her.

She hurried from the building, stopping at the bottom of the steps to catch her breath. Forcing herself to walk at a normal pace, she headed
back to the inn, but it was all she could do not to break into a run. She stole a glance over her shoulder at each crosswalk, feeling almost as though she were being tailed. Kevin Bryson still had a hold on her, even a thousand miles away.

Trevor’s truck was parked in front of the inn when she got back. The lobby felt like a sanctuary after worrying all the way home. All desire for a walk in the park was gone. All she wanted to do now was escape to the safety of her room.

She heard Trevor hammering in the kitchen, but she wasn’t in the mood to talk. She tried to escape down the hall, but he appeared in the arched doorway. “Oh, I thought you were Wren. Do you know where she is?”

“Bart took her to the movies in Salina. Said she needed to get out.”

“He was probably trying to get her off my back.”

She grinned back. “I’d say that was a good move on Bart’s part.”

He chuckled in agreement. “Hey, would you mind giving me a hand for a minute? Real quick?”

“Sure.” Maggie followed him into the kitchen, which looked more like a demolition site right now. He once again had all the appliances unplugged and scooted away from the walls. If anything, he appeared to be losing ground on this project. She scanned the room and shook her head. “Man, I don’t want to be here when Wren sees this.”

He propped his fists on his waist and trailed her gaze. “I know. That’s why I was hoping you could help me out. I need to measure for some trim.” He held out a bulky tape measure. “Can you hold one end for me?”

“Okay.” She gripped the end he handed her, and they worked together measuring, Trevor stopping to jot numbers down on a little notepad.

“Thanks,” he said when they were finished. “If I can get this one wall finished, I can at least move the appliances back until I can get around to painting.”

“Is it ready to paint?”

“The kitchen part is. But I need to tape everything in here first.” He indicated the dining area.

She looked around the room. “Do you have the paint?”

He crossed the room in half a dozen easy strides and hoisted a leftover sheet of drywall, revealing two gallon pails of paint on the floor. He leaned the bulky Sheetrock against the wall they’d just measured.

“If you’re ready, I’d be glad to help paint. It’s been awhile, but my sister and I painted her whole apartment a couple of years ago, and it turned out pretty good.”

He seemed to be considering her offer. “You really wouldn’t mind?”

“Not at all.” She rolled her eyes. “I’m bombing out finding a real job, so I may as well pitch in here. We could probably do this wall in an hour or two and get everything moved back before Wren gets home.”

His eyes lit. “Hey, if you’re serious, I’ll take you up on that. Wren will kiss the ground you walk on if she comes home tonight to a kitchen she can actually work in.”

“Let’s do it.” She looked down at her clothes. “Hang on. I’d better go change. This is the only decent thing I have to wear to job interviews Monday.”

“Here.” Trevor grabbed a rumpled flannel shirt that was draped over the stepladder. “You can wear this. Doesn’t look like much, but it’s clean.” He touched a splotch of dried Spackle on one sleeve and gave a sheepish smile. “Well, it’s not sweaty anyway.”

She reached for the shirt. “Thanks.”

He grinned. “You’re on your own in the pants department though. Sorry.”

“I’ll be right back.” She trotted down the hall to her room with renewed purpose.

Kicking off her shoes, she hurriedly grabbed the capris Wren had given her. She changed into them and stretched Trevor’s shirt over them
as far as it would go. She’d have to take her chances that she wouldn’t get paint on her good clothes.

A strange elation welled within her chest. It felt good to be able to help someone. Especially someone who appreciated it so much. Trevor—and Wren too. Maggie smiled, imagining the glow on the woman’s face when she came home to a freshly painted kitchen with all her appliances plugged into the proper outlets and in working order.

Sitting on the side of the bed to retie her shoes, Maggie leaned in to read the alarm clock on the nightstand. Maybe Bart would take Wren out to a nice sit-down restaurant and buy them another hour. Maybe there was a way to call him. She’d ask Trevor, but she somehow doubted Bart was the type to carry a cell phone.

It was almost four o’clock. They’d have to hurry to be finished before the couple got home, but it could be done. She ran into the bathroom and gathered her hair into a ponytail, then hurried out to the dining room. Adrenaline pumped through her veins as she ran. It was a sensation she remembered from being on a tight deadline at the design firm. It was a good feeling.

She stopped painting in midstroke, a gleam of curiosity in her eyes.

Chapter Twenty-Eight

T
revor pried open the paint can with a screwdriver and set it on a canvas tarp on the floor in front of Meg.

“Ooh, what a gorgeous color.” Meg peered into the bucket of paint as if she were gazing into a wishing well.

He watched her face, enjoying the excitement in her expression, and trying not to notice that she managed to make his ratty flannel shirt look like a million bucks and then some.

She dipped a paint stick into the butter-colored paint and stirred for a minute, then held the stick up to the light. “It’s perfect for this room. The way the sun comes through those windows in the morning, it’ll just glow.”

She must have sensed his amusement. Head tipped, she crinkled her brow. “What?”

“Oh . . . nothing.”

“No, what? You were thinking something.”

He grinned. “It’s just that . . . well, not too many women get that worked up over a can of yellow paint.”

“I love color,” she said simply. “And this is a great shade. Is this the only brush you have?” She picked up a brush with a rusted ferrule and examined the bristles.

“Hang on.” He went to Wren’s supply closet behind the check-in counter and rummaged around until he found two other paintbrushes.

“Are these better?”

She took them from him and swished the bristles against her palm. “Ah . . . much. Thanks.”

“And you’re right, this is a good color. It’ll catch the sunlight in the morning, but it won’t be too gaudy in the evening either.” He affected a swagger. “I picked it out myself.”

“Really? Where did you learn about color?” She studied him for a second, then answered her own question. “Oh . . . the print shop.”

“Well, yes. There. But I took a couple of art classes in junior college too. But mostly trial and error.” He stripped off a length of painter’s masking tape that hadn’t adhered tightly enough to the baseboard and wadded it into a tight ball. “My dad and my uncle started the shop thirty-some years ago, and I worked there all through high school—when I wasn’t playing basketball.”

She rolled her eyes comically. “Don’t tell me you’re one of those jocks?”

He lifted his shoulders. “Okay, I won’t tell you.”

“But you are,” she deadpanned.

“Was.” He aimed the balled-up tape at the trash can in the corner and swished the shot.

“Nope.” She shook her head and pointed at the trash can. “See there. Once a jock, always a jock.”

Conceding her point with a wry smile—and a healthy dose of pride—he grabbed the roll of masking tape and redid the baseboard.
“There. That should do it in here.” He ripped the end of the strip from the roll and stood back to look for any other spots he’d missed. Satisfied, he turned to Meg. “Paint away.”

She rubbed her hands together like a ten-year-old at the front gates of Disneyland. He smiled and put aside the twinge of guilt he felt for allowing her to help with
his
job.

He carried the smaller stepladder over from the dining area. “Here, you’ll need this.”

“Thanks.” She climbed to the third rung and situated the paint can on the ladder’s shelf.

He watched for a minute while Meg stroked the creamy paint along the line where the wall met the ceiling. Her work was meticulous. Reassured, he went back to taping off the windows and doorways in the dining area across the room. He kept a watchful eye on her as they each worked their way around respective sections of the wall, but it didn’t take him long to see that he’d negotiated a good “hire.”

Jasper wandered into the room and made a beeline for Meg’s ladder. The cat stood under the bottom rung looking up at her. When she ignored him, he pawed the air and gave a series of short mews.

“Hey, kitty.” Paintbrush aloft, she peered down and cooed at him. “Where have you been hiding? You’d better go on if you don’t want paint on your tail. Go on, buddy. Go on now.” She tried to dissuade him with baby talk, but Jasper ignored her and plopped down on the drop cloth directly under the ladder.

Meg gave a soft sigh and climbed down from her perch. She scooped up the cat and nuzzled her nose into his fur. “Come here, kitty. You could get into all kinds of trouble in here.”

As she carried him out to the lobby, Trevor heard her talking to him, explaining why he couldn’t be in the kitchen and trying to convince him to lie down on the love seat in the lobby. “See, buddy. It’s nice and sunny here. Come on now. That’s a good kitty cat.”