Chapter Seven
Her parents’ reactions to the news about the man named Gerald Griffin came as no shock to Cara, but she could tell by Wyatt’s stunned expression he expected more questions than he received.
Once it was made clear the man who’d taken her was no longer a threat, her father had slapped his knees and pushed himself out of his chair, promising to be back from the south pasture before dark. Her mother murmured an insincere “Lord have mercy on his soul” before retreating to her kitchen to clear away the remnants of lunch and start preparing dinner.
For her part, she’d shown Wyatt to the guest room, told him he was welcome to set up his laptop in the seldom-used dining room and provided him with the network and password information for the Wi-Fi. Physically and emotionally drained, she retreated to her childhood bedroom, hoping some time alone would allow her to rest her mind and perhaps gain some desperately needed calm.
Gerald Griffin.
Stretched out on the twin bed she’d slept in as a girl, she tried to conjure a mental image of the man who’d turned her world upside down, and failed. How many nights had she lain in this very bed dreaming of a man sweeping her off her feet? Too many. Then, when one actually did, he turned out to be a mercenary with a gun instead of a knight on a white horse.
Had she taken a good look at him? All she had were bits and pieces cobbled together into a jumbled composite of good and evil. Brown hair? She thought so. Polo shirt. Khaki pants. Camouflage. Safety orange.
He’d seemed so harmless. Boring. An average guy renting a boring car at a middling airport in a medium-sized city in the middle of a state most non-natives would never deign to visit.
Then he’d jumped into her car, and he was the personification of a threat, complete with a handgun and masked face. The irony of it was, he was probably less remarkable without the disguise. Maybe the addition of the disconcertingly bright safety orange made him seem more menacing.
“Breathe in,” she coached herself in a whisper.
She counted to four as she inhaled, waited four more seconds, then exhaled slowly. But three rounds of box breathing later, her heart still jackhammered against her breastbone. How was it possible she managed to escape a gun-wielding maniac, but found it impossible to relax in the room where she’d spent nearly half her life?
For a moment, she missed her phone with an almost physical ache. She wished she could open up the LYYF app and disappear into dissecting and critiquing her own meditations. Or tap into someone else’s reserve of Zen for a bit. She’d even go for a podcast, or a particularly juicy audiobook.
Better yet, a boring one.
A book with a narrator so monotone it lulled her to sleep.
Inspired, she rolled over to gaze at the shelves above the desk where she completed hundreds of homework assignments. She spotted the cracked spines of a teen detective series she’d devoured as a girl. On impulse, she hopped up and pulled one down. Smiling, she drank in the horrendously dated cover art as she carried it back to the bed.
Less than thirty pages in, she was sound asleep with the book spread over her chest.
A TAP ON her bedroom door startled her. She sat up, pressing her hand to her startled heart. “Come in.”
The door opened a crack, but rather than her mother, Wyatt Dawson peeked in. “Sorry,” he said gruffly. “I hate to disturb you, but your mother says it’s almost time to eat.”
Cara glanced at her watch. It was nearly six o’clock. “Wow. I sacked out.”
“You needed it.”
She swung her legs over the side of the bed, but before she could rise, he held up a hand to stop her. She raised surprised eyebrows as he stepped into her bedroom and closed the door. She suppressed a wholly inappropriate giggle. She’d never been allowed to have a person of the opposite sex in this room. Part of her couldn’t help wondering if her mother was on the other side of the house having a complete meltdown.
“I’ve been on the phone with the office most of the afternoon. Listen, I’m sure you want to call your partners, but I wanted to talk to you before you speak to them.”
“Okay,” she prompted cautiously.
“First, I want you to return any calls from your new mobile or even mine. I don’t want to take the chance of anyone tracing your parents’ phone number or mine through theirs.”
“Sounds reasonable.”
“Second, I’d like you to, uh, obfuscate a bit about your exact location.”
He looked awkward and uncomfortable, and she couldn’t help wondering if it was due to his word choice or the action he was asking of her.
“Obfuscate,” she repeated. “I can...but why? I assume Chris and Tom know what’s happening. Zarah said she would reach out to them.”
“I’m only asking you to keep things vague. How much do they know about your hometown, anyway?”
She shrugged. “They know I grew up in a rural area of a state they like to poke fun at.”
He pressed. “Would they know the name of your hometown if asked?”
“No, but I’ve mentioned it in interviews, I’m sure. It’s never been a secret. As a matter of fact, I’m sure I’ve referred to the peace and tranquility I’ve found in the Ozarks in more than a few recordings.”
He bobbed his head. “You have. I guess what I’m asking is how much your partners in particular know about your folks and where they live.”
She stood, suspicion blossoming into incredulity. “You suspect Chris and Tom of having a hand in this?” she asked, offended for her partners. They may not be as close as they were before success pulled them in different directions, but Cara still regarded the men as two of her closest friends.
“I have to consider it,” Wyatt replied, his tone even and reasonable. “They have means and a strong motive.” She must have looked as horrified as she felt because he rushed to soothe her. “I sincerely hope I am wrong because I have admired them both for some time, but as an investigator, I have to take a long, hard look in their direction. They have both the money to pay someone to terrorize you and enough followers to whip into a frenzy.”
“A strong motive?” She gaped at him. “What motive? We’ve been friends since we were eighteen, and now all of a sudden they want to get rid of me? Have me kidnapped?”
“Someone did,” he interjected. “Someone paid thousands of dollars to a guy you’ve never met or heard of but happens to live in your home state to grab you at the airport. Someone who knows you well enough to know your schedule. Your movements.”
“They didn’t know where I was going.”
“As far as you know,” he shot back.
He crossed his arms over his chest, straining the shoulder seams of his shirt. Cara looked away. She knew he was speaking the truth, but for the first time in her life she was learning that the old cliché about how the truth could hurt underplayed the sensation. Hurt was not a harsh enough word for the searing pain a few stark facts inflicted.
“Your abduction wasn’t random. It wasn’t a crime of opportunity motivated by robbery, like most carjackings. Gerald Griffin was waiting for you. He took you. You said it yourself. You offered him money and the car, told him to take what he wanted. He said you were what he needed. Why? What did a man you’ve never met need from you?”
“I don’t need you to remind me,” she snapped.
“No, but you do need me to help figure out who’s behind all this and make them stop,” he responded.
She closed her mouth so hard her teeth clacked. Cringing, she crossed her arms over her chest and leaned her head against the door frame. “I know, but I—”
She took another big gulp of air to center herself, then did exactly what she encouraged people who used their app to do. She asked for exactly what she needed.
“Can we not tonight?” Her voice trembled, but she squared her shoulders and let her hands fall to her sides, standing her ground. “I understand time is of the essence, but for tonight, one night, can we eat my mom’s pot roast and talk cows with my dad? My brain is tired. I’m on anxiety overload. I need to...be for a few hours.” His broad shoulders rose as he inhaled. She rushed into the breach. “I promise we can start fresh in the morning.”
Wyatt allowed his cheeks to fill before he let the oxygen seep out between parted lips. “Okay. We can wait until morning.”
“Thank you,” she said, clasping her hands over her heart.
He started to turn away but froze as if remembering something important. “Wait. You don’t eat pot roast.”
Cara inclined her head in acknowledgment. “Nor will I eat the potatoes and carrots cooked with it.”
“You’re going to starve here,” he grumbled.
She smirked, both tickled and touched by his grudging concern. “I won’t, I promise. We live in the middle of nowhere. Mom keeps the pantry well stocked and I’m sure the freezer in the cellar is filled with good stuff put up from her summer garden. I’ll throw something together.”
He gave another one of those slow, thoughtful nods. “I won’t grill you any more tonight, but tomorrow, I need everything you can give me.”
“Deal,” she said with a brisk nod. “Were you able to get set up okay?”
“The connection out here must be bouncing off a satellite launched during the Ice Age.”
“Slow, huh?”
“Glacial. But steady so far.” He held up his crossed fingers. “I’m getting surprisingly good reception on my phone, though.”
She nodded, then reached past him to open the bedroom door. “Yeah. Much faster to build cell towers than to run fiber-optic cable up here.”
“If I need to speed things along, I may run into town to get a wireless router,” he said as he followed her down the hall to the living area.
“I hope you realize running into town from here will likely mean going back to Conway or heading up to Harrison,” she warned. “Maybe Clinton, but I doubt it.”
“I figured. But I haven’t reached the level of frustration where I feel the need to shop,” he said with a chuckle.
Cara smiled at the attempt at levity. “Well, if the urge does overcome you, the router’s on me. I keep offering to upgrade things for them, but Mom insists she only uses the computer to place supply orders and check email.”
“She told me she plays a mean game of online mah-jongg,” he informed her as they passed through to the kitchen.
“Does she now?”
Cara raised her eyebrows when she spotted the woman in question transferring a hunk of cooked beef onto a serving platter usually reserved for Thanksgiving. Biting back any commentary about houseware choices, she crossed to the counter and pressed a kiss to her mother’s cheek. “I’m sorry I fell asleep. You should have given me a shake. I would have helped.”
Her mother’s mouth curved into a pleased smile and Cara stayed where she was, inhaling the familiar scents of home cooking mixed with Chanel she bought for her mother each Christmas.
“You needed rest,” her mother said in her usual no-nonsense tone. “I made you a sort of stir-fry.” She jerked her chin at the sauté pan brimming with a jumble of colorful garden vegetables. “Used a bit of oil, some soy sauce and some all-purpose seasoning. I also have some rice. It’s the boil-in-a-bag kind, not the fancy stuff,” she warned.
“Sounds great, Mama,” Cara said, then gave her mother another impulsive peck on the cheek. “And I don’t need rice, regular or fancy. But thank you.”
Cara wasn’t sure if these unexpected concessions to her dietary choices were because Wyatt was here or if her mother was simply glad some strange man hadn’t made off with her only child. Nor did it matter. She appreciated the effort.
“Your father is getting washed up,” Betsy informed her. “If you’ll get Wyatt whatever he’d like to drink with supper, I’ll get this to the table.”
“Here. Let me,” Wyatt said, stepping up and extending his hands to take the platter.
To Cara’s surprise, her mother acquiesced without even a token protest.
“Sweet tea okay for everyone?” she asked, turning to the fridge. It was a rhetorical question as far as she and her parents were concerned, but she didn’t know Wyatt well enough to presume.
“We also have milk, water and what appears to be a lifetime supply of fruit-flavored carbonated water,” she called.
“It was on special at the store. Buy two, get one free,” her mother said with a sniff.
“Tea is fine for me, but—”
Wyatt trailed off as Cara pulled a pitcher filled with sweet tea from the fridge. But when she turned, she found him standing beside the round kitchen table where they’d eaten lunch looking perplexed. She quickly ascertained the cause for his concern. The table she and her parents had used for most meals had always been big enough for the three of them, but now, with the addition of a place setting for Wyatt, there was no room for the serving platter.
“I’m sorry I’ve taken over your dining table.” He turned to her mother, a deep furrow of consternation bisecting his brows. “If you’ll give me a minute, I can get things cleared—”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” Betsy interrupted, then pushed past him to remove the wooden napkin holder with its nested salt and pepper shakers to make room. “There.” She gave him a brisk nod. “We never eat in there anyway.” She pulled Cara’s plate from her usual spot. “You can fill your plate at the stove, can’t you, Sweets?”
“I can.”
Cara was pouring tea over crackling cubes of ice when her father appeared, freshly showered and changed into clean clothes. With his damp hair combed and the remnants of his summer tan offsetting his blue eyes, Cara caught a glimpse of the handsome young man who’d wooed and won the heart of Elizabeth Watts. Her parents were an attractive couple. One day in an LA spa and they could easily shave twenty years off the birth dates shown on their driver’s licenses.
She listened with half an ear as she filled her plate at the stove. Their conversation was so casual, so normal, it made her hands tremble. This time the day before, she’d been diving out of a moving vehicle. Now her father was naming off random items he wanted her mother to add to their supply list. Yesterday, a strange man named Gerald Griffin had been alive and well and pointing a gun at her. Today, he was dead, and her mother was pushing food on a handsome special agent from the state police.
Staring down at the kaleidoscope of vegetables on her plate, Cara focused on the vibrancy of their colors. Rounds of bright orange carrots, red pepper and yellow squash were offset by dark green zucchini and pale chunks of cauliflower. She was safe. She was home. Her mother had made this gorgeous stir-fry for her, and she was grateful. More grateful than she could say. Wetting her lips, she grasped the plate hard enough to mask her terror as she turned to join them at the table.
She wouldn’t let whoever was doing this steal these precious moments from her. She would pass the few hours in peace, then tomorrow morning she and Wyatt would put their heads together and start figuring things out.
Forcing a smile, she placed her plate on the table and dropped into her chair. When she was sure she had the shaking under control, she reached for her glass and gulped the sugary sweet tea. As the cool liquid soothed her parched throat, she couldn’t help thinking about how horrified her friends back in La-La Land would be if they knew she was sucking down tea brewed with leaves trapped in bags with little tags and sweetened with no less than two cups of refined white sugar.
Wyatt’s phone rang and they went still.
“I’m sorry,” Wyatt murmured, but they all knew the apology was both reflexive and performative. Of course he would take the call.
“It’s almost as if people are aiming for our mealtimes. Go on,” her mother encouraged, but her smile was nervous and forced. “We want to know everything we need to know.”
But do we? Cara thought as Wyatt rose, swinging his leg over the sturdy wooden chair and pulling his phone from his pocket in a fluid motion now familiar to her. She placed her cutlery across the edge of her barely touched plate. She stared down at the brightly colored dish her mother had gone to the trouble of preparing for her, knowing she wouldn’t manage another bite. Her stomach was too sour. Her throat bone-dry.
Betsy reached over and covered Cara’s hand with hers. “Try to eat something. You need your strength.”
Across the table, her father sat with his knife and fork clutched in each hand. “What do these people want?”
“Honestly? I don’t know,” Cara confessed.
“Is it money?” he persisted, jabbing his fork into his slice of roast a mite too forcefully. “They asked for ten million dollars in the email.” He snorted. “Who could possibly come up with so much money?”
Cara bit her bottom lip. She didn’t know how to tell her father she could. If she were to sell her portion of LYYF to Chris and Tom now, she’d be able to cover the ransom demand and still have money left over. And if she waited until after the company went public...well, according to Chris, ten million would be little more than pocket change.
As if reading her mind, her mother zeroed in on her. “Do you have that kind of money?”
Uncomfortable with the topic of money in general and feeling cornered, Cara squirmed in her seat. “I, uh,” she started. Her father stopped chewing and stared at her as if he’d never laid eyes on her before. Caught in his steady blue gaze, she confessed, as always. “Not, um, you know, liquid.”
Her dad gently lowered his silverware to his plate and pulled his napkin from his lap, never breaking eye contact. “But you have access to large amounts of money?”
Cara cringed inside. She’d spent most of her adult years downplaying the perceived extravagance of her California lifestyle. Particularly in the three years since the app went stratospheric. She’d sent them photos of her charming little house on Sunset Drive, but she never told them she’d paid nearly two million dollars for fifteen hundred square feet of space. It wasn’t the kind of math people who clip coupons and pride themselves on canning homegrown vegetables and preserves would understand.
“I do,” she replied, but added nothing more. Thankfully, Wyatt reappeared and the subject was dropped. “What’s happening?”
“Not a lot. I guess Chris Sharpe has left for New York. Something about meetings with some fund managers before the stock offering. Emma says she spoke briefly with Tom Wasinski, and he says he’d like you to call him.”
“Nothing more on tracing the money?” she asked as he reclaimed his seat.
Wyatt settled his napkin into his lap. “No, we’ve hit a dead end on the numbered accounts, but Emma is monitoring chatter on a couple forums she thinks Griffin was active on, and I have some other angles I want to track after dinner.” He picked up his fork again. “I’m sorry for the interruption.”
The rest of dinner passed in fits and spurts of congenial small talk. After they were through, Cara helped her mother with the dishes while her father saw to Roscoe’s evening kibble and Wyatt retreated to his laptop. She was settled in the den with her parents watching a police procedural when he reappeared, looking rumpled and worried.
“Anything?” she asked, motioning for him to join them.
He skirted Roscoe’s enormous orthopedic pet bed as he stepped into the room. The dog gave him a cursory snort as he passed. “Nothing we didn’t already know. Countersurveillance on your accounts is running as it should,” he reported, taking a seat on the opposite end of the sofa. “Nothing has popped yet.”
The detective in the television show started rattling off a list of supposedly damning physical evidence they’d collected during a cursory search of the victim’s sister’s bedroom, and Wyatt let out a disdainful scoff.
Cara and her mother looked over at him, surprised by the interruption, but her father was the keeper of the remote. The moment the scene cut to a commercial, he muted the volume and shifted in his recliner to look directly at Wyatt.
“I take it things don’t tie up so neatly in the real world,” he said with a nod to the television.
“Most of the testing they mentioned doesn’t exist. Or, if it does, it either produces results too unreliable to use as evidence or is so expensive most municipalities couldn’t afford to implement it,” Wyatt explained. “Good physical evidence is much harder to come by than fictional.”
“I can’t believe you dare to sit here and spoil one of our favorite shows,” Cara accused.
Wyatt raised his hands in surrender. “Not another word,” he promised, a smile playing at the corners of his mouth.
“I think it’s far more interesting to know what’s real and what isn’t,” her father interjected.
“Jim is hooked on those true crime documentaries they show on CineFlix.” Betsy shuddered. “I prefer my crime scenes off camera and the bad guys rounded up at the end of an episode.” She gave him a wan half smile. “I don’t suppose it happens very often in the real world.”
Cara shot him a look, hoping he’d tread carefully. Given the circumstances of their visit, the last thing she wanted to do was add to her mother’s worry by piling on depressing crime statistics.
“You’d be surprised,” Wyatt said, crooking his arm on the back of the sofa and angling his body in the direction of her parents’ matching leather recliners. “In most cases, things are so obvious they wouldn’t make for good television.”
They finished out the hour and by unspoken agreement segued right into the next episode. “Tell us where they get things wrong,” her father prompted as they joined the investigators on the scene of yet another grisly murder.
“I have to tell you, I’ve been to relatively few crime scenes,” Wyatt warned. “I’m more the guy back in the office pulling the background reports or analyzing data.”
“Fake it,” Cara said out of the corner of her mouth. “I promise we won’t know the difference.”
So he did, and for the next hour, the three Becketts peppered poor Wyatt with all manner of questions, doubts and pie-in-the-sky theories as to the unraveling of the crime. By the time the case was resolved, the four of them were exhausted from poking holes in each other’s theories. And Cara was able to forget she was the subject of an ongoing investigation.
For a few hours, at least.