23 Snapshots
Snapshots
In person, Brad Pendergraft was much taller than I’d imagined, and thinner. He wasn’t like those thickset cops who spend their free time bulking up at the gym and pretending they don’t know that the supplements they routinely take are steroids.
Despite the early afternoon heat, he wore a light jacket, zippered almost all the way up.
I was parked on the side of a small road in North Henderson, having taken all precautions before stopping there.
I’d driven up and down the interstate, then taken the Henderson exit and circled around several blocks before I was convinced that Jack wasn’t following me.
I didn’t know why he wasn’t, though. For some reason, his absence scared me just as badly as his presence used to.
Something had changed, and that could be very bad.
Organized crime, drug dealers, human traffickers . . . those were terms I understood, but realities I’d never been exposed to. If they wanted me dead, Jack could’ve done that a thousand times already, right?
But not knowing was worse. It spread anxiety in my gut, and that emotion grew, poisoning my mind and promising to keep me up at night. It had to stop. And perhaps it had already stopped, but how could I be sure?
The private investigator climbed into the passenger seat of my car. “Did anyone follow you?”
“No.”
He looked around again, checking the rearview mirrors. Then he took out a manila envelope he’d been hiding under his jacket. “You got everything in here.”
I unclasped it and peeked inside. Several photos, printed on glossy paper, were stacked inside a white file. And a red one contained some papers. I grabbed that one and slid it out an inch. “And this?”
“Everything I could find on your stalker.”
I took the red file out completely, abandoning the manila envelope on the car’s dash. Holding my breath, I opened it and stared at the driver’s license photo of one Frank Holford, a.k.a. Frank the Tank, and, in my own mind, a.k.a. Jack.
At thirty-seven, he had a long list of priors, mostly battery charges, and a couple of assaults that had started at age twelve with a charge that had been dropped for lack of evidence.
He’d been charged and released twice after that, once for the kidnapping of a rival gang member, and another time for involvement in a high-profile robbery.
He was currently under investigation for racketeering.
Wonderful.
Unease settled in my bones as I realized that someone like this man had told me to leave town . . . and I hadn’t listened. I’d laughed in his face and challenged him. The reckless fool, I’d been.
I tapped on the page with my fingernail. “Did they pick him up? That’s why he’s not following me anymore?”
“I don’t know anything about that,” Brad replied. “And I don’t want to know. A friend of mine told me, unofficially, that Holford’s the investigator for this crime family. They stopped using him as muscle because he is, himself, being investigated, and has to lie low for a while.”
Brad’s words turned my blood to ice. This Frank Holford was investigating me? For what? What had I ever done to this Vegas crime family?
I closed the file and bit the tip of my finger, thinking. “So, what do you suggest I do?”
Brad shrugged. “You seem like a smart woman. This man works as an enforcer for the biggest crime family in Vegas, the DiMarcos. And he’s been dispatched to look at you.
Out of all people, you, around the clock.
There’s no connection I could find between you and them, but there must be a reason for that level of attention, and only you would know it. ”
So, it wasn’t the Taylors. And I already knew it couldn’t have been Claire. “What do you suggest I do about this? I have no idea who these people are. I’ve never heard of them!”
He pressed his lips together, hesitating for a moment, then added, “If I were you, I’d get the hell out of here. Or get your new fiancé involved. He’s got some traction in this town.” He scratched his chin with his stubby fingers, then pointed at the ring. “Congratulations, by the way.”
I opened the glove box and pulled out a thick envelope. “Thank you for your help.”
“Uh-huh,” he mumbled, eager to get out of the car. The envelope disappeared inside his jacket without him looking to check if I’d paid as agreed.
Seconds later, he was driving off in his inconspicuous white sedan.
Abandoning the red file on the passenger seat, I extracted the white one from the envelope with shaking hands, and opened it. The photos were high-quality, letter-size prints. I stared at them through a blur of tears, reliving cherished moments with each photo.
Winston, holding my hand as we watched the fountain show on Sunday evening.
The two of us having a shared dessert at Alexxa’s, on the patio.
Climbing out of the helicopter after our Antelope Canyon visit.
Then, earlier today, Winston proposing to me.
Opening the ring box. Slipping it on my finger.
The two of us dancing, with the fountain jets reaching for the sky behind us.
All of this, I had to let go, so that I could do what I’d come to Vegas to do before I’d known I’d fall in love here.
I didn’t have a choice.
A sob rattled me. My hand flew to my mouth, trying to keep it locked inside my chest, but it turned into a heart-wrenching wail as memories overwhelmed me, ripping my heart to shreds.
Just an hour ago, we’d been so happy, and I’d thought I could somehow make it work with him. For a bitter, merciless moment, I’d believed I could marry Winston and make him happy. Be happy with him, cherish him . . . be in love together.
Then, in that parking elevator, it hadn’t been Winston holding me anymore.
In my damaged mind, it had been my father, crushing me under his weight, pinning me down and hurting me, choking me.
How could I ever tell Winston, a loving and sensitive man, about the nightmares that flashed through my mind when he touched me?
How could I ask him to love me without wanting me, without touching me like that?
And what would he think about me, if he knew what had been done to me?
He’d be just as disgusted with my body as I was—just as repulsed.
There was no what if.
There never had been, and never would be. Not for me. Life was a wicked bitch, dealing me blow after blow—damaging me, but leaving me the ability to fall in love and be ignited by desire, only to twist everything into a mangled, horrific nightmare.
And Jack had been right, for who knew what reasons. I should’ve gotten the hell out of Vegas a long time ago.
Wiping my tears with the back of my hand, I slipped one photo inside Jack’s criminal record file, deciding to keep it. It was the one of Winston and me dancing after I’d said yes.
When my eyes were dry again and the redness gone, I turned my phone off, then I drove for a few minutes until I found the address Brad had jotted on the back of the envelope, and I stopped there in front of an impressive modern mansion with large glass windows and sleek architecture.
When I reached the entrance, my face was composed, and my makeup touched up to perfection. Holding the white folder in my hand, I rang the bell and waited.
A housekeeper, dressed in a black-and-white uniform, opened the door and smiled politely. “Yes?”
“Olivia Taylor to see Claire Donovan, please.”
She looked at me with poorly disguised suspicion. “Do you have an appointment?”
I looked her straight in the eye. “No.” I felt dizzy, nauseated, a sense of impending doom overwhelming me. But I already knew what the doom was about, and who would cause it.
Me.
I breathed deeply, steadying myself.
The housekeeper pursed her lips in disapproval. “Can I ask what this is about?”
It took everything I had to say the words I’d said many times before in my life, and to not faint on Claire Donovan’s doorstep.
“Please tell her I have something that belongs to her.”