Chapter 7
Allison spent a restless night, falling to sleep only to wake up, her heart pounding, her body damp with sweat. A little after five, she gave up and stepped in the shower to start her day. By five thirty, she was on her phone, trying to make sense of the visiting rules for the Federal Detention Center, SeaTac, Washington.
There was a pdf that detailed much of the information, but it wasn’t easy to understand. From what she could tell, Peter would qualify as a pretrial inmate, so he could have visitors on either odd or even days, depending on the fifth number of his register number.
“What?”
She blinked at the screen, then read the example. Hmm, if his register number, something she would think of as a prison number, was 12345-086, he had visitors on odd days. Which meant she needed to know his number.
Social visits were up to two hours long, he could only have one social visit per visiting day and there were no visits on Tuesday, Wednesday or Thursday. And before she could schedule a visit, she had to fill out an application.
The times of visiting hours varied. Some days it was 7:30 a.m. to 2:30 p.m., and some days it was 2:00 p.m. to 9:00 p.m. She continued to read. There were exceptions for holidays. On those days everyone could have visitors. She scanned the list. Memorial Day, July 4, Christmas and New Year’s Day. It was late March. Surely Peter wouldn’t be in jail on Memorial Day, or worse, Christmas.
She felt the familiar flicker of fear and panic and immediately looked away from the screen. She was fine, she told herself as she took a deep breath. She would be fine. She had enough money to get through the next couple of weeks. She was going to get paid and that would help. She still had to solve her housing crisis, but not today. She missed Peter more than she could say, but she was figuring it out as she went.
She’d promised herself she would get through the day without giving in to the terror that lurked just under the surface. She needed a break from that. Today was about being practical. Later this morning, she would go by the office so she could tell Peter what was happening there. This afternoon she was working. This weekend she would go look at apartments.
Not that she had a clue as to how she was going to move—not just physically, but money-wise. She might be able to swing a security deposit, but wasn’t sure she could qualify on her own. With Peter’s income, getting a place wouldn’t be a problem, only there was no paycheck anymore and all their money had been frozen. Just as frightening, how was she supposed to have a baby with no one to care for Jackson?
A few days ago, she would have considered Liz a possibility. They were friends—at least she’d thought they were, although she’d been wrong. So if not Liz, then who? She supposed Jessie, her shift partner, was a maybe, but she didn’t know her that well and leaving Jackson with her was a huge ask.
An ask that got bigger if she allowed herself to consider the possibility that something went wrong and she had to stay in the hospital longer. Even if everything went well, how was she supposed to care for a toddler and a newborn by herself?
A cold knot formed in her chest. Once again she consciously slowed her breathing and told herself she would be fine. “Not today,” she whispered. “Not today. I’ll panic later. Today is going to be a good day.”
She put down her phone and woke up Jackson. The early morning passed quickly as they ate breakfast together, then had some playtime. A little before ten, she put him in his car seat and drove to Peter’s office building.
His accounting firm was on the third floor. When she got there, she tried to open the door but it was locked.
A sense of foreboding trickled down her spine. Shouldn’t the business be open? Gail, the office manager, always got in early. Peter used to joke that one day he was going to beat her there and then he would celebrate. And what about the other employees?
Questions without answers, she thought, grateful she’d thought to bring the spare office keys. She shifted Jackson to her other hip and fished the keys from her pocket. The door opened easily. She walked into the small reception area. The desk was still there, along with a couple of club chairs for waiting clients. But nothing else was the same.
The two framed prints were askew and beside them someone had posted a notice claiming a warrant had been served. Every drawer in the desk was open and the contents were spilled onto the floor. It was as if a tornado had swept through the room.
Still holding Jackson, she walked down the short hallway. In all of the offices, desk drawers and cupboards were open, contents tossed to the floor. No space had been spared, not even the break room. On her return trip, she realized there were no computers anywhere. She saw printers and scanners, even a sad old fax machine, but no laptops.
She sank into one of the chairs and set Jackson on her lap. He immediately squirmed to get down. She set him on the floor and he ran to a pile of paper and tossed it into the air, then laughed. She looked around, trying to make sense of what had happened, only she couldn’t.
After a few seconds, she pulled out her phone and logged in to the company’s Wi-Fi, then went online and typed in “What happens when the police have a search warrant.” She clicked the first link.
She learned that the police, or whoever was executing the search warrant, didn’t have to be especially careful with the belongings, and depending on what they were searching for, they had every right to rip the place apart.
“But what would they be looking for here?”
She glanced around. They’d taken the computers, so what was left? She continued reading about how if it was something small, like a stash of drugs, the search could take hours and be more physically destructive to the location. Other examples were given. And then she saw the answer. A thumb drive.
The police or whatever agency had been here had been looking for financial information, so they’d been searching for a thumb drive or maybe a backup hard drive. Anything where Peter could store records of his supposed illegal activities.
The phone on the desk began to ring. Allison stared at it but didn’t pick it up. Jackson looked from her to the phone, then returned his attention to a pencil holder he’d found. He rolled it on the carpet, making sputtering noises. The phone went silent.
Despite her promise to herself not to fall into despair today, she felt the heavy weight of uncertainty and worry. Her husband was in jail, his office had been trashed and no employees had shown up to work. No business, no income. Which left her totally on her own. And even if he did get out on bail, how was he supposed to get things up and running again if all the computers had been taken by the police or FBI or whomever?
Her chest tightened and her breathing quickened. The panic returned. She was in so much trouble and didn’t know what to—
The phone rang again. Allison stared at it for a couple of seconds, then walked to the desk and picked it up.
“Um, Jenkins Accounting, may I, ah, help you?”
“What’s going on there? I’ve been calling for two days. I need my quarterly deposit number and no one has sent it to me.”
The woman on the other end of the call sounded furious.
“Okay, that’s not good.”
Allison spotted a loose pen on the desk, then grabbed a random piece of paper, turned it over and wrote, “Needs quarterly deposit numbers.”
“Let me get your name and number so someone can call you back.”
The woman gave her the information. “I need to hear today. You got that? Today.”
“Yes, I understand. I’m sorry you have to wait, but I’ll get you something.”
“You’d better.”
The woman hung up. Allison replaced the phone in the cradle, then stared at the message. How was she supposed to get the information the client needed? Ignoring the no-computers problem, she didn’t know what a quarterly deposit was. When Peter called, she would ask him what to do, but until then, she was stuck. They were all stuck.
The phone rang again. Allison ignored it. She tucked the message into her bag, then collected Jackson and made her way out of the office. As she reached the elevator, she could still hear the phone ringing.
“You’re distracted.”
Erica looked up from her salad. “Am I?”
“I’m not complaining, just observing.”
Killion smiled as he spoke, which deepened the lines around his eyes. What would have been aging on any woman on the planet made him look gorgeous. Yet another unfair advantage for men. Where a woman of a certain age and means would be talking to a dermatologist about slowing the ravages of time, men just looked good as they got older.
“I have things on my mind,” she admitted.
“Should we talk about them or pretend they don’t exist?”
“I’m not sure.”
He picked up his glass of champagne. “Let me know when you decide. I’m happy to listen, offer advice or act like nothing is wrong.” He took a sip. “Usually our dinners are a prelude to sex, but if tonight isn’t a good night for you, then it can just be dinner.”
He was being so kind, she thought, both appreciative and annoyed. A testament to her being unsettled. While the correct response was to say Thanks, I’ll let you know, what she really wanted to say was Don’t pretend this is a real relationship. It’s not. Only that would sound incredibly bitchy and she didn’t mean it that way.
She held in a sigh. All right, yes, she did mean it that way, but knew she would immediately regret saying it and she really, really hated having regrets.
“The salad is lovely,” she said instead.
“Thank you.”
“You’re wonderful in the kitchen. Much better than me. I don’t have the patience.”
“Cooking relaxes me.” The smile returned. “As long as I don’t have to do it every day.”
The first time he’d offered to cook her dinner, she’d been skeptical. In her experience, a man “cooking” implied really good takeout. But Killion had surprised her with an exquisite meal. Usually they went out to eat but every couple of months, he made dinner. She always offered to help, but he preferred to do it alone. He did tell her what wine to bring. Tonight’s was Peter Michael Mon Plaisir Chardonnay, which they would have with their entrée. The champagne was for the appetizers and salad.
They’d started with prosciutto-wrapped melon with a balsamic glaze, followed by an arugula salad with shaved parmesan. Dinner would be seared scallops with brown butter and lemon sauce and an oven risotto with crispy roasted mushrooms.
The risotto made her nervous. She wasn’t afraid it wouldn’t be good. On the contrary, she was terrified it would be so delicious, she would eat it all and gain five pounds. Although given what she knew about Killion’s skill with risotto, it would probably be worth it.
“Is it Allison?” he asked.
The change in topic caught her off guard and before she could stop herself, she said, “In a way. Summer’s worried about her.” She leaned back in her chair. “She wants me to talk to her.”
“Summer wants you to speak with Allison?” He stood and collected her salad plate along with his own. “Interesting.”
She followed him into the kitchen. “What does that mean? Allison’s in a difficult situation. Summer thinks my business experience might help her.”
His kitchen was large, with an eight-burner stove and beautiful copper cookware hanging from an overhead rack. There were miles of counter space, tons of cabinets, but the real eye-catcher of the room was the man who owned it.
Killion was conventionally handsome—tall, fit, with dark hair and green eyes. He had an easy smile, an air of confidence and a velvety chocolate kind of voice. He was smart, intuitive and funny. The latter trait caused more than one foolish person to fail to recognize he also came with a killer instinct—at least in business. He was a ruthless venture capitalist with a reputation for swooping in when a company was close to being profitable but couldn’t quite get there on its own. He brought in cash and sometimes resources. And he insisted on profitability.
If a member of the existing management team wasn’t pulling their weight, firing them became a condition of the deal. If a division was losing money, off it went. He got in for the least he could and left with as much as possible. Erica wasn’t sure of his actual net worth but had done a preliminary investigation on him when he’d first asked her out. Word had come back that a hundred million was a low estimate. As that amount had put her personal net worth to shame, she didn’t have to worry about him being in it for the money.
“While I think you’d have a lot of advice Allison could use,” he said, before opening the oven to check on the risotto, “I’m not sure I see the two of you sitting down over a cup of tea.”
“There wouldn’t have to be beverages.” She leaned against the counter. “I don’t want to talk to her. We barely know each other. I’ve met her at a few school events and she comes to the occasional softball game. We’re not friends so getting together would be awkward.”
“Very few first and second wives are close.” He heated a pan for the scallops. “Let me guess. Summer didn’t just mention it, she’s insisting.”
“Yes.”
“And you can’t tell her no.”
“I tell her no all the time.”
“Not when it comes to matters of the heart and this is a heart problem.”
He was right, of course. In addition to the aforementioned charms, Killion was also insightful, which both impressed her and left her, once again, annoyed. A testament to the stress caused by the situation, she thought. None of this was her problem, yet here she was, reacting.
“Everything about what Allison’s going through sucks,” she admitted. “I get that. I can’t remember what she does for work, but I doubt it pays much. She’s pregnant, her husband’s in jail, the bank has frozen everything. She’s got to be scared. But it’s not my issue. I don’t mean that harshly, but it isn’t.”
“Except Summer’s making it your issue.”
“She’s trying.”
“Doesn’t Allison already have a kid?”
“Yes.” She crossed to the refrigerator and pulled out the chardonnay. After setting it on the island counter, she collected foil cutters and a wine opener, along with an ice bucket. She added ice to the latter until it was about half-full, then poured in water. Once she’d expertly opened the bottle, she tucked it into the bucket and draped a white linen towel across the top.
“A little boy. Jackson. Summer adores him.” She paused. “I think he’s about eighteen or twenty months. He’s under two for sure.”
“So the pregnancy isn’t Allison’s only complication. He’s probably still in diapers, right?”
She eyed him. “Are you working with Summer to guilt me into doing what she wants?”
His easy smile never wavered. “Not my style. Just gathering information.”
She believed him, but she didn’t like the way the conversation was going. While Allison had many problems, none of them were Erica’s fault.
“I don’t like how much she’s telling Summer,” she admitted. “Yes, they have Peter in common, but Allison’s the adult. She shouldn’t lean on Summer so much.”
“I agree. I’m sure some of it is the shock of the situation.”
“That’s probably true.”
Erica carried the ice bucket into the dining room, then removed the champagne bottle and glasses. When she returned to the kitchen, Killion was plating the scallops, and the dish of risotto sat on a trivet next to the stove.
They carried everything into the dining room and resumed their seats.
“Did you want more children?” he asked, pouring the wine. “Or was one enough?”
She paused to consider the question. “I wanted one for sure. I thought about having more, but I knew my limitations. The business has always taken the bulk of my time and I wanted to be there for my child.”
“Every school event, every big moment.”
“I believe in showing up.”
“And doing the work.”
“It’s the only way to achieve. Or in Summer’s case, have her know that I love her. Words are fine, but in the end, actions matter.”
Which was why she attended every softball game and made sure she and her daughter had dinner together a few times a week. It was why, when she’d been married, she’d cleared her schedule for regular date nights and had made sure to keep track of how often she and Peter made love. So nothing important got forgotten.
She tasted a scallop. “Delicious, as always.”
“Thank you.” He watched her. “You’re lost in thought again.”
“Sorry. Apparently I’m in a mood.”
“I don’t mind. I’m just noting there’s a difference. Thinking of the past?”
“Some. I always knew what I wanted to do with my life. I was going to go to beauty school and business school, then save every penny and buy out my mom.”
“Your first step toward your empire.” His voice was gently teasing.
“It was. In high school, I didn’t want to do the same things as the other girls. Oh, I was happy to play with hair and makeup, but I didn’t spend hours sitting around talking. I had things to do.”
“What about boys?”
“They weren’t interested in me. I was too driven.”
“You scared them.”
She wrinkled her nose. “That sounds awful.”
“You intimidated them,” he amended.
“Which isn’t much better, but you’re probably right. I was on a path and I wasn’t interested in distractions. My mother used to tell me I was ahead of my time, that the boys would catch up.” She reached for her wineglass. “It took a while for that to happen.”
She was happy with her success and wouldn’t change any of it, but she was clear that she’d paid a price.
“Do you have friends?” she asked. “People you’re really close to? Not family. Genuine friends.”
“Yes. A couple of guys. One I’ve known since high school.” He looked at her over his glass. “You?”
“Not really. There are acquaintances, but no real friends.” Her lips pressed together. “I work with women all day. You’d think it would be easy to click with someone, but everyone I know is either an employee or a client. When I started Twisted I went to a lot of local entrepreneur events, hoping to meet other women doing what I did.”
She offered him a rueful smile. “The problem was we were all juggling work, marriage and kids. There wasn’t any time to simply hang out. I’ve always thought success would be easier to deal with if I were a man.”
“You’re right, but I’d find the change disappointing.”
Her smile turned genuine. “I’m sure that’s true.”
“Are you lonely?”
The unexpected question stopped her. She resisted the urge to snap that it crossed a line and there was no point in pretending they were in an actual relationship. They didn’t discuss feelings. Their encounters were limited—good conversation, followed by good sex.
Only she liked Killion and she couldn’t summon the energy to be bitchy.
“Sometimes,” she said slowly, not looking at him. “I have work and my mother and Summer, and that’s mostly enough.” She raised her gaze to his. “It’s just every year at this time, when softball season starts, there they are. The other mothers. They’re all so chummy—laughing and talking. They’ve been tight for years and while I don’t care, sometimes I feel... Oh, I don’t know.”
“Left out?” he offered.
She saw him watching her. There wasn’t any judgment in his gaze or derision. If anything, she would say Killion was listening and concerned.
“Yes,” she admitted. “When Summer started playing softball years ago, I met them and they were very nice. They invited me to do things with them.” She waved a hand. “Girl stuff. Lunch and shopping or lunch and a movie. A few things were at night, but mostly they were during the day, when I was working.”
She picked up her wineglass. “They’re all stay-at-home moms. Most of them have never worked. A couple have part-time jobs.” She sipped. “I can’t relate to that. I always wanted to own my own business. I wanted to grow it and work hard and make money and be proud. But they don’t get that and I don’t understand how they can spend their days doing nothing.”
“Judge much?” he asked, his voice teasing.
“You know what I mean. My God, they’re dependent on a man. If any of them were to get a divorce, they’d be screwed with no money of their own, no skills beyond raising kids. Statistically, a woman getting a divorce is one of the most likely reasons for her to fall below the poverty line.”
“But you still wanted to go to lunch with them.”
“Maybe.” She looked past him. “Sometimes. But I was busy so I kept saying no and eventually they stopped asking. Most of the time I don’t care, but...” Her voice trailed off.
“The season starts and it feels like they’re rubbing your nose in it,” he finished.
She glared at him. “Don’t be insightful. I don’t like it.”
He laughed. “I’m stating the obvious. Don’t accuse me of being insightful.”
She sighed. “Sorry. Apparently the topic puts me on edge.” She pushed her fork through the risotto. “Crystal, one of the moms, asked me about a spa day at the Kirkland location.”
“In Carillon Point?” His brows rose. “For all the moms?”
“Yes. It’s a great way to spend a day with friends. We cater and...”
He reached across the table and touched her hand. “It’s not about the treatments, Erica.”
“I know.”
“You want them to invite you.”
She squirmed in her seat. “I don’t. Why would I want to have a spa day in my own store? It’s ridiculous.”
“You want them to invite you,” he repeated.
“I do and that makes me feel stupid.”
“You’re many things, but you’re not even close to stupid. Maybe you could divide and conquer. Invite one or two of them to lunch.”
She pulled her hand free of his. “I don’t need you to tell me how to make friends.”
“I was offering a suggestion. I’m a guy—I can’t help it.”
“We should change the subject.”
His gaze met hers. She read indecision there. He wanted to continue the conversation and yet he wanted to respect her request. She was sorry she’d brought up the topic. She wasn’t lonely and she didn’t care if those women had a thousand spa treatments. More business for her.
Later, she would have to deal with the fact that she’d been reduced to lying to herself to get through the evening, but for right now it was enough.
“Do you go to every game?” he asked.
“Of course. Always. The season is only about ten weeks, but they cram in at least two regular season games every week, plus invitationals. It’s a lot. And of course they always make the playoffs. But I’m there.”
“You’re a good mom. It’s one of the things I admire about you.”
She stared at him. “You admire me?”
“Yes. Why are you surprised?”
She didn’t have an answer for that. He leaned toward her.
“Why would I want to be with you if I didn’t admire you?”
“Because the sex is good.”
He grinned. “Yes, it is.” His humor faded. “But good sex isn’t that difficult to find. Someone I can be friends with, someone I can respect and admire, with whom I also have good sex, is pretty rare. Plus, you play fair. You say what you want and you’re not into games.”
Was that how he saw her? The words felt good. “Thank you. You’re not into games, either. It makes things much easier.” She hesitated. “I’ve been told I can be difficult.”
“You are, but I can handle it. I travel a lot and I can be moody.”
“I don’t mind the travel and I ignore you when you’re moody.” She picked up her fork. “And you can cook.”
He raised his glass. “A partnership of equals.”
“It is.” She smiled. “And after dinner, if you’d like, we can have sex.”
His eyes brightened. “I’d like that very much.”