So About the Money (40 page)

She shook her head. “I’d round a corner and there he’d be. Or he’d walk up behind me…He’d follow me if I went on a date, sit at the next table, and glare. He got his cop buddies to drive by my house and check for my car. I’d stand at my window and watch patrol cars slow down or stop in front of my building. They’d pull me over if I was driving and tell me to ‘get my act together.’ ”

“Sweetie.” Laurie reached over and hugged her.
 

“I’ve never felt so trapped. Who was I going to go to? The police?” She made a bitter noise. “I got the restraining order when I showed the judge the call log. Hundreds of call and texts every friggin’ day. And that was after I told Frank to leave me alone. Some of those messages… God, he had me so freaked out.”
 

“I remember you said the other police weren’t helpful.” Laurie shook her head. “I can’t imagine…That sucks.”

“I kept telling myself most of the officers were good guys. But when Mom asked for help, I was actually grateful for the excuse to leave town for a while. So what happens?” She threw up her hands. “This insane week.”

“It has been nuts. But what happened tonight, just now?” Laurie gestured toward the front door.

Holly closed her eyes, took a deep breath, and opened her eyes, hoping she’d see things differently. “A Richland cop stopped outside my house because there was a pizza guy on my doorstep and a second car in the driveway. Without talking to me, JC apparently called them and asked them to do that.”
 

“Holly…yesterday was pretty scary.”
 

“You’re missing the point. It’s JC wanting to control me. Just like Frank did. Were you not listening?”

Laurie shook her head. “No, you’re missing the point. Frank and JC are completely different. They’re doing things for different reasons. Someone tried to hit us in a parking lot. We both know it wasn’t an accident. JC knows it too. He cares about you and wants you safe.”

Holly raised frustrated hands. “But on
his
terms. He’s deciding for me.”

“This works in your favor. If it was me and someone I used to be involved with recruits his friends to protect me…Tell me something Holly.” Laurie swiveled toward her, a serious expression on her face. “If something else happened, would you trust JC—the man who was here tonight, not the kid you used to know—would you trust him to take care of you?”

Part of her wanted to blow off Laurie’s question because it wasn’t what was bothering her, but she couldn’t help remembering how much better she felt when JC showed up Thursday night. She crossed her arms, wrestling with too many issues. She’d always been a Bottom Line women and whether she wanted to deal with the repercussions or not, the Bottom Line was she
did
trust JC to take care of her.
 
Maybe Laurie was right. JC and Frank’s motives were completely different.
 

“Maybe the issue isn’t control,” she said slowly. “Maybe it’s more about communication and trust.”

“Progress.” Laurie smiled her Cheshire grin. “Keep working on that. Now open the pizza box. I’m starving.”
 

Chapter Thirty-eight

Saturday morning

The central console pinged a warning when Holly started the BMW.
Low air pressure
.
 

Holly moved the gearshift to park, climbed out and examined the tires. The right front tire did look a little bulgy at the bottom.
Great
.
 

Her first stop was the gas station. A car vacuum and an air pressure machine stood side by side at one edge of the lot. She pulled the manual from the glove box and finally found the tire setting. Okay, thirty five pounds.
 

She studied the air machine. There was no regulator. No dial to set. How much was she supposed to put in?

Hmm.
 

As long as she didn’t blow up the tire, she was good.

She connected the hose, squirted air into the tire, and added “Visit Tire Store” to her long To-Do list.
 

Minutes later, she cleared the Interstate 182/82 interchange and set the BMW’s cruise control at seventy-two miles per hour.
Tire underinflated, reduce speed
, warned the console. As if in response, the front end shimmied.
 

She lowered her speed. Damn. Spend the morning at the tire store or drive?
 

It might take a few minutes longer, but the car could make it to Yakima, as long as she watched her speed. She reset the cruise control. Slow, but no warnings or weirdness from the tires.

Elbow propped on the window ledge, she gave her left hand an experimental flex. Annoyed rumbles came from under the bandage, but her fingers weren’t as stiff as they’d been the day before. She squirmed into a comfortable position and watched the countryside stream past her window. Farms, orchards, and vineyards lined the Yakima River—a crazy quilt of yellows and reds that stitched together a series of small towns.
 

Hopefully, the extra key in her tote bag fit a mailbox in one of the towns’ post offices.
 

The tire seemed to holding its own. She settled in for the drive and tapped her Bluetooth. “Voicemail.”

Most of Friday’s ignored calls were friends expressing concern over the incident in the library parking lot. Then, “Holly? Devon Edwards.”

She straightened.

“I checked that Wyoming proxy. Nothing definite, but the feds are sniffing around. You sure you want this guy as a client?”

She’d asked herself the same question.
 

The next voicemail began and the bottom fell out of her stomach.
 

“Hello, Holly.”

Blood drained from her face, leaving her cold and sweaty. She knew that voice.
 

Frank Phalen
.
 

She’d moved three hundred miles to get away from him. But somehow, she’d known he would find her again.

“I’m glad you came to see me at the casino. We were meant to be together. To have a second chance.”

Second chance? Oh God, the flowers were from him.
 

“Call me.”

This could not be happening.
 

The pavement before her started a slow, swaying dance. She made it to the side of the road. The car shuddered as trucks rushed past, the buffeting air forming a counterpoint to her chorus of wails.

~$~

Holly wasn’t sure how long she sat on the shoulder of the highway. Gradually, reason returned. Okay. The long hair, the clothes, the hat. Working security. Not what she expected, but she still should’ve figured it out immediately. Creepy Security Guy was Frank. No more rationalizing or explaining it away.

Part of her wanted to shriek,
How could you not recognize him?
 

The rest went,
Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit
.

He’d seen her when she met with Peter Ayers. No wonder he’d sent the flowers to the office.
 
Oh crap,
he knows where I work.
Sending flowers might be a gray area, but calling her violated the restraining order.
 

Was the order still in effect? It had been nearly a year. How long did a protective order last?
 

JC’s words from the wake resonated in her mind.
Tell me if Phalen contacts you
.
 

She raised her hand to tap the Bluetooth and call JC, but the previous evening’s confrontation made her pause. JC might think calling about Frank was just a pretense to contact him. Was she even remotely ready to talk to him?

Not just no, but
hell
, no.
 

They needed to finish that conversation, and she wasn’t doing it over the phone.

Five minutes after she pulled back onto the highway, she noticed a black SUV seemed to be keeping pace with her car. One thing the ordeal with Frank had taught her was to watch her back.
 

Her gaze drifted back to the rearview mirror. Even at her reduced speed, the vehicle hung behind her. Her thumb hovered over the cruise-control lever. She couldn’t speed up with the shaky tire. After a momentary hesitation, she tapped the control to decelerate and slowed the BMW.
 

The sedan behind her swung into the passing lane. The SUV stayed back. A tendril of concern eased up her spine.

Damn. It was official. JC and Frank Phalen had made her totally paranoid.
 

You aren’t being paranoid if someone really is after you.

She nipped the invasive thought. Her exit was coming up. It’d be easy enough to prove the black vehicle wasn’t following her.

The Prosser exit arrived. She watched the SUV as she eased into the turn lane. It slowed, as if its driver might also exit. Eyes riveted to the rearview mirror, she coasted down the off-ramp. The black vehicle accelerated and continued on the Interstate.
 

She gave a small sigh of relief. Paranoia was so tiring.
 

Within minutes, she reached the Prosser post office and found the short row of mailboxes. Maybe the extra key belonged to Marcy’s personal box. Maybe it didn’t have anything to do with Stevens Ventures. She poked the key into the lock and twisted.

The lock didn’t turn.

Wrong box.
 

Damn
.
 

Same results in Moxee, Grandview, and Sunnyside.
 

She struck pay dirt in Granger. The mailbox was packed with late notices, some forwarded from another box in Ellensburg, others mailed directly to the overstuffed Granger box.
 

Rather than stand in the post office and shuffle through envelopes branded with bright red last-notice and past-due warnings, she pushed the stack back into the mailbox.
 

Okay, now she knew where the box was and that apparently nobody was cleaning it out.
 

Pocketing the keys, she walked to her car as though she knew what she was doing.
 

Now she had to figure out a way to make JC trip over the information, so the police could actually use it.
 

Chapter Thirty-nine

Holly’s conscience walked on the legal side of the law. Breaking into Tim’s office was a bad idea.

But she
wasn’t
breaking in.

Tim didn’t say she could have the keys, her conscience argued.

But his employee had given them to her, fully understanding she intended to go through the files, because Kaylin didn’t want to do it herself.

Slippery slope
.

Perfectly legal. She had keys. She had permission.

So why was she sitting in her car arguing with herself?

She climbed from the BMW and strode toward the small house Tim used as a satellite office.
Eyes front. Act like you’re supposed to be here
.

This side street held a mixture of small businesses and residences. The yards were empty and traffic was light, but who knew if nosy neighbors were already reporting a prowler…

She stood in front of the locked entrance. Her heart thumped in her ears. What if Tim had an alarm system? Hesitating made her look suspicious, so she swiftly unlocked the door and stepped inside.
 

No loud claxon clamored. She scanned the small room. No keypad beside the entrance. No metal box in the corner with a blinking red light. She drew in a ragged breath.
Good
. No obvious alarm.
 

Light filtered through the dusty, open-weave curtains. What looked like a cheap dinette set stood on the right—oak-toned chairs around a spindle table—with a closed door beyond it. Sofa on the left. Desk in the corner. An open doorway opposite her.
 

“Hello?”

No answer.
 

The silence felt not so much empty as…waiting.
 

Halfway across the room she realized she was doing the burglar creep—one silent foot in front of the other, with the cartoonish body-lurch in time with the steps.