Rundown (Curveball Book 2) (15 page)

So
is Henry her manager and dashes2?

I
hold my forehead with one hand before picking through the next few
emails, which predate the others and outline the time, date and
details of someone’s death. 
What the fuck, Alexis?
 
Overwhelmed, I abruptly stand, flinging the documents onto
the bed.  Linking my hands above my head, I pace the room in
silence, playing out the information.  It’s a lot to digest
and I still have no clue what any of it means.  There’s more
to go through, yet I’m not sure I want to at this point. 
Needing a break, I walk over to the window and watch people go about
their business without a care in the world. 
How did my life
get so complicated?
 

After
several minutes of deliberating, curiosity gets the better of me and
I pick up where I left off. 

From:
[email protected]

To: 
[email protected]

Date: 
August 31st

Subject: 
Delivery

A
delivery to the Widow has spurred interesting research activities.

515
responds almost an hour later instructing dashes2 to do a background
check on a new recruit that ‘the Widower’ recommended, and if he
checks out to put him “on it”. Dashes2 agrees.

From:
[email protected]

To: 
[email protected]

Date: 
September 2nd

Subject: 
Reference check

The
new recruit that the Widower referred checked out.  We
should meet with him and the others prior to the main event.  On
a separate note, I caught up with a man that goes by Major Arnold as
I was leaving the Architect’s office and he was just as eager about
the possibilities we discussed.  The Architect did not feel the
same.

Two
minutes later
[email protected]
responds with a simple message: 
Some
bites have no cure
.

“
This
just gets more and more interesting,” I say to myself at the sight
of Arnold’s name, and the introduction of another player.
What’s
up with all the code names
? I move on to the next couple of
emails and have to read them twice. Alexis went from challenging her
manager with specifics about coding issues, to the extreme opposite. 
She agrees and complies with every request he makes.

Utterly
dumbfounded, I go to the next item, which consists of three
receipts stapled together and a copy of a shipping label.  I’m
about to flip back to the front when the name of the package’s
recipient causes my world to stop. 

Breanne
Sullivan. 

For
fuck’s sake.  

I
lose track of how long I stare at the label.  I wish I could say
my mind is racing a million miles a minute, but it’s not.  I
can’t comprehend why my sister would have Breanne’s name and
address, let alone send her something.   I shake my head
for clarity and finally return to the first invoice.  It’s for
a local jeweler, dated September 9th of last year.  There’s no
description other than the word ‘necklace’ and the amount -
$1,495.00. 

Who
spends nearly $1,500 on a necklace?

Baffled,
I move on to the next receipt, suddenly wishing I hadn’t. 
This one is for a silver jewelry box.  
This can’t be real. 
I flip to the third statement and discover it’s from the same
jeweler that the necklace was bought at, though this bill is for
engraving services.  If there hadn’t been three versions of
the same phrase―a phrase I’ve seen before ―I wouldn’t have
believed it.  Alexis didn’t just know who Breanne was; she
designed, ordered and sent Breanne the necklace and jewelry box.  
But
why?

I
grab my forehead in complete bewilderment. Why the hell would Alexis
buy that pendant and jewelry box for Breanne, especially when it was
designed in way that implied it was from Mark?  I start over,
looking at each individual invoice again.  I’m inwardly
pleading for some logic to jump off the page.  All I come up
with are more questions.  My head drops into my hands and I
press the heel of my palms into my forehead, groaning in frustration.
 

As
I mentally compile the clusterfuck of information I’ve just
consumed, certain elements and phrases stand out.  I comb
through the pile on the bed until I come back to the email that
specifies ‘Widower’, and then flip to another one, noticing it
says ‘Widow’.  I honestly thought they meant the same thing,
but the way the messages are written, it’s clear to me that dashes2
and 515 are talking about two different people. 

I
pull out my phone and quickly search for the definition.  Widow
is the term for a woman who has lost her husband.  Widower
applies to men.  Being that Breanne was on the maiden flight,
she must be the ‘Widow’, which means she
was
purposely put
on that aircraft.  But who is the ‘Widower’?  Convinced
that answers must be somewhere in the folder, I flip to the next
item, which is a folded obituary section of a newspaper. 
Circled in red is the obituary for Mark Sullivan.

My
head might literally explode.  

I
pinch the bridge of my nose and try like hell to deal with this. 
Why the hell does Alexis have this shit?  Looking up at the TV,
I watch Everett wrap the few small belongings left in the living
room.  Maybe he can make sense of this.  I decide to review
the rest before sharing when a thought occurs to me. 

Shuffling
through the mound of paper, my brain kicks into overdrive.  I
recheck the dates of the email outlining a death, and compare them to
the dates of Mark’s obituary.  They line up.  I
immediately think Mark is the ‘Widower’, but dismiss the idea
because the dates on the emails occurred up to a year after Mark’s
death. 

From
the beginning, I had a feeling Mark was connected and now I know for
sure he is, but how he’s involved remains a mystery.  Adding
to the confusion is the fact that the necklace and jewelry box were
purchased about a year after Mark’s death, and only a few months
after Alexis started working at the airline.  This is also
around the same time she went from having concerns with the code, to
agreeing with her manager’s approach.

Not
getting the connection, and refusing to be kept in the dark, I
frantically flip through the few remaining documents.  515
references the pilots for the maiden flight, describing them as
‘plumbers’, whatever that means.  Another one calls out that
the coding Alexis has been working on, linking thumbprints to bank
accounts and other personal information, is almost complete. 
That same day, Alexis emails her manager requesting time off. Her
request is denied and she responds with her resignation.  It’s
the day she was leaving for Boston―the day she died.  

And
then it hits me. 

Her
death wasn’t an accident.

Stunned,
I look through the stack again and then put it back in the folder.
 None of this adds up.  What I can’t understand is that
if Alexis was aware of the conspiracy to take down the plane, why
didn’t she tell anyone and why did she remain working for the
airline for so long?  Another thing that strikes me is that
Breanne and I were linked long before we met. 

Pushing
off the bed, I stride to the door when a crash from the other room
startles me.  Immediately, I look at the TV and witness two men
accost Everett, who is putting up one hell of a fight.  
Fuck
.
 I look down at the pile of evidence in my lap and scramble to
put everything back into the folder. I lock the bedroom door and
quickly push the small bookshelf against it as quietly as possible;
hoping they don’t know anyone else is here.
What if I’m
holding what they want?
The doorknob to her bedroom jiggles,
justifying my concern.

Bang. 
Bang.

The
force of someone’s body slamming into the door torments me as I try
to figure out what to do.  I grab my phone and the folder and
then dash to the closet. Haphazardly, I jam the folder back in the
safe and slam the door, but not before a few pieces of paper fall
out.  I pick them up, stuff them in my pocket and panic.  
They
can’t find this
. Fisting the paper in my pocket, I take it
out, fold it flat and stuff it into the only place I can think of.  

The
banging gets louder and it’s clear I’m in deep shit.  The
door bursts open just as I’m pulling out my phone to dial 9-1-1. 
It’s too late.  Two men charge at me, knocking me to the
floor.  Kicking and punching, I claw my way to the door of the
bedroom as a sharp sensation pricks my neck.  I attempt to push
the men away and collapse.  I’m dizzy and sweating.  My
vision is cloudy, my ears ringing.  My entire body feels warm
and weightless, yet heavy at the same time.  I hear muffled
voices around me and then everything goes dark.

Call
It a Hunch

Premonitions
are a strange thing.  There’s nothing tangible to cause the
haunting feeling of problems or tragedy looming, yet they exist as if
they’re real—a warning whose meaning is held just far enough out
of your grasp that it torments you endlessly.  This is how I
felt when I went to sleep last night, and it continues to linger this
morning.

Sitting
in a waiting room, watching countless women in various stages of
either pregnancy or menopause, I fidget with my phone, badly wanting
to hear Drew’s voice.  He never texted or called last night
and I imagine he either fell asleep while packing up Alexis’s
house, or he’s broken up over the situation and isn’t ready to
talk.  Either way, I thought I would have heard something from
him, but then again I only have glimpses of how he deals with grief.
 We still have so much to learn about each other.

“
Breanne,”
the receptionist calls to me.

“
Hi.
That’s me,” I say and walk up to the counter.

“
I’m
terribly sorry to keep you waiting.  Dr. Miller had an emergency
C-section he had to perform this morning at the hospital and he’s
still not back yet.  We can either reschedule your appointment
for another time, or Dr. Stevens has an opening and we can fit you in
this morning.”

“
Oh,
I’m not familiar with Dr. Stevens.”

“
Dr.
Stevens is fairly new to the practice.  She joined our other
office about five months ago, and has been helping us out here this
week.  All the patients love her.”

“
Her?”
I ask, and she nods.

I
can’t fight the smile that spreads across my face. “I’ll take
it.”