Page 47 of The Locked Ward
The call from Colby came a few weeks ago. You had on a face mask and were wrapped in a buttery-soft cashmere robe while you streamed a new series—luxuries you blithely took for granted back then.
“You won’t believe this,” Colby began, his breathing rough and ragged.
“Are you okay?” you asked, sitting straight up.
“We’re at Stagioni’s celebrating my parents’ anniversary.
Family dinner, the five of us at that round table my dad loves in the middle of the room because everyone can see him.
” Colby paused, and you could hear him take a long drink of something and swallow.
“And he just walked out. He didn’t even finish eating. ”
“Was there an argument?” You couldn’t imagine the senator in that scenario. He was too vested in his image.
“Nope.” Colby sipped and swallowed again.
“He said it was a work crisis. A homeland security issue for the committee he heads. Of course no one can ask questions, because it’s classified.
He gave my mom a kiss on the cheek and hurried out the door—stopping, of course, to shake a couple hands. Gotta reel in those voters, right?”
Colby was drunk. You could hear the clang of silverware against china plates and the swell of conversation in the background. He was probably at the restaurant’s bar.
“Is that what you’re upset about?” you asked. “That he left your mom on their anniversary?”
Colby barked out a laugh. “If I was upset every time my father cut out from a family event, I would’ve been crying half my childhood. No, I saw his phone light up when the text came in. No one else was looking; his phone was lighting up all night. But this wasn’t a work text.”
“Who was it?”
You knew the answer a split second before he revealed it: “Annabelle.”
“What did the text say?”
“I just caught the first few words: ‘I need you.’”
You stood up and began to pace. “She texts and suddenly your dad leaves?”
“Like, thirty seconds after he saw her text.”
Your mind whirled. He and Annabelle wouldn’t risk being seen together out in public, especially not on the night of his wedding anniversary. He couldn’t meet her at his place. He must be going to hers.
“How long ago was this?” you asked.
“I don’t know, half an hour ago. We just finished up, and my brothers took my mom home. She drank the rest of her wine and my dad’s. But she was all smiles—you know, appearances. That’s the only thing that matters, Georgia!”
He was getting sloppy. You pulled off your sheet mask and slipped out of your robe. Someone had to make sure Colby got home safe.
“I need you to do two things right now,” you said. “Drink a big glass of water. And don’t talk to anyone or do anything until I get there.”
You made a call and put it on speakerphone while you threw on clothes and brushed out your hair. It was almost 9 P.M. —hopefully not too late. You’d give anything to collect some dirt on Annabelle, the perfect daughter.
Tony Wagner answered on the second ring.
By now, you’d gotten to know him a bit, since you’d sent him back into Mandy’s bar to get a glass she’d used and send it in for DNA testing.
You had to see the results in black and white.
The lab responded by email within forty-eight hours, confirming that you and Mandy were full biological sisters.
Tony listened to what you wanted him to do—get his guys to cover all the entrances and exits of Annabelle’s building. They needed to video everyone going in and out, and make sure the building was identifiable in the video. There had to be a date and timestamp.
“Last-minute, four guys to make sure all the angles are covered, possible overnight work? I know a lot of ex-cops who might be interested if you pay double.” Tony gave you the exorbitant rate for the job.
It didn’t matter what it cost. The video, which showed the senator leaving what was clearly Annabelle’s apartment at 11:28 that night, was priceless.