Chapter 2 - The Man Who Stood Behind My Chair
Roman caught my wrist before I could step toward the black sedan.
“Not that car.”
I stared at him.
The message on my phone still glowed between us.
CLAIRE, GET IN THE CAR.
Across the hotel entrance, three black vehicles waited beneath the gold lights. The closest one had its rear door open.
A driver stood beside it.
He wore a dark suit.
He was smiling at me.
Roman wasn't.
“Isn't that yours?” I whispered.
“No.”
The driver's smile disappeared.
Roman moved in front of me.
Everything happened quietly.
No shouting.
No weapons.
No dramatic rush of men from the shadows.
Roman simply raised two fingers.
Two men I hadn't noticed near the hotel entrance immediately began walking toward the sedan.
The driver slammed the door.
The car accelerated away from the curb.
One of Roman's men photographed the license plate.
I looked at Roman.
“What just happened?”
“Someone expected you to obey a text message.”
“You told me to get in a car.”
“I didn't send that message.”
My stomach tightened.
“Then who did?”
“That,” Roman said, “is the question keeping you from going home.”
I looked down at the photograph I'd received.
Me outside the hotel.
Taken seconds earlier.
I scanned the sidewalk.
Couples waited for rides. A bellman loaded luggage. Two women stood beneath an awning laughing over something on a phone.
Any of them could have taken it.
Or none of them.
Kent called again.
Roman glanced at the screen.
“Answer.”
I almost laughed.
“Five minutes ago you were ordering my husband to leave me alone.”
“Five minutes ago someone hadn't tried to put you in an unknown car.”
The phone continued vibrating.
I answered.
“Kent.”
“Where are you?”
His voice was breathless.
Not angry.
Panicked.
“Why?”
“Claire, just tell me where you are.”
I looked at Roman.
He shook his head once.
“I'm safe.”
“Are you with Vale?”
I said nothing.
Kent swore.
“Listen to me. Whatever he told you, don't believe him.”
“He told me almost nothing.”
“Good. Keep it that way.”
My anger returned.
“You brought your mistress to our anniversary dinner.”
“I did not bring Vanessa.”
“She seemed remarkably informed about our marriage for a woman who accidentally wandered into the restaurant.”
“Claire—”
“Three years, Kent.”
Silence.
I closed my eyes.
Saying it aloud hurt more.
“You had three years to tell me.”
“This isn't about Vanessa anymore.”
“It became about Vanessa when she put her arms around my husband.”
“You don't understand.”
“Then explain it.”
Kent breathed heavily into the phone.
“Not there.”
“Why?”
“Because Vale is listening.”
Roman stood several feet away now.
He had deliberately given me space.
“He isn't.”
“His people are.”
I looked around.
“How do you know so much about Roman's people?”
Kent went silent.
There it was again.
A crack.
A tiny opening in whatever wall my husband had built around the truth.
“Kent?”
“Go somewhere public.”
“I am somewhere public.”
“Not the hotel.”
“Why?”
“Because the hotel belongs to him.”
I looked at Roman.
He was speaking quietly to one of his men.
“Kent, why was your father in a photograph with Roman and my dad?”
Nothing.
“Kent?”
“Who sent you that?”
“So it's real.”
“Delete it.”
My grip tightened around the phone.
“You recognized it.”
“Claire, delete the photograph.”
“Why?”
“Because whoever sent it isn't helping you.”
“And you are?”
Another silence.
Then Kent said something that chilled me more than the photograph.
“Did Vale see the date?”
April 17, 2009.
The numbers on the anniversary card.
I looked toward Roman.
“Yes.”
Kent whispered, “Jesus.”
“What does it mean?”
“I can't do this on the phone.”
“Then do it in person.”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because if Vale remembered that date, everything changes.”
My heart pounded.
“What changes?”
A woman's voice sounded behind Kent.
Vanessa.
“Kent, we need to go.”
My eyes closed.
Of course she was still with him.
“Claire,” Kent said quickly, “whatever happens tonight, don't give Roman anything that belonged to your father.”
I froze.
“What?”
“Promise me.”
“What does my father have to do with this?”
“Claire—”
The call ended.
I stared at the screen.
Roman approached.
“What did he say?”
“That you're dangerous.”
Roman almost smiled.
“Kent occasionally tells the truth.”
“He also told me not to give you anything that belonged to my father.”
The humor vanished.
Roman looked toward his security men.
Then back at me.
“Did your father leave you anything?”
“My father left me a house full of things.”
“Documents?”
“I was sixteen when he died.”
“Did your mother keep his papers?”
“My mother died six years later.”
“Claire.”
His voice softened slightly.
“Think.”
I hated that he was suddenly making sense.
My father, Daniel Bennett, had been an accountant.
At least, that was what I'd always believed.
He worked long hours.
He carried a brown leather briefcase.
He hated flying.
He made pancakes every Sunday.
Nothing about him belonged in photographs with men like Roman Vale.
“There was a box.”
Roman became completely still.
“What box?”
“My mother kept some of his belongings in storage. After she died, I brought everything home.”
“Where?”
“At my house.”
Roman's jaw tightened.
“The house Kent has access to?”
“He lives there.”
“Then we're already late.”
He turned.
“Roman.”
He stopped.
“I am not going anywhere with you until somebody tells me what this is.”
For several seconds he said nothing.
Then he gestured toward the hotel.
“Come inside.”
“I thought Kent said you owned it.”
“I do.”
“That isn't reassuring.”
“It wasn't intended to be.”
Despite myself, I followed him.
Not because I trusted him.
Because I trusted Kent less.
Roman led me through a private entrance beside the lobby and into a small lounge.
No chandeliers.
No audience.
Just dark wood, leather chairs and a locked door.
A man brought water.
Roman waited until we were alone.
Then he removed his jacket.
Not dramatically.
He folded it over the back of a chair.
When he sat opposite me, he looked less like Seattle's rumored criminal king and more like an exhausted man carrying something very old.
“Your father saved my life.”
I stared at him.
“No.”
“Yes.”
“My father was an accountant.”
“He was.”
“For whom?”
Roman didn't answer immediately.
That was enough.
I stood.
“No.”
“Claire.”
“No. You're going to tell me my father worked for criminals?”
“He worked for several companies.”
“Yours?”
“My family's.”
I walked toward the window.
My reflection stared back at me.
Black dress.
Diamond earrings.
A woman who had dressed for an anniversary and somehow ended the evening discussing her dead father with a mafia boss.
“This is ridiculous.”
“Daniel Bennett was one of the most honest men I ever knew.”
I turned.
“That doesn't make sense.”
“It does if you understand what happened.”
“Then make me understand.”
Roman leaned forward.
“In 2009, someone was stealing money from companies connected to my father.”
“How much?”
“Millions.”
“And my father found it?”
“Yes.”
“Who was stealing?”
Roman looked at me.
“That is where this becomes complicated.”
I laughed bitterly.
“More complicated than my husband's mistress announcing herself between the appetizer and dessert?”
“Much more.”
I sat again.
Roman continued.
“Daniel discovered the theft wasn't being committed by one person. It involved several legitimate businesses and people who believed nobody would ever connect them.”
“Your family?”
“Some.”
“And Kent's father?”
Roman's eyes narrowed slightly.
“You noticed him in the photograph.”
“I know what my father-in-law looked like.”
“Charles Ashby was involved.”
My chest tightened.
Kent's father had died before our wedding.
Kent rarely spoke about him.
“What did he do?”
“I don't know exactly.”
“You expect me to believe that?”
“I know what I can prove.”
“Which is?”
“Your father found something.”
“The box?”
“Possibly.”
“And April seventeenth?”
Roman looked away for the first time.
“That was the night someone tried to kill me.”
Silence.
I stared at him.
“My father?”
“No.”
The answer came instantly.
“Your father prevented it.”
“How?”
“He called me.”
“What did he say?”
Roman's face hardened with memory.
“Don't get into your car.”
The words landed between us.
I thought about the text message I'd received.
GET IN THE CAR.
My skin prickled.
Roman noticed.
“That isn't a coincidence,” he said.
“Someone copied what happened to you seventeen years ago?”
“Or someone wants me to know they remember.”
“Who?”
“I don't know.”
“You're Roman Vale.”
He raised an eyebrow.
“What is that supposed to mean?”
“People are afraid of you.”
“Fear doesn't make people omniscient.”
“You stood up in a restaurant and announced I was under your protection.”
“I reacted.”
“Why?”
“Because I recognized your name.”
“You didn't know who I was before tonight?”
“No.”
That surprised me.
“Then why were you at the Alder Room?”
“Dinner.”
I stared at him.
Roman gave me a tired look.
“Even allegedly terrifying men eat.”
A laugh escaped me.
One short, inappropriate sound.
It felt almost painful.
Then I remembered Kent's face.
Vanessa's arms.
Three years.
The laugh died.
Roman watched me carefully.
“You should cry if you need to.”
“I don't.”
“That wasn't convincing.”
“I will not cry over him tonight.”
Roman didn't argue.
That somehow made it easier.
My phone vibrated again.
Kent.
I ignored it.
Roman's phone rang.
He answered.
“Yes.”
His expression changed.
“When?”
He listened.
“Don't touch anything.”
He hung up.
“What?”
Roman stood and reached for his jacket.
“One of my people drove past your house.”
My blood went cold.
“Why?”
“To see whether Kent had gone there.”
“And?”
“Your front door is open.”
I stood so quickly the chair scraped backward.
“What?”
“There are no visible signs of forced entry.”
“Then Kent opened it.”
“Maybe.”
“My father's things are there.”
“I know.”
I grabbed my purse.
Roman stepped in front of me.
“You're not walking in first.”
“It's my house.”
“And if someone is inside?”
“I'll call the police.”
“You should.”
That answer surprised me.
“You don't object?”
“Claire, despite what stories you've heard about me, I don't object to police when someone breaks into a woman's home.”
I called.
Roman gave the address to his security team while I spoke to the dispatcher.
Twelve minutes later, we were heading across the city.
I sat in the rear of Roman's SUV.
He sat opposite me.
Neither of us spoke.
My phone continued lighting up.
Kent.
Kent.
Kent.
Then Vanessa.
I hadn't known she had my number.
Her message contained only one sentence.
YOU HAVE NO IDEA WHAT YOUR HUSBAND DID FOR YOU.
I showed Roman.
His expression became unreadable.
“What does that mean?”
“I don't know.”
“You keep saying that.”
“Because pretending certainty would get you hurt.”
Another message arrived.
Vanessa again.
ASK HIM WHY HE MARRIED YOU.
I felt something inside me drop.
Roman read it.
“Don't answer.”
“I wasn't planning to.”
The SUV turned onto my street.
Police lights flashed ahead.
My house stood at the end of the block.
The front door was open.
A lamp burned inside.
Two officers waited near the entrance.
Roman's security remained outside the property.
He stayed beside me as I approached.
An officer stopped us.
“Mrs. Ashby?”
“Yes.”
“Does anything look missing from here?”
I looked through the doorway.
The entry table had been knocked over.
A framed photograph lay shattered on the floor.
It was my wedding picture.
Kent and me smiling beneath white flowers.
The glass was broken directly across Kent's face.
My stomach turned.
“I need to check upstairs.”
“We've cleared the house,” the officer said. “Nobody's inside.”
Roman asked, “Any sign of forced entry?”
“No.”
The officer looked at me.
“Who has keys?”
“My husband.”
“Anyone else?”
“Housekeeper. My sister.”
“Alarm?”
I hesitated.
“Kent changed the code last month.”
Roman looked at me.
“He changed it?”
“He said there was a security update.”
“Did he give you the new code?”
“Yes.”
“Anyone else?”
“I don't know.”
We entered.
Nothing valuable seemed missing.
Television.
Artwork.
Silver.
All untouched.
Then I reached the stairs.
A drawer beneath the console table had been pulled open.
Empty.
My pulse jumped.
“What was there?” Roman asked.
“Storage keys.”
We went upstairs.
My bedroom looked untouched.
So did Kent's office.
But the small room at the end of the hall was open.
I stopped.
Roman nearly walked into me.
“What?”
“I keep family things in there.”
The door creaked as I pushed it.
Boxes covered the floor.
Someone had opened every one.
My mother's photographs.
My father's books.
Old tax records.
Christmas ornaments.
Everything scattered.
“They knew what they wanted,” Roman said.
I crossed the room.
There should have been six plastic containers against the wall.
There were five.
“No.”
“What?”
“The brown box.”
Roman's eyes sharpened.
“What was inside?”
“My father's briefcase.”
He went still.
“The leather one?”
I looked at him.
“How did you know it was leather?”
Roman didn't answer.
A memory surfaced.
My father coming home late.
Brown briefcase in one hand.
Blood on his shirt cuff.
I had asked if he was hurt.
He told me he'd cut himself at work.
I had believed him.
“Roman.”
“Yes.”
“What happened on April seventeenth?”
His phone rang.
He looked at the screen.
“Give me a moment.”
He stepped into the hallway.
I crouched among the boxes.
My hands moved through photographs and papers.
Then I saw something beneath an overturned album.
An envelope.
Old.
Yellowed.
My name was written across the front.
CLAIRE.
Not Kent's handwriting.
My father's.
I stopped breathing.
“Roman.”
He returned immediately.
I held up the envelope.
His face changed.
“Where was that?”
“Under the album.”
“Don't open it.”
“Why?”
“I want it photographed first.”
“It's addressed to me.”
“I know.”
“Then I'm opening it.”
I tore the edge.
Inside was a single folded sheet.
And a small brass key.
Roman stared at the key.
He knew it.
I could tell.
I unfolded the paper.
There were only two lines.
Claire,
If anything happens to me, never trust an Ashby with the key.
My hands began trembling.
Roman read over my shoulder.
Neither of us spoke.
Then I noticed something else.
A final line had been written at the bottom in smaller letters.
Not with the same pen.
Not, I realized, in my father's handwriting.
I brought the paper closer.
Roman's phone vibrated.
At the same moment, footsteps sounded downstairs.
The front door opened.
A police officer shouted.
“Mrs. Ashby, someone just arrived.”
I looked at Roman.
He looked toward the hallway.
Then a familiar voice called my name from downstairs.
“Claire?”
Kent.
I folded the letter around the brass key.
Roman's phone vibrated again.
He looked down.
A photograph filled his screen.
Kent was standing downstairs.
May you like
But the timestamp beneath the image was from two minutes ago.
And in that photograph, Kent wasn't alone.
