Page 7

R ow carefully wiped down the doorknobs and locks, then fled Bjorn Anders’ office via the back door, scattering the birds into a frenzy of wings.

She ran her sleeve over the front door handle on the way past, then drove away feeling as if she had a giant neon sign flashing over her head that screamed “Murderer!”

She followed the directions from her cell, careful to obey the speed limits and traffic laws so she wasn’t pulled over by a member of the all-too-enthusiastic police force.

It took her about twenty-five minutes to get across the city, and panic made her feel as if she couldn’t catch a proper breath.

The entrance to the Epworth Balancing Rocks appeared up ahead, and she pulled over onto the side of the road. Cut the engine.

Sweat scored an uneasy path down her spine.

There was no sign of FBI Supervisory Special Agent Kurt Montana.

Maybe he’d called the cops or planned to arrest her himself.

Earn himself some brownie points. She had sent him a photograph of his dead friend.

Why wouldn’t he assume she’d done it? He was already highly suspicious of her motives and a law enforcement officer to boot.

She gnawed her lip as she rolled down the window then regretted it as the growing heat and humidity of the day flooded inside.

A few locals were selling arts and crafts on one side of the road and watched her with curiosity.

What was she going to do? The idea of going to prison terrified her but, even if they didn’t arrest her for murder, she had interfered and run away from a crime scene without reporting it.

Her mouth went dry as she tried unsuccessfully to swallow. She wouldn’t survive prison. She wasn’t strong or brave. She liked reading books and eating cupcakes and drinking hot chocolate with lashings of whipped cream.

She squeezed her fingers around the steering wheel as her pulse pounded through her ears.

Should she make a run for the border? How long would it take to drive to South Africa?

Should she call her uncle and tell him what had happened?

He’d know a good lawyer. But then he’d be implicated after the fact, and she wouldn’t do that to him.

She stared around her. What was she doing here?

No way would an FBI agent help her no matter what he’d claimed, although he was the one who’d told her not to call the police.

Could he be involved in Bjorn Anders’ death…?

No. Of course not. That was ridiculous. Unless he turned up in a black SUV, then she’d know she’d been foolishly naive.

She felt sick with indecision. This sort of thing didn’t happen to people like her.

She put the car in gear, and then spotted the FBI agent jogging up a side road toward her, a work bag slung over his shoulder along with a rucksack.

A wave of relief rushed over her. He’d come.

Apparently alone. Not in a black SUV with a license plate she recognized.

The relief was short-lived, squashed by the unsmiling stare he sent her through the windscreen.

Crap.

She put the car back in neutral. She’d forgotten how intimidating he was in person. Maybe it was a mistake to trust a man like this? Why would he believe her or help her when he worked for the FBI?

He tried the passenger door, but it was locked, and she floundered, searching for the release. Finally, she found it.

He tossed his bags into the back seat and climbed in beside her. His face was tanned, eyes an inky blue that were deeply cynical as he stared intently at her face.

She ran her hands around the steering wheel. “Hello.”

“Drive.” He didn’t smile.

“Where to?”

“You have an airline ticket?”

“It’s booked for the end of the week, but I was going to change it and fly down to visit my uncle and cousins in South Africa today or tomorrow.

” Her eyes filled with tears because she should have left the past alone and traveled with her uncle.

Had a little fun for a change. She blinked away the tears.

Self-pity was a waste of time and energy.

“Now, I don’t know what to do or where to go. ”

His gaze never left hers, but she didn’t know what he was looking for.

“I wouldn’t fly anywhere if I were you. You might be flagged at the airport. Head out of the city.” He pointed southeast so she put the car in gear again and pulled onto the highway.

“Keep to the speed limit, and stop if the police tell you to.”

Roadblocks were common in this country.

She swallowed the thickening ball of anxiety wedged at the back of her throat. “Why are you helping me?”

He wiped a light sweat off his forehead. “I don’t know. Maybe I’m a sucker for a damsel in distress.”

“Ha.” Her voice cracked. “Somehow I don’t think that’s it.”

“I’m wounded. I helped change your tire last night, didn’t I?” He opened the glove box and started rifling through the paperwork there.

“You did.” But he’d done that to confront her. She frowned at him. “What are you looking for? ”

“Trying to figure out who the hell you really are.”

“I told you who I am.”

“Maybe I want proof, considering I’m in a car with a potential murderer who’s on the run from the local authorities.”

She pressed her lips together. As much as she hated the accusation, she also couldn’t blame him for being suspicious. “The car belongs to my uncle. His name and address are on the documents. And you’re the one who told me not to call the local cops.”

His expression remained impassive as he took a photo of the license and registration documents.

“Please don’t get him involved in all this. He has no idea what I was doing.”

“If you’re his niece he’s already involved. Did you call him?”

“No. Just you. From Mr. Anders’ phone.” Row’s eyes stretched wide. “They wouldn’t detain my uncle because of me, surely?”

“Depends on who killed Bjorn and why. Give me your phone and his.”

Obviously, he didn’t trust her, and why should he? He seemed willing to help her though, and she was woman enough to admit she needed help. She fished her mobile out of her pocket. Handed it over along with Anders’ and the man’s wallet.

“Look at me.”

Rowena turned to face him, keeping one eye on the road ahead as he unlocked her cell with facial recognition.

“You can see the last call I made was to Uncle Gamba when he was at the airport early this morning to fly to South Africa to visit his daughters, my cousins. Like I said, I was planning to join them.”

He grunted. “Maybe I passed him in the airport.”

“You were at the airport?”

“About to board my flight home.”

She blinked at him. “And, what, you just left ?”

“Bjorn looked dead, and you sounded as if you were in trouble. That or you’re his killer. At least this way I can keep an eye on you.” He stared at her as if trying to read her secrets .

“I’m not a murderer, but I can understand why you might be apprehensive .

” The idea was so ridiculous she had to force down a laugh.

Then she sobered because she was neck-deep in quicksand, and he was the only one who might be able to throw her a line.

“I am grateful for your help. Assuming you didn’t kill Anders. ”

He gave her a quizzical look. “Me?”

She rolled her shoulders. “I didn’t see the killer. Could be anyone.”

“You saw someone exit the premises in a vehicle, and then called me as I was about to board my flight several miles away.”

“So you say.”

His expression looked respectful rather than scathing. He dug into his pocket and pulled out a boarding pass. “I didn’t kill Bjorn, and if I had, I certainly wouldn’t have made such a damned mess of it.”

She shivered. He sounded as if he knew what he was talking about. “Did you walk from the airport to Epworth Rocks?”

“Ran. It’s only 5K and I could use the exercise. Plus, I didn’t want a cab driver knowing where I went.”

She didn’t know what to say to that. She came to a major junction and took a right on R5 heading away from Harare. Her mouth went dry knowing she was on the run from a situation she didn’t understand with a strange man.

Montana went back to searching through her calls, texts, and emails but there weren’t that many, and they weren’t very interesting. She watched him through her peripheral vision.

Finally, he looked up. “You didn’t contact anyone at all afterward?”

She shook her head. “Like I said, just you on Anders’ mobile.”

“Good girl.”

She should resent being called a girl at twenty-seven years of age, but in truth it didn’t bother her. He checked through Anders’ mobile and deleted the image of Bjorn’s dead body that she’d sent to his cell. Then he forwarded the same image to someone else and then deleted it from his own phone .

“Why are you deleting it?”

“Because when the authorities realize his cell is missing, they’re gonna check his call history with the phone company.

Maybe deleting it will slow them down long enough not to consider me a person of interest—considering someone sent me a photo of his dead body from his cell after his death.

” A frown formed between his heavy brows.

“Have to admit I don’t know enough about cell phone companies in Africa to know if they store a deleted image on some sort of server or not. ”

“Why delete it off your own phone?”

“Because if the authorities here stop me and somehow manage to open my phone, the last thing I want them to find is a picture of a friend of mine, tortured to death, and me trying to flee the country with the prime suspect. The FBI should have a copy on their server by now anyway.”

“Oh.” She shivered and swallowed nervously. In reaching out to Montana she’d involved not just this man, but the entire organization in a murder investigation in which she was a major suspect. The realization was daunting even though she hadn’t had anything to do with Anders’ death.

They passed a long line of stalls on the side of the road where vendors sold baskets upon baskets of vermillion tomatoes. The vivid red reminded her of the blood dripping down Bjorn Anders’ body.

She kept her eyes on the road as her hands gripped the steering wheel tighter. “Why did someone torture him, do you think?”

“Are you sure he was tortured?”

“No, but he was tied up and covered in wounds.”

“Some people enjoy others’ pain.”

She shuddered.

“What do you think they wanted?”

She lifted her hair from her neck and fanned her warm skin. “I have no clue. I didn’t know him. I’ve never even spoken to him. ”

“So why follow him around Africa? You some sort of private investigator?”

She laughed in astonishment. “I wish. No, I was hoping he could tell me something about my father.”

He shifted to face her. “You said you didn’t know who your father was.”

“Exactly.” They were heading past fields of red earth. The heat had started to climb, and the clouds began to boil in the sky above them, building for an afternoon storm. The SUV’s A/C was iffy at best.

Row licked her dry lips and felt his gaze follow the move. Probably assessing her body language for lies.

“I don’t know who my father is. Not for sure.

That’s what I’m trying to figure out.” The tendons in her hands stood proud against the skin as her grip tightened.

She couldn’t see what harm it would do to tell him the truth now—except make her look pathetic.

“I found a photograph of a man who was writing letters to my mom before I was born. It showed him and Bjorn Anders together, so I decided to come to Zimbabwe and ask Anders about the other man and see if he’d ever mentioned my mother.

But I couldn’t gather my courage enough to approach him.

What if he couldn’t remember anything? What if he refused to talk to me? ”

“Why not ask your mom?”

“She died when I was a baby.” Row fought the familiar pain.

“I’m sorry.”

She nodded. Nothing to say beyond that really. “My mom’s brother, Peter, and his wife, Anoona, raised me back in England in the town where mom and Peter grew up. They met here, in Africa in their early twenties. Anoona is Uncle Gamba’s sister. Was.”

“Your uncle and aunt know what you’re up to?”

She sucked in her lips to suppress the emotions that wanted to swamp her. The last six months had been rough. “They died in a caravan fire while on holiday in North Wales last summer.” It still seemed surreal.

“I’m sorry. ”

She exhaled noisily. “It was difficult to lose them both so suddenly and so violently. They weren’t old, and they were both fitter than I am.”

“You said your Uncle Gamba flew to South Africa this morning. Any other relatives in the country?”

She shook her head. “Gamba has cousins in the countryside near Bulawayo, but I don’t really know any of them. We drove through once, years ago on holiday but I didn’t visit any of them this time.”

“Good. Hopefully your uncle is smart enough to stay out of the country should Bjorn’s death be linked to you.”

“Do you really think it might be?”

“Depends on what trace they find or plant. And why he was killed.”

Her eyes whipped to his.

“Did you see any security cameras when you went inside?”

Her eyes bugged as she looked at him. Montana grabbed the wheel briefly, but she had it under control.

Relief hit her. “If there was a security camera that will show the real killer!”

Montana’s expression grew darker. “Depends on who killed him.”

“What do you mean?” Rowena sagged in her seat. “Oh my God. You think they wiped the tapes or turned off the cameras?”

“Or they aren’t worried about the police seeing them. Or perhaps they turned them off and back on again after they left, and you’ll be seen sneaking onto the property around the time of the murder providing the perfect scapegoat.”

Nausea rolled inside her.

She felt his eyes on her face again and realized he genuinely didn’t know if he could trust her. The idea anyone would think she could kill another human being was absurd.

She felt a little dizzy.

“So you came to Africa searching for your father. Why not contact him directly? Why the need to go through Bjorn? If you have these letters presumably you have a name and an address to start searching?”

“I have a name, but that’s all. He died before I was born.”

“Jesus.” He rubbed his face.

Yeah, she’d always considered herself a bit of a bad luck talisman. “Dougie Cavanagh.”

“What?” he said sharply.

“The man I believe is my biological father was a man called Dougie Cavanagh.”

“What makes you think he’s your dad?”

“The timing mainly. Mom probably became pregnant when she was in Africa. And why else would she keep his letters?”