17 #2
“It’s Wendy Neely.” Saying the name aloud is unsettling. In fact, I can’t recall the last time I said it out loud. My heart rate picks up. My palms start to sweat. I watch carefully for Acacia’s reaction.
Her poker face in place, she asks, “The other girl who went missing around the same time you did?”
“Yes.”
“Are you saying you actually did see her while you were in captivity?” The slightest hint of curiosity has slipped past her carefully controlled expression. “You’ve maintained all this time that you didn’t.”
That she goes directly to that question doesn’t surprise me. “I saw her before my abduction, not after.”
“Wait, wait. You said you didn’t know her.” Now she’s glaring at me, something like anger flashing in her eyes before she can conceal it.
“We were friends,” I admit. “Wendy and me. We kept it a secret because the parents wouldn’t have approved.”
“Because she was a bad girl?”
“To those who chose to see her that way, yes. We had to sneak around to hang out. She gave me the necklace. It has to be her. No one else knew. The article, the necklace. It’s her. I know it.”
Acacia’s face has gone blank again, and she blows out a big breath. “Okay,” she says, “before we go any further down the conspiracy rabbit hole, I have to tell you something.”
Finally, hopefully, here it comes—some sliver of a detail or insight to keep me patiently waiting for whatever the real plan is. I fix my full attention on her.
She takes a big breath. “Phillip gave me the necklace and told me to put it in that drawer.”
Surprise flares in my chest, but I suppress it. Talk about an unexpected move. “Give me one reason I should believe such a ridiculous story.”
More hesitation. “It’s true. He . . . I think he feels you’re going to hurt his career.
Since the accident, you haven’t been right.
Your few public appearances with him have been less than optimal.
” She clears her throat, then continues, “He doesn’t want you around anymore.
I think he feels the only way to be rid of you without unsettling his voter base is for it to appear as if you’ve had a breakdown or something so he can put you away.
He feels between the accident and the upcoming anniversary of your abduction, the stress will look like the motive.
” She shakes her head and looks anywhere but at me.
I almost laugh out loud, but somehow I manage to restrain the need. “He said these things to you?” I’m confident my tone speaks loudly and clearly of my doubts as to the veracity of this tall tale.
“Not in those exact words,” she argues, her voice all whiny now. This time she manages that all-important eye contact. “I just know he paid me a whole lot of money to tell him everything I noticed you saying or doing that was not quite right and to plant that necklace.”
The tiniest crack forms in my wall of conviction.
Would Phillip do such a thing all the while putting on such a big show of wanting to be supportive?
Have I done something in public recently that embarrassed him?
I can’t recall any such event. Well, other than the Times article.
Before either of us can speak again, the doorbell echoes its deep, resounding notes.
I turn away from her and head that way. Acacia doesn’t try to stop me or make a move to answer the door herself. She’s too busy gloating at how her disclosure has unsettled me.
What better way to add a layer of confusion to the mix? Toss in an unexpected twist! Everyone loves a good twist—except for the person being twisted. In this case, that’s me.
No. I will not start doubting myself or Phillip until I have more than her word.
I check the security peephole. Well, well, Mr. Rick Howard has come to explain in person. How thoughtful of him. Or maybe Acacia has warned him that I’m getting too close to the truth.
I disarm the security system and open the door. No smile. No hello. I only glare at him.
“I know you’re upset, but hear me out.”
I give him my back and make my way to the living room. I hear the door close, and then he follows. Acacia appears, looking surprised to see him as well.
I sit and Rick does the same. He takes the sofa. Acacia settles in the other chair flanking the sofa as if she was invited to this little impromptu tête-à-tête. She is fully confident I won’t send her away, which is what I want her to feel.
“I have a friend,” he began, “who works at the market and who keeps an eye on certain people when I need her to. She was the one I asked about your delivery guy. I didn’t tell you this because she needs to remain anonymous.”
So smart of him to come up with such a reasonable explanation that can’t be confirmed. Personally I think Mr. FBI is making up every word of his excuse.
“Why didn’t you just say so instead of lying?” No need to mince words.
He exhales a loud breath and meets my gaze. “Because this is how you cultivate informants.”
“But you don’t work for the FBI anymore,” I say. “Why do you need informants?”
Phillip would be mortified at me if he were here. Good thing he’s not. Acacia’s accusation against my husband echoes in my head. Of all people, I am fully aware of the evil deeds man can do—even the one I married. But I cannot get right with the idea she presented.
Maybe that’s a mistake.
“Because I still provide consulting services to the bureau.”
“What does that mean?” Acacia asks, speaking for the first time.
Excellent question.
Rick shifts his attention to her. “It means that I keep abreast of the things happening here in case the bureau ever needs information about a person of interest or a crime that occurs in the area. The bureau has consultants all over the country.”
“So you’re the informant,” I say. “You hustle other people for information and pass it along for a consulting fee.”
Red rises up his throat and spreads across his jaws. “I guess I am.”
At least he doesn’t lie this time.
“Thanks.” I stand. “I appreciate the clarification.” I walk out of the room and make my way to the front door.