Chapter 29
Annette sat in her rented Jaguar. She refused to think about the message someone had left on her Lexus. Instead she stared at the mansion that had been home to Carson Tanner as a kid. His personal life had started and ended here. Last dinner with his family. Last birthday party. Last Christmas.
The end.
She knew enough about psychology to understand that he’d done exactly what she had.
Tragedy and trauma had forced him to retreat into himself.
Life as he knew it had stopped. Survival had become his focus.
Carson Tanner had worked day and night, put all else aside to accomplish his goals.
The typical Type A personality. Overachiever, perfectionist, determined to the point of obsession.
He had deliberately built a wall between himself and the world.
It was easier that way. Annette understood far more about him than he probably understood about himself.
And yet the one thing he craved above all else was someone to love him unconditionally .
. . as his parents and sister had. The world had turned its back on him after their murders, and he had been struggling to win someone’s—anyone’s—approval ever since.
The teenage kid who’d lost everything in one fatal blow still waited inside him, needy and vulnerable.
That was the only way in for Annette. The only way to win the man’s support was to reach out to that boy.
To touch that deeply buried weak spot. That was the thing.
Every man had his weak spot, just like the mysterious G-spot for a woman.
Some had several. But Carson Tanner had only one and that was physical intimacy.
Annette had found that spot.
Ordinarily she would see that as a success. But this time something had gone wrong. In touching his weakness she had discovered one of her own.
He made her feel things. Things she hadn’t felt before. Ever.
That left her only one viable option for luring him to her side. Give him what he wanted above all else. The means to find the truth.
Risky on far too many levels.
But it was done.
Many of her clients called her an ice bitch. A she-devil. And numerous other things that should make her cringe. But none of those labels bothered her at all. She had worked hard to achieve that reputation. The persona was necessary in order to keep her clients in line.
To protect herself.
Yet she’d failed.
Steeling herself for confrontation, she emerged from the car. She reached back inside for the bag she’d brought along, then closed the door. He’d asked her to meet him here. He was probably watching for her arrival.
She eyed the Cadillac parked in front of his house. Where was his BMW? As she walked past the vehicle, she spotted the briefcase on the passenger seat. Definitely Carson Tanner’s.
Annette smoothed her silk dress. As usual she had dressed to accomplish her mission. A daring lavender sheath that fit her body as closely as a second layer of skin. The matching stilettos clicked on the steps as she ascended to the front entrance. She took a breath, then rang the bell.
The door opened and Carson Tanner filled the opening. He’d shed his jacket and tie. She unexpectedly enjoyed the bare skin revealed by the three buttons he’d unfastened on his shirt. Stop. This was business.
She held up the bag. “I brought you a birthday gift.” It was his birthday, after all. “Is the Cadillac a birthday present to yourself?”
He stared at her, his dark eyes dull. His jaw was set in hard, grim lines. That he hadn’t shaved today lent a dangerous air to his brooding good looks. She felt an uncharacteristic stirring of longing. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d experienced that sensation. Wished she didn’t now.
“Someone used my BMW for target practice,” he said flatly. “But never mind that, I want the truth.”
“What do you mean target practice?” Someone had shot at him?
“I. Want. The. Truth,” he repeated.
She shook off her confusion. Focus, Annette.
Stokes had obviously told him. Good. Maybe.
That Tanner continued to stand there, staring, without saying more or asking her inside made her uneasy.
There was nothing in her research that suggested he couldn’t handle this.
She thought of his uncle and his mental illness.
No, Carson Tanner had shown no signs of having any issues—period.
He could handle the truth. And then he would owe her. She needed him.
“I take it Stokes confirmed my story.”
Tanner drew the door open wider and took a step back, an unspoken invitation for her to come inside.
She crossed the threshold, goose bumps rising on her skin at the idea of the heinous murders that had taken place in this house. Though the thud of the door closing behind her didn’t echo, there was an eerie emptiness about the place.
Annette offered the bag again. “Happy birthday.”
He ignored the gift. “Let me be clear about this,” he said, his voice low, grim.
The simmering resignation so uncharacteristic.
“I trust Donald Wainwright unconditionally. I have no reason whatsoever to trust you. As far as your claims against Wainwright go, there’s just one itty-bitty sticking point.
What could he have possibly hoped to gain? Where’s his motive?”
Annette stared into that severe expression. “Maybe it’s not about him . . . maybe he’s covering for a friend. Protecting someone.” Secrets were a valuable commodity. She hoped Tanner appreciated what she was giving up.
“No more conjecture. I want the truth. Now.”
She settled the bag on the floor. “All right.” Shock quaked through her. She’d said the words before her brain had analyzed exactly what she intended to do.
No more pretending she could reach him without going the full distance. She had to give him what he wanted . . . or risk losing everything. If anyone knew about his trip to Holman, she was screwed anyway. Wainwright would know she’d advised him to talk to Stokes. Wainwright was nobody’s fool.
No more protecting anyone. But Paula and herself.
Considering the incident with the scissors at the center, being stalked by a black sedan, Jazel’s death, the use of Tanner’s vehicle for target practice and then the vandalism to her own, there was no denying they were in serious danger.
Annette’s gaze locked with his. “Last Sunday evening around six I received a call from Dane.”
“Dane Drake?”
She nodded. That he was so surprised told her he knew nothing about what she did for men like Drake. “He had a problem.” Deep breath. Just do it. “I’ve taken care of problems for the senator related to his son before.”
“What kind of problems?”
“Dane has a way of getting himself into fixes,” she explained. “Usually drug related. He gets involved with the wrong people. Runs up debts he can’t pay. Things like that.”
“And you do what?”
Tanner’s penetrating stare made her uncomfortable. She’d faced far more powerful men than him. That he could make her doubt herself disturbed her.
“I resolve the problem. The fix usually involves paying someone to keep their mouth shut. Simple stuff really.” She wet her lips. “Until last Sunday.”
“Exactly what happened last Sunday?”
She had his full attention now. His eyes were no longer listless and dull. His gaze was sharp, searching. His posture was different, too. Battle ready.
“Dane called me to pick him up at a friend’s.”
“Does this friend have a name?”
For the first time in a really long time she hesitated. “Zac Holderfield.”
She watched that realization creep over his features. “What’re you telling me?” Fury kindled in those dark depths now.
“That Dane killed him.” Before he could demand more answers, she added, “But it was self-defense. The gun belonged to Zac. He and Dane had a disagreement over a business deal. There was a struggle, and you can imagine the rest.”
“You helped him dispose of the body.”
She nodded. Her heart pounded so hard she couldn’t draw in a decent breath. What she had to tell him next could go either way, for her or against her.
He closed his eyes. “Jesus Christ.” His eyes flew open once more. “Why the hell didn’t he just call the police?”
“Think about it. He’s Senator Randolph Drake’s son. Men like Drake don’t abide scandal.”
“What did you do with the weapon?”
“Wiped it.” She swallowed with difficulty. “Tossed it.”
He planted his hands on his hips and started pacing. “You understand that I have to report this.”
“There’s more.”
He glared at her.
“I . . . I have to show you.”
“What the hell are you talking about?”
“You’re going to have to trust me, Tanner.” She was doing all the giving here; the least he could do was cooperate.
His hesitation dragged on a moment or two too long. “This had better be good.”
She was fairly certain that nothing about it was good.
“We’ll need flashlights and a shovel.”
Carson drove. Baxter provided the directions. He wasn’t about to let her out of his sight after what she’d told him. Dammit. Dane had monumentally screwed up this time. The senator would be devastated by this turn for the worst.
Dane’s actions had actually killed two people. The idea that Dwight Holderfield had committed suicide because of his son’s death . . . and Dane was responsible. Damn.
“Turn here.”
He took the right. It wasn’t that far from the house where he’d grown up.
A side road that as best he recalled was a dead end only a couple hundred feet into the woods.
Deeper into those woods was a path that led from his house to Elizabeth’s.
A slight detour from that same path ended at his uncle’s shack.
They’d used those paths all the time when Carson was a kid.
Where the hell was Baxter taking him? Were there more skeletons he hadn’t heard about yet?
He wasn’t sure he wanted the answer to that question.
They emerged from the car and gathered the flashlights and shovel.
“It’s this way.”