Cross Roads, page 15
Over the last two years, she’d grown used to being alone. So the reluctance digging at her insides confused her, and she shut the bathroom door with more force than necessary.
* * *
Rohan stared at the bathroom door, listened for the shower to start before he scooped up Lena’s oversized bag.
An arrow of guilt thunked against his chest, but didn’t penetrate. She was hiding something from him. Something that might help him track down the Catawnee.
Sifting through her wallet, he found nothing but cash, credit cards, and old receipts. He bypassed clothes, feminine products, and snack bars before he came across a sketchbook. Lifting it out, he flipped it open and a small disc fell out.
He picked it up and knew immediately what he was holding. A GPS tracker.
Had the Collective planted this in her bag? Was this how they knew the perfect moment to disable his vehicle?
The water in the other room shut off, and Rohan cursed. He fanned through the sketchbook, pausing on one page before dropping it back inside. He rearranged her possessions into some semblance of order. Seconds later, a hair dryer revved up.
It would take a while to dry that beautiful mass of hair, so he continued his search. “If I were Lena, where would I hide something important to me?” he whispered.
He ran his hands over the outside of the bag, testing the leather material for anything that felt out of place. Something crackled beneath the flat bottom, and he froze. He glanced between the bathroom door and her bag. Knowing he wouldn’t have another opportunity, he searched for a false bottom inside and came up empty.
Laying the bag on its side, he knelt down and eyed the stitching, looking for inconsistencies.
Nothing.
The hairdryer shut off, and his hands froze until the sound of a toothbrush against teeth reached him.
Time’s up.
Frustration exploded in his head. Something was at the bottom of her purse, hidden away. There had to be an opening.
Unable to admit defeat, he pressed his fingers along the seams, feeling for the opening he couldn’t see.
There, on one of the longest seams the material was slightly more raised than the other side. He manipulated it until the material finally separated enough to reveal the smallest zipper he’d ever seen.
The faucet turned on, followed by the double tap of hard plastic against porcelain.
Wasting no more time, he unzipped the secret compartment, removed its contents, and set the bag to rights again. By the time Lena appeared seconds later, Rohan stood at the window, peering through a small crack in the drapes.
The wail of a siren echoed in the distance.
He turned away from the window to find her wrapped in a damp threadbare towel. His body responded to the sleek golden flesh exposed by the narrow white barrier. The sight reminded him of the first time he’d seen her—barreling down her apartment building’s stairs in nothing but a Scooby-Doo towel.
Amusement twitched at the corner of his mouth—until she strode toward her purse. His breath caught.
She hefted her bag onto her shoulder and gave him a quick glance. “Forgot my clothes.”
The bathroom door shut behind her again.
Rohan released a long, shuddering exhale.
28
“Something’s going on,” Lena said as soon as Rohan emerged from the bathroom, twenty minutes later.
She made a valiant attempt to keep her attention on his face and not on his bare chest and feet or the area where his jeans rode low on his hips, showing off the deep grooves of his delicious abs.
She failed, miserably.
“What do you mean?” Finger-combing his hair, he joined her at the window.
Gathering herself, she pulled the curtain back a few inches. “Two cop cars and an ambulance just pulled up to the office.”
He leaned in and his fresh-out-of-the-shower scent filled her nose. “I don’t like the feeling of this. Did you speak with Ruthie?”
Lena nodded.
“Did she appear sick or distressed in any way?”
“She was the same as last night. Happy, helpful. Offered me some bagels.” Lena angled her head for a better view. “Maybe one of the guests had a heart attack or overdosed. Or maybe a couple’s domestic dispute went haywire.”
“It’s possible.”
A light knock at the door startled her, and she backed into Rohan’s chest. He placed a reassuring hand on her shoulder before shifting to the other side window to look outside.
“It’s okay.” He unlocked the door and Cruz slipped inside.
On the tail of her initial surprise at seeing Rohan’s brother, Lena glared at her travel partner. “You have a phone?”
He shook his head. “I paid the Quik Mart clerk forty bucks to make a call.”
Lena stared him. “And I’m just now learning about this?”
“You were determined to go your own way—”
Cruz cut in. “Argue later. Right now, we need to wipe everything down and get you the hell out of here.”
“What’s happened?” Rohan asked.
“Someone stabbed the owner to death.”
Ruthie was dead?
“I left her not ten minutes ago,” Lena said.
“Someone must have called the authorities before murdering her,” Rohan said, his expression grim.
Lena tried to process what was going on, but it felt like a thick steel wall blocked every avenue of logic. “Are they trying to frame us for this?”
“I wouldn’t have thought they would take the game this far, but I can’t rule it out.”
“Who are we talking about?” Cruz asked.
“Later,” Rohan said. “We need to get out of here. It’s only a matter of time before the police start knocking on doors.”
Rohan donned a T-shirt and stabbed his bare feet into his boots. “Did you bring everything I asked for?”
“Have I ever failed you, brother?”
“What about the Verge?”
“Already towed back to Steele Ridge.”
“We accepted a ride with a local last night.”
“If it becomes an issue, we’ll deal with it.”
“Why run?” Lena asked, following orders even as she questioned them. “Won’t that make us look guilty?”
“It’ll buy us time to track down who’s behind this,” Rohan said. “I can’t do that stuck inside a police station answering a thousand questions.”
Once they were ready to depart, Cruz tossed Rohan a key fob for their rental. “Black Wrangler at the east side of the building.”
Rohan caught them easily. “Who’s with you?”
“Neuman’s hovering at the edge of the growing crowd. Gathering intel.”
Rohan looked at her. “Ready?”
Questions boiled on the edge of her tongue, but she only nodded. This wasn’t the time for delays.
Cruz eased open the door, checking both ways before he glanced at Rohan. “Family first.”
“No exceptions.”
The serious expression on Cruz’s face turned mischievous when his eyes met Lena’s. “He’s a pain in the ass, but I love him.”
Rohan made like he was going to throw the keys at Cruz’s head. His brother ducked and slipped outside, a large smile on his face.
Lena lifted her bag and positioned the strap across her body, instinctively running her hand over the bottom for the familiar crackle of paper. Satisfied, she followed Rohan out of the room. They turned left where Cruz had turned right.
Taking advantage of the predawn shadows, they stayed close to the building. Lena expected to hear shouts for them to stop at any second, but the only thing she heard was the low hum of voices and the staticky chirp of radios.
But that didn’t stop Lena’s pulse from warping through her veins. She chanced a glance around and noted several vehicles in the parking lot, including a silver truck that looked like the one Dean had been driving last night, except this one didn’t appear to have a trailer attached.
Her steps slowed. The morning gloom obscured the interior of the vehicle’s cab. She couldn’t tell if it was empty or if someone sat inside, watching them escape.
The situation had that kind of vibe.
“Lena, hurry up.” Rohan motioned to her from the corner of the building. His hand made a flicking motion, as if he’d thrown something. Whatever it was disappeared in the low light.
Shrugging, she rushed forward and jumped into the passenger side of the Wrangler as Rohan slid behind the wheel.
Turning the automatic lights off, he started the engine, put it in drive, and let the vehicle coast toward the back of the building.
Once again, Lena held her breath, listening for signs of pursuit. This time, she did look behind her.
Unease gripped the walls of her chest.
No uniformed officers chased after them.
No lights and sirens.
No silver truck.
Forty minutes later, they crossed the border into Georgia and stopped at the Valley Café in Dillard for breakfast and Wi-Fi.
Cruz had not only come through for them with a vehicle, but the back of the Wrangler contained a change of clothes, a wad of cash, new phones, and a laptop.
To her immense relief, all her business files were still on the cloud. The moment she could tap into a secure network, she would begin the painful process of changing her passwords. She’d already notified her bank and credit card companies.
Sweet Mary, she wished hackers would focus their energies toward something more productive like locating missing kids or tracking down serial killers. Wouldn’t that be more rewarding than terrorizing strangers?
While she downed a serving of eggs Benedict, Rohan alternately pounded away at the keyboard and ate a stack of pancakes like slices of pizza.
“Aren’t you concerned about security?” Even she knew free public Wi-Fi wasn’t safe.
“I’m using a double VPN.”
“English, please.”
“A virtual private network.” He continued to type as he spoke. “The information is encrypted, twice, and my IP address is masked. The extra layer of security also protects against a brute-force attack.” He looked around, no doubt noting that most of the customers sported gray hair and rounded middles. “Might be overkill, but I’ve underestimated my foe one time too many.”
Lena pulled out the sketchbook she kept in her bag, frowning when she noticed it was opened to a drawing she’d done of Rohan a few nights ago when she couldn’t sleep. She was always careful about closing the sketchbook to preserve the drawings inside.
She glanced at Rohan whose gaze remained fixed on his screen. Had he searched her bag? The thought didn’t set well for a multitude of reasons.
Then terror set in.
Keeping her breathing steady, she walked her fingers along the bottom of her bag again and pressed the tips into the pliable material until she felt the crinkle of paper. Relief washed over her, and she cursed the part of her brain that liked to scare the shit out of her.
She had simply forgotten to close her sketchbook. The end.
Flipping to a new sheet of paper, she let her lead pencil fly. The routine calmed her nerves better than any five-hundred-dollar-a-day spa. By the time Rohan finished, Lena had filled three pages with faces she’d come into contact with over the past week.
Rohan paid the bill with the cash Cruz had left them, and they were back on the road in minutes.
Two hours later, they strode into Killian Byrne’s art gallery, and excitement added an extra buoyancy to her step.
Roaming along the walls, viewing the artworks, analyzing the lighting—it all soothed her soul. Then an image of the blank canvas sitting inside her cabin surfed through her mind, dampening her enthusiasm and reminding her of what she could never have, never achieve.
“I’ll search for Byrne on this floor,” she said, needing some alone time. “You take the second.”
“Or I could flag down a staff member and have him brought to us.”
“Are you really going to deprive me of this opportunity to peruse the gallery?”
On the drive down, Rohan had gone through a laundry list of facts about the art collector and his gallery. The forty-thousand-square-foot building housed the largest collection of art from Irish artisans in the U.S.
Byrne had traveled the world in search of emerging artists of Irish descent, looking for unique pieces to add to his collection. Which made his interest in the Catawnee curious.
“If you see him,” Rohan said in a tone that conveyed his displeasure at splitting up, “text me. Otherwise, we’ll meet back here in fifteen minutes.”
A quarter hour wouldn’t be enough time to explore the entire lower level. She opened her mouth to tell him so, but he cut her off.
“Fifteen minutes, Lena. This is a business trip, not pleasure. We’ll come back another time to roam the gallery.”
“We will?”
He set his jaw and strode off.
Pleasure pushed aside some of her unease at the realization Rohan imagined spending time with her beyond their business relationship.
The notion shouldn’t make her want to run after him and fling her arms and legs around his body like a chimpanzee. It should put her feet in motion, not stopping until a thousand miles separated them.
“I remember when you used to look at me that way,” a warm, familiar voice said near her ear.
Startled, Lena turned and stared into the pure blue eyes of the first man—the only man—she had ever loved.
29
The moment Rohan reached the second floor, he flagged down a petite, pixie-haired attendant, wearing a sharp black business suit and six-inch hot pink heels.
“Good morning,” he said, channeling his inner Phin. “Could you tell me if Mr. Byrne is available?”
“Mr. Byrne’s schedule is . . . irregular. He pops in and out, as he wishes.”
“Would you see if he has time to speak with me?”
“You are?”
“Rohan Blackwell.”
She eyed him as if trying to determine whether he merited a face-to-face with her employer. When her expression turned sympathetic, he knew he hadn’t made the cut.
“I’m sorry, but Mr. Byrne is quite busy. It would be best if you called and made an appointment.”
“All I need is five minutes of his time.”
“The gallery’s number is on our website.” She teetered off.
Rohan set his jaw and made a pass through the second floor on the chance Busy Byrne might make an appearance.
When no art dealer surfaced, he sat down on a wavy white bench that he hoped was for resting and not for viewing.
He would give Lena the full quarter hour. She deserved it after the harrowing events of the past twelve hours.
Opening his messenger bag, he pushed past the laptop to get to the side pouch where he’d stashed the items he’d pilfered from Lena’s bag. Guilt stabbed at his chest again. This time, it didn’t bounce off. It slid between his ribs and pierced his black heart.
A better man wouldn’t look inside the protective pouch. He would give it back to Lena and ask for her forgiveness. Or, if he couldn’t quite muster complete goodness, he would return it to her bag.
But Rohan was a hacker, with the requisite curiosity and compulsion to unearth information. He was also a Blackwell and he couldn’t quite set aside the fact that Lena had appeared in his life at the same time the Collective had struck.
Could she be hiding more than her past?
He removed the plastic cosmetic bag and unzipped it. Drew out the first thing his fingers touched. A thick folded piece of paper with a downy texture, indicating it had been handled many times.
With great care, he unfolded the sheet and stared.
It wasn’t a letter, but a sketch. A good sketch. A promising sketch.
A sketch by a young hand.
In the foreground, a doe and her twin fawns frolicked through a meadow of wildflowers against the backdrop of rolling mountains. At the top, in imperfect letters, read, “Best Trip Ever.” The signature at the bottom read, Angela Jones.
Why would Lena carry this around like a treasure? Was Angela a childhood friend? Someone she’d lost? Could this be a link to Lena’s missing past?
The second item was a four-by-six photo inside a zippered plastic bag. A white multigenerational family stared back at the camera. Based on the outdoor environment and balloons in the background, he guessed the picture had been taken at a backyard birthday party.
Since none of them, not even the toddler, had brown skin, he assumed this wasn’t Lena’s family. Who were they? And why were they important to Lena?
Could they be her adopted family?
Setting the picture aside, he reached for the final item, a folded handkerchief.
Inside the brightly colored cloth, he found a teardrop-shaped gold pendant about the size of a quarter. The loop at the top signaled that it had once been part of, or made for, a necklace.
On the back was a symbol. One he didn’t recognize.
He took out his phone and snapped a picture, front and back, of each item before carefully returning them to Lena’s pouch.
He rubbed his finger over the colorful bag.
“Who are you, Lena Kamber?”
30
Xander Douglas was Killian Byrne.
Lena would have liked to pretend the revelation surprised her, but she couldn’t. On a subconscious level her mind must have been working the angles, calculating the odds, because crossing paths with her former best friend and lover again seemed inevitable.
“You’ve done well for yourself, Xander,” Lena said, as they strolled by several paintings in the art nouveau style.
“As have you.” His southern accent now masked behind an Irish burr he’d adopted for his new persona. “Killian, if you please. Best not to confuse the hired help.”
“Speaking of confusion.” She turned to face him. “Why did you steal my painting?”
“Steal? Look around you, darling. I have no need to steal anything.”
