Page 39

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

B rooklynn stared at her reflection in the department store restroom mirror.

She’d changed into a cheap pale-blue jogging suit—nothing like the fancy clothes Mrs. Ballentine had worn—and bright-colored slip-on sneakers.

After shoving her hair into the tight wig cap, she’d added the wig, then followed the steps on a YouTube video to apply makeup to make her look old.

Now her skin was paler and grayer. She’d rubbed in fine pencil lines to give herself wrinkles and even added some to her neck.

Her eyes were already red-rimmed from crying, which enhanced the effect.

She looked like…herself with bad makeup and a wig.

But to a stranger, to someone who didn’t look closely, and from afar, it would do.

She shoved a pebble she'd picked up into her shoe to give herself a limp.

There were perks to having CIA agents in the family.

She’d purchased a giant bright yellow faux-leather purse and put her things inside, backpack and camera and everything else.

She made a note to thank her mother for the credit card number she was letting her use. She doubted anybody was tracking her purchases, but just in case, it seemed wise not to use anything authorities—or bad guys—could employ to find her.

After ordering a car to meet her at a different door from where she’d entered the Maine Mall, she hobbled out of the bathroom, leaning on her new cane. The pebble in her shoe did its painful job, keeping her limping.

She met the driver, and forty minutes later, reached her gallery in downtown Shadow Cove.

Fear bubbled inside of her. What was she doing? Was she crazy?

No. She wasn’t going to lose her nerve. It would be fine. She was in her hometown, surrounded by friends. Nobody would hurt her here.

And anyway, it had to work.

Simple as that.

Her other option was to return to Forbes’s house, and she couldn’t do that, no matter how many times he called and texted.

Claiming he’d planned to tell her the truth. Right. As if he hadn’t had enough time to do that in the hours and days she’d spent with him.

His excuse—that he’d wanted to tell his grandmother first—rang true, but how could she forgive his lies?

She thanked the driver, using an older-person voice. It didn’t sound authentic at all. She prayed nobody would ask her any questions.

The bells over the gallery door jingled as she let herself in, inhaling the familiar scents of vanilla and history.

Here, surrounded by her photographs, she felt at home. And safe, even if it was an illusion.

Jewel was talking to customers but called over her shoulder, “Be right with you.”

Brooklynn waved to indicate she’d heard, moving along the walls and gazing at the artwork as if she’d never seen it before.

Normally, she loved having customers, but today she wanted the couple to leave. It was the height of tourism season in Shadow Cove, though. If she managed to survive the mess she’d gotten herself into, she’d need all the customers she could get.

Jewel rang up a sale, promising to have their selection delivered within two weeks. When the couple walked out, Jewel called to her. “Can I help you?” She showed no sign of recognition.

“Just browsing,” Brooklynn said.

“Let me know if I can answer any questions for you.”

What she needed was for Jewel to get distracted so she could slip up the stairs. Not that she suspected her assistant of anything, but better to keep her presence here a secret from everyone.

A few minutes later, the phone rang, and Jewel stepped into the office to answer it.

Brooklynn used her key to open the door in the back corner. She’d painted it the same color as the walls and, with a few art pieces on it, most people didn’t even realize it was there.

After closing and locking it again, she flicked on the light switch and climbed the staircase, careful of the creaky ones, to the second floor, where she let herself into her apartment.

She’d done it. She’d come home.

Her apartment was just as she’d left it. Tidy, open and airy, comfortable. Some of her favorite photographs graced the walls, adding color and interest. She’d spent too much money to remodel and decorate this space. It’d been mostly Mom and Dad’s money, but she was paying them back.

No matter how much she wanted to crawl into bed and cry herself to sleep, she had to do what she’d come to do and get out. There was no time for the heartache that battered her emotions.

Walking lightly so Jewel wouldn't hear her footsteps, Brooklynn hurried to her bathroom, where she removed the itchy wig and cap and braided her hair to keep it out of her face. Then she perused the text Alyssa had sent.

She hadn’t found any more information on Bryce Dawson or his friend, the so-called Niles. But she’d sent a boatload of information about the man who’d called himself Ford Baker after Brooklynn had texted from the Uber.

Forbes Ballentine was the chairman of the board of Ballentine Enterprises, but he’d never attended a meeting in person. Instead, his representative—a man named Tim Lakewood—took notes for Forbes, who ran his company over the phone.

Nobody had seen Forbes Ballentine since he was a child. Nobody knew what he looked like. Even the assistant, Tim, claimed to have never met him in person.

According to a magazine article about him, Forbes Ballentine was a recluse who avoided all interactions with people.

Some said he was an agoraphobic living in the Ballentine house in Boston, having food and necessities delivered.

Others said he’d never left the Shadow Cove mansion, rambling around in the old place all by himself for decades, living with the ghosts of his family.

Ridiculous, of course, but in the absence of information, foolishness prevailed.

The man Brooklynn had met was quiet and grumpy, but he was no agoraphobic. He’d faced cops and killers without fear.

She skimmed an extensive list of businesses owned by the Ballentines. Import companies, logging enterprises, real estate.

The Ballentine fortune was worth over a billion dollars.

The man who claimed to be a historian who dabbled in real estate and worked as a handyman to pay the bills was, in fact, a billionaire.

She could hardly wrap her head around it.

Not that it mattered. Billionaire or not, he was a liar.

Even as the harsh word crossed her mind, she winced at it.

Not a liar. A man who’d lived his entire life in hiding. Maybe she could give him a little leeway because of that.

After a quick snack, Brooklynn shoved her phone into her pocket, grabbed her backpack, and headed for the stairs that led to the attic.

Ford Baker might’ve been a lie, but the smugglers who’d chased her had been very real. If she wanted her life back, she had to figure out who they were.

* * *

Brooklynn had purchased the building that housed her gallery a couple of years before.

On one side, an alley led to a narrow road parallel to Center Street.

On the other side, her gallery and second-story apartment shared a wall with Elvis’s souvenir shop.

Beyond that, multiple businesses were housed in this single building, one of which was Maury Stratton’s real estate office.

It wasn’t the real estate office that mattered to Brooklynn today, but the Shadow Cove Historical Society, which was located on Maury’s second floor.

When Brooklynn had first seen this attic, she’d been amazed.

Not that it was unusual, with its exposed rafters and plywood floors.

What captivated her was the sheer expanse of it.

No walls separated the different spaces, so she could see all the way to the far side of the building at the end of the block—a good hundred yards away.

It was hot and stuffy, as she’d expected it to be. She crept softly, not wanting to give her presence away. Unless someone heard her, she shouldn’t see anybody in this barely used space.

She hadn’t walked to the far end since she’d moved into the space. It was filled with boxes and crates and old furniture, most of which were so dusty she wondered if the owners even remembered the things were up here.

Signs on doors leading to staircases indicated the businesses below. At the far end, she found the one with a handwritten note that read Stratton Realty.

This was it. She turned the knob, not surprised to find it unlocked. She and her neighbors locked their exterior doors, of course, but they trusted each other. Nobody would take advantage of this shared attic space.

A twinge of guilt had her hesitating, but only for a moment. She needed to do this, and she needed to do it secretly. She’d apologize to Maury later.

Brooklynn let herself in and tiptoed down the stairs, then paused outside the door to the small room that housed the historical society.

Guests used a staircase that rose from the foyer, right outside Maury’s office. Nobody would use this one. These hidden staircases were dark and dingy, unsuitable for tourists and customers.

Brooklynn listened for a few moments, then opened the door.

A creak had her pausing, but nobody reacted.

She let herself in, then closed the door behind her.

It’d been a while since she’d been to the town’s historical society, a couple of years at least. But the dusty bookshelves were exactly the same as they’d always been. An antique desk sat in the middle of the room with a couple of chairs pushed beneath it. Other chairs were stacked in a corner.

Silently, she put her backpack on the floor beside the table and crossed to the bookshelves to search.

She needed to find the book Arthur had produced from Brooklynn’s high school art project.

She had a copy of it somewhere, but not in her apartment.

It was probably at her parents’ house, but she couldn’t figure a way to go there without being discovered.

The house was surely being watched, and the only way to get through the gate was to tap in the code.

While doing that, she’d be seen for sure.