Page 9

Nine

Stephanie

“I don’t think this is wise.”

I roll my eyes at my reflection as I try to get some mascara on my lashes.

“It’s the best I can do without a badge,” I remind Ben.

Of course he called for an update, just as I was getting ready to head out to Tracy’s. The man must have a sixth sense.

“I just want to know if he’s there.”

“Exactly,” I return. “And that’s what I aim to find out. The girlfriend’s place is a trailer, set way back from the road in the woods. There’s no way to keep an eye on the place without getting noticed. Trust me, this is a faster and safer way to get the information.”

“Well, I don’t like it,” he snaps stubbornly.

Now he’s just pissing me off.

I toss my mascara in the sink, giving up my attempts at putting on makeup, and walk out of the bathroom.

“Need I remind you, you’re the one who asked for my help?” I sit down on the edge of the bed and lace up my Chucks. “Too bad if you don’t like the way I do it; last time I checked you weren’t paying my salary.”

That’s met with silence on the other end. Smart man.

“Now if you don’t mind,” I continue. “I need to get going; I’m already late.”

“Call me after,” I can just hear him say as I end the call.

“Asshole,” I grumble, shoving my phone in my small cross-body purse.

Big bags are cumbersome, and although this little one doesn’t hold a hell of a lot, it leaves my hands free. Besides, it fits everything I need, plus, I can run with it in case I have to get myself out of a situation fast. Hence the jeans and sneakers as well.

Of course, I’m hoping it won’t come to that, but you never know. If Mitchel Laine happens to show up, there’s always a chance he might recognize me. The last time he would’ve seen me would’ve probably been at his trial, but that was twelve years ago when I was a fresh-faced agent.

Since then, time has marked itself in the lines on my face and the glints of silver in my blond hair. I would’ve had my hair back in a tight ponytail and been wearing a suit. Today my hair is loose, showing off my new haircut, and I’m wearing a boho top over torn jeans and my pink Chucks. I don’t look anything like an FBI agent.

I grab the small container of Mace off the counter in the kitchen and slip it into the small purse. Not much in terms of a weapon, but enough to get the upper hand in a fight, if ever it came to that.

As I get behind the wheel of my SUV, I suddenly feel a little uneasy about going. I’m so used to working with a team behind me, it didn’t fully hit me until just now I’ll be out there on my own. Hell, no one even knows where I’m going.

Damn Ben, for making me question myself.

As I feel anxiety build, I pull up a number on my dashboard display and dial. Then I back out of my parking spot in front of the trailer.

“Hey.”

I have no idea what’s happening to me; just the sound of his voice puts a sappy smile on my face, and the panicked feeling dissipates.

“Sorry to bug you…” I start, but I’m immediately cut off.

“You’re not,” Jackson assures me. “This is a welcome break from the piles of laundry I’ve ignored for weeks and decided to tackle this morning. Unless…you’re not canceling on me, are you?”

“No, not canceling,” I clarify.

“Good. So what are you up to?”

“I’m actually on my way to meet someone for lunch,” I share, turning onto the highway toward town. “She’s a hairdresser at the salon in Libby, but lives in a trailer at 254 Waterfront Road in Troy. She cut my hair yesterday and ended up inviting me.”

He hums in response. Of course there isn’t much for him to say, I’m aware I sound a bit random, but I’m unsure how much to share with him. If I tell him, is he going to freak out and go full protector mode on me? Then again, if I don’t give him the background and something does end up going wrong on my end, he might walk into something he’s not prepared for.

“I’m actually doing a favor for someone,” I confess.

“A favor,” he echoes, sounding a bit confused.

“Yes, for a colleague. He needs to know the whereabouts of a suspect in a case he’s working. He suspects his target may have come this way to meet up with his girlfriend.”

“The girlfriend being your hairdresser?” Jackson concludes accurately.

“Right,” I acknowledge, sharing with him how I ended up with an invitation to lunch today.

“Clever,” he comments, before adding, “Could be risky.”

He doesn’t even know I have a history with said suspect. That bit of information I kept to myself.

“It’s only lunch, and I’m just gathering information.”

“And you’ll be careful,” he adds.

“Of course I will,” I assure him, feeling my confidence return. “I’ll tell you all about it tonight. Looking forward to it.”

“As am I.”

* * *

I carefully scan my surroundings as I make my way up the driveway to Tracy’s place.

It’s always a good idea to get the lay of the land; knowing where a possible threat could come from, or finding alternate routes out.

I check out the trailer itself too. I can only see the front of it and note the door is off-center, with only one window to the right of it, and four windows to the left. I’m guessing maybe a bedroom on the right side, and living space and maybe a second bedroom to the left.

I’m not a fan of walking into a space when I don’t know what is behind me, but I guess that can’t be helped.

“Hey again, come in,” Tracy says, stepping out of the way to let me through.

Her trailer may look a bit worn and dated outside, but she’s clearly put effort into making the inside into a welcoming home. The style is a bit too in-your-face for me—I personally prefer natural shades and materials—but the black steel, bright colors, and bold prints suit Tracy perfectly.

“Have a seat.” She aims me at a small round dining table with four chairs. Then she dives into the stainless steel fridge and comes out with a pitcher. “Margarita?”

“I’ll have a water, if you don’t mind. The meds I’m on don’t mix well with alcohol.”

That, and I also want to make sure I keep my wits about me. Drinking in the middle of the day is not conducive to that.

While she fills me a glass of water at the sink, I give her space a scan, looking for evidence of someone else living here.

There had been no men’s shoes or boots by the door when I walked in, and I can see only one set of dishes drying in the dish rack on the counter. But that doesn’t necessarily mean anything.

“Hope you like lasagna,” she says, sliding a glass of water in front of me while sitting down across the table with a generous serving of margarita for herself.

“Is that what I smell? Delicious.”

“Good. It needs a little more time.”

We spend the next few minutes chatting about inconsequential things when Tracy suddenly asks, “So who was the douchebag?”

It takes me a moment to clue in she is talking about the fictional boyfriend I hit over the head with a golf club.

It was only partially fiction though. I distinctly remember standing in the living room of my little apartment in Traverse City, Michigan, the Callaway Paradigm five iron I’d just bought as a birthday present clutched in my hand. The temptation to swing it at Ben Vallard’s smug face so great, I could taste it.

Most of my anger stemmed from the fact I’d been too stupid to see what was painfully obvious to the rest of the world. Ben was a known player, making it a sport to bag as many female colleagues he came in contact with as possible. That I read more into our brief relationship was entirely on me.

As was the fact I spent almost half of my hard-earned paycheck on a stupidly expensive golf club for his birthday.

Over the years, nurturing the fantasy of actually following through and whaling on him with the iron, made the cover story I’m spinning for Tracy feel almost real. The only adjustment I have to make is to our jobs. In my story I’m a paralegal and Ben is a lawyer for the same firm.

My cover doesn’t need to be airtight—this isn’t an elaborate undercover sting—I just want the story I’ve been weaving over lunch to be believable until I can get some idea of Mitchel Laine’s whereabouts.

“Men, I tell you,” Tracy commiserates. “I’ve had some losers in my day.”

Finally, she gives me an opening to explore.

I put down my fork and lean back in my chair.

“Sounds like you’ve given up on men,” I observe casually.

“Probably should have,” she returns, tossing back the rest of her third margarita. She’s singlehandedly killed off about three-quarters of that pitcher. “Did for a while too.”

“I’m hearing a but …”

She shoots a grin my way.

“Yeah, well…I’ve always been a sucker for a bad boy.”

I force a chuckle. “Couldn’t stay away?”

“Actually, technically I did, for about five years,” she confesses, and I find myself leaning forward in anticipation. “I only met him in person recently.”

Bingo .

I try not to let my excitement show. The timeline works, but I want some confirmation we’re talking about Mitchel Laine and not some other guy.

“Oh, you met online or something? I haven’t had much luck with those dating sites,” I probe.

“I wasn’t too keen on them myself, but I figured I’d give it another try. That was five years ago, and the first one I met on there was him.”

“Wait, are you saying you’ve been talking to this guy for five years but you never met face-to-face?”

“Until recently, yeah.” She gets up to empty the pitcher in her glass. “More water?” she asks me.

I shake my head. “I’m good, thanks.”

When she sits down and sips her drink, I worry I’m going to have to push harder to get more information, but apparently, she’s not yet done sharing.

“Also, we mostly wrote each other. Then after a while I gave him my phone number and he’d call whenever he could. Gave us a chance to really get to know each other.”

Tracy comes across as someone who has her shit together, so it’s hard for me to believe the dreamy look on her face was put there by the likes of Mitchel Laine.

“Wow. Military? Was he working overseas or something?”

I do my best to make the question sound casual, and keep a close eye on Tracy’s reaction. Instead of looking at me suspiciously, she averts her gaze, looking almost embarrassed.

“Or something,” she finally responds after waging a silent battle. Her eyes come up and meet mine when she adds, “He was incarcerated.”

“Oh,” I feign surprise. At least I hope I do, because inside I’m giving myself a mental fist pump.

“It’s not like that,” she immediately jumps to his defense. “He was framed.”

If I had a dollar for every time I’ve heard that excuse, I’d buy myself an island in the South Pacific.

“He’s such a gentleman, so sweet and attentive. There’s no way he could’ve done any of the things they accused him of. He’s been nothing but good to me.”

She’s trying so hard to convince me, I feel for Tracy, I do. Clearly Laine spent the past five years brainwashing her into buying his claim of innocence. By her own admission, she didn’t have many good experiences with men before meeting him, and that manipulative bastard must’ve caught right on to that. He turned himself into everything she’d ever wanted.

I wondered, at first, if perhaps this girl had been an accomplice of sorts, but I don’t think so. She didn’t stand a chance; she has stars in her eyes, and I want to bet she has no clue what he’s really been up to since his release.

“So when did you two finally meet?”

“The first time was a little over a week ago,” she shares, taking a drink from her margarita and getting that dreamy look on her face again. “He’s dropped by a few times since.”

So he’s not actually staying here, but he can’t be too far.

“Oh wow, so he’s local,” I observe, but I notice something about my comment doesn’t sit well with Tracy.

She suddenly seems flustered and gets to her feet, carrying her still half-full glass to the kitchen sink where she dumps it out. Then she turns around and leans against the counter, folding her arms in front of her.

“Keep it to yourself,” she says, a hard edge to her voice. “All he wants is a fresh start, and he doesn’t want to draw any attention. I shouldn’t have said anything.”

I lift my hands, palms out, as I stand up as well.

“I get it. Believe me, I do. Heck, I probably overshared as well,” I quickly add, playing the role of being equally vulnerable. “But, like you told me yesterday, this is a good place to hide out, and I hope it offers a fresh start for both of us.”

That seems to appease her, but I still quickly make my excuses, thank her for lunch, and head out. I don’t get away before exchanging phone numbers though. I’d prefer not to have to continue the ruse—I got what I came for—but I can’t exactly say no when she asks.

Trying not to be too obvious about scanning my surroundings, I make my way to my SUV. Tracy is standing in the doorway, watching as I do a three-point turn until I’m aimed in the direction of the road. I roll down my window and wave as I head down the driveway.

It’s not until I reach the end of Waterfront Road and stop, I notice the dark pickup pulling up right behind me.