Never Saw It Coming Theresa
Never Saw It Coming
Theresa
Theresa wakes with a start from a deep sleep.
She was dreaming about owls. They lined the branches of the trees behind her house, hundreds of them, all staring with their yellow eyes.
It was a nightmare, she knows that, but can’t put her finger on what, exactly, was so terrifying about it that her heart is pounding and she’s short of breath.
She loves owls. She is a nature freak. There should be nothing scary about this visitation.
And yet. It is a warning, she knows. A portent.
There will be no more sleep tonight. She never used to have insomnia; it started in her mid-forties—“Perimenopause,” her doctor said. “We can start you on HRT and add some melatonin.” But none of that had worked, so here she is, fifty-five, on the other side of it all and still not sleeping well.
She checks her phone. There’s an email from Drake with the subject line “Vid Attached.”
Man, he does have the juice now.
She hits play and watches with a practiced eye. The clips have already been sanitized, so she doesn’t have to fast-forward and rewind, looking carefully—each one is of a different angle of Andrew Locke moving through the airport, all of them stitched together, with clear time stamps at the bottom.
She watches, spellbound.
It is definitely him. Even with the beard, he’s easily recognizable to her.
He moves with the grace of an athlete and the bearing of a soldier.
He might as well be a panther stalking through the crowds, the way people unknowingly give him a wide berth.
Like they’re both positive magnets, one shoving the other away.
Except . . . there is another person who seems to be in every shot.
She backs it up and looks again. Tall. Curly hair, blond, like an aging surfer.
But she can’t see his face. He’s wearing a ball cap and a surgical mask, keeping his chin down low.
She calls Drake. He answers sleepily. “What’s up?”
“Do you have the unsanitized videos? Ones that aren’t clipped? There’s someone following Andrew in the airport.”
“Yeah, hold on.” A groan, the sheets shifting. Tapping. Her email dings. “There you go. Tell me what you’re seeing.”
She opens the file, giving it a moment to buffer.
This screenshot is wider, and she lets out a sigh of relief.
Matches up the first time stamp and drags the full video to that spot.
Hits play. Now that she knows what to look for, the man in the ball cap is easy to find.
“Okay, check at 1:12 into the video. See the guy with curly hair in the mask and baseball cap?”
“Yeah.”
“Just let the video play. He’s following Andrew.”
Drake is quiet, watching. “He could just be a guy who’s heading home, too.”
“He could. But he’s not. It’s almost like he’s . . . herding him out the door.”
“Is he in the arrivals terminal, too? Out by check-in? Or was he on a plane?”
“He’s definitely on the passenger side of security. He’s in the international terminal. Look at 45 seconds. He comes out of the bathroom just ahead of Trey—”
“I see him. Okay. We need the manifest for every flight that landed within the hour time frame of the Nashville-to-Atlanta flight.”
“I’d start with the flight they were on. Let’s get video from the arriving flight, see if he was on the plane from Nashville. And then, if he is, we can backtrack to BNA and check their manifests, too.”
“T-Lee, none of this makes sense. Them being bumped from the flight, being rerouted to Atlanta—if someone’s following him, how could they anticipate that?”
“It would take a level of sophistication that makes my teeth hurt, Drake. But if we’re right, Andrew Locke isn’t just running from his wife. Can you get a face ID on this guy?”
“We can try, but with the mask on, it’s going to be difficult. Still, hell of a catch, Theresa. I’m impressed.”
“Let’s just figure out who he is, and maybe we can start unraveling all of this.”
Theresa walks the darkened hallway to the kitchen.
The moon spills silver through the kitchen windows.
The restlessness is always worse when the moon is full.
The night before, especially. It’s some strange internal witch she has, still tied to the women of old who curtseyed to the full moon out of respect, hoping for its blessings.
She flicks the switch on the kettle, grabs a mug, drops in a bag of chamomile.
A shadow at her kitchen table makes her heart rev at a frantic pace.
She lets out a string of curses, slapping her side for her weapon, which is, of course, in the bedside table. She doesn’t wander her house armed. The knives are closer, but before she can grab one, the shadow speaks.
“Hello, Theresa.”
The flash of metal in the moonlight halts her in her tracks. That voice. She knows the voice. But from where?
Her mind swims. She thinks of Drake, of the life they could have had. Thinks of all the people she’s disappointed, her sorrows, her blessings. She coils to fight, and he laughs.
“Who the hell are you? What do you want?”
“We need to talk.”
“Then talk.”
“Where is he?”
“Who?”
“Don’t play coy with me. You know exactly who I’m talking about. Our boy, Andrew.”
“I have no idea. He’s not here.” She doesn’t want to beg. But she doesn’t want to die, either. “I swear I don’t know where he is.”
He tsks. “And where were you tonight?”
“Atlanta.”
A hand snakes out and grabs hers, pulling her arm flat against the table. The knife jams through the dorsal surface, embedding itself in the wood. She howls in pain.
“Don’t make me drag this out of you. This can go very easy, or it can go very hard. Where. Is. He?”
“I don’t know. I swear I don’t. Please. Please.” Sweat has formed on her forehead, is dripping down her face. The pain is excruciating.
“What were you doing at Eden Barrow’s house?”
“Meeting a friend of hers”—the knife twists—“who wanted to know more about Chloe Locke’s murder! God, please, stop. I’m cooperating.”
“Cooperate more. What did you tell the second Mrs. Locke about her precious husband?”
He knows too much. How did he know that? “It doesn’t matter. She’s dead.”
He tsks, clicking his tongue sarcastically. “Don’t lie, or this will go very badly for you. She’s not dead. She’s very much alive. And now she knows who her husband really is. I’ll ask you once more. What else did you tell her?”
“Nothing. I swear it. Nothing! I don’t know anything else about him. It’s been ten years.”
The knife jerks free of the wood at an angle and slices its way out of her hand. She cradles it against her chest. It throbs in time with her heart. She’s in trouble, she knows it.
She has one chance here. She throws the dice.
“I don’t know where he is. But if I can find him, then what?”
The man laughs, low and mean.
“Then you hand him over to us. And you won’t die.”
“How much is he worth to you?”
“You’re bargaining with me?” Genuine amusement, if a feral wolf can be amused.
“I’m offering to help. I want him as much as you do. Maybe more.”
“We’ll make it worth your while. Oh, and Theresa? It would be best if you didn’t mention our little tryst this evening. We wouldn’t want any more people to expire prematurely.”
“Fine. We have a deal. I’d shake on it, but . . .”
He melts back into the darkness, and she feels the cold breeze from the back door. He’s gone.
Theresa collapses into the chair. Son of a bitch. This is not good. Not good at all.
Outside, in the dark, the man speaks into his mobile.
“They didn’t know, and she didn’t, either. But she’s incentivized to find him.”
“Are you sure you’re up to this? Because I need that man in my presence, now.”
“Yes, sir. I’ll find him. Don’t worry.”