Page 108 of Jessica, Not Her Real Name

He’d felt a deep twist of guilt that it would be him at fault if the woman got killed because what he was about to do.

Not Sharrow. And certainly not the Service.

He’d swallowed down his apprehension and said with as much confidence as he could muster, “Inez. I’ll handle this. She’s going to be fine.”

But even as he’d said them, he’d realized they’d sounded like someone’s famous last words.

After he’d ended the call, he’d booked the first flight to Tallahassee. It had departed at thirty-four minutes past noon.

At ten minutes to twelve, he’d been waiting in the departure lounge at Memphis International Airport. Sharrow had emailed him the witness’s file, and he’d read it as he paced. The woman’s name was now Jessica Meeks. She lived in some tourist town by the sea and worked as a stripper in some dive bar near the beach.

In her hurry, Sharrow had attached not just Meeks’ file, but a whole sheaf of information about Daniel Castaño, too.

Or maybe it hadn’t been a mistake. Maybe she had thought it was relevant. He didn’t know, and at that point, he didn’t care.

At one minute to midday, his phone had buzzed in his hand. Unknown number. Speak of the devil.

He’d put the phone to his ear but had said nothing.

“Time’s up, Mr. Marshal,” the voice had said, in that dry rasp. Then there’d been a muffled sound, like the phone had been handed to someone else. Then a woman’s scream. Kylie’s. Then the unmistakable sound of a power tool.

A buzz saw.

The call had ended.

Ryan’s hands had been shaking so much he’d barely been able to tap the buttons on his screen. They’d just skidded uselessly over the surface. A cold dread, like icy fingers, gripped his stomach.

He’d forced his fingers to work.

To attach the woman’s file.

To hitSend.

And then he’d sunk down into a plastic seat in the middle of the bustling airport. Knowing that eight hundred miles to the south, in a small town called Panama City Beach, Jessica Meeks had just become a dead woman walking.

* * *

If there was such a place as purgatory, Ryan thought it might resemble the departure lounge of Hartsfield-Jackson Atlanta International Airport, as he waited to find out which of the two women was dead because of him.

As Ryan had paced back and forth, waiting for his connecting flight to Florida, he’d got a text from the unknown number. He’d had to suck in a breath and steel himself before opening it.

It had been from Kylie.

Ryan, I’m so sorry. For everything. I know I’ve put you through hell. But it’s over now. Everything’s going to be better. You’ll see.

He’d known he should feel relief, and he did. But undercutting it had been a sharp stab of anger. Anger at his wife and her inability to get her shit together. To go get help. To go get therapy. To quit being such a goddamn liability.

The anger had promptly spawned guilt, and the sharp switch had made his head ache. His phone had rung again.

Sharrow.

“I’m on a flight to Florida,” she’d said. “I should be there around six tonight.”

“But you said you’re on maternity leave.”

“As long as I don’t give birth on the plane, I’ll consider it a win.”

Rubbing a hand over his face, he felt even more guilty for making a heavily pregnant woman fly across the country.