The Distraction (20 page)

T
he following evening Amy and I were sitting in the break room at Rave, sharing a roast beef sandwich. She'd picked it up while I stayed in, confined to the premises while Marcos was getting some much-needed rest.

“So it's really going to happen? You believe this judge?” Amy had a habit of tearing her food into pieces, and then eating it with her hands. Today was no exception.

I was still half giddy over the call from Wayne, informing me of the judge's decision to move Jacob. It would have been easier if they'd just given him what he needed in the first place, but better late than never.

“It's really happening. Jacob and his sister are moving into their new place tonight. They're even going to go to the same school.”

Amy had taken the whole I'm-volunteering-with-foster-kids thing in stride, and didn't seem even a little bent out of shape that I hadn't told her about Jacob until today. Probably because she'd kept some pretty big secrets of her own.

“Wow,” she said. “Go you.”

“Go me, indeed.” I was still feeling pretty proud of myself about the whole thing. Later this week I was going to meet with Jacob and see how the new situation was working out, but until then, I was just happy he was safe and out of juvie.

I wished I could have told Alec about it.

My gaze shifted from the newly installed swinging door to the intercom near the sink that rang through to the front counter. It was one of Derrick's recent safety implementations, and though I could now sit comfortably here with Amy, I still had to be in close proximity to the door.

After a moment I realized that Amy was picking more than normal, and eating less.

“I wanted to tell you,” she said, staring at her food. “Remember when I called you in Baltimore and told you to move down?”

The air in the room seemed to still. I nodded, giving her my full attention.

“I remember.” I could work with her at the salon, she'd said. And there was a studio apartment down the street that was for rent. We'd have fun. It would be like when we were younger.

Something about her voice that day had made me worry, but I'd brushed it off as my own itchy feet. The next day, I'd used her as my excuse for quitting my job and breaking my lease. I'd never asked her what was wrong.

The next week Danny had left.

“I was going to tell you, but Paisley woke up early from her nap. And there was another time before that. He'd broken my cell phone. I told you it had fallen out of my purse and I'd run over it with my car.”

“I wish you'd told me,” I said. “I wish I'd been there for you.”

Amy smiled sadly, face pale. “I'm telling you now. Does that count for something?”

I reached for her hand and gave it a squeeze.

She pushed her food around some more.

“He'd get so pissed off for the stupidest reasons. Then he started blaming me, and when I told him to kiss my ass he'd get all huffy and do something like break my phone. Then buy me a new one, of course.”

Power and control, that was what abuse was about. There were people who needed it. Who reached for it when the tension became too much to bear. And then after it was all hugs and kisses and new cell phones.

“Like a honeymoon,” I said. Another punch of guilt hit me as I realized Amy had once used this exact terminology when referring to Alec.

She nodded. “And things would be good for a while. Then something would piss him off at work, or I'd forget to pay a bill or something, and he'd spout off again.” She rolled her shoulders back. “Paisley was in the living room once when it happened.”

It.
Part of me wanted to ask what
it
was, but I knew that her talking about this at all was big, and I didn't want to push her.

My fingernails dug into my thighs. “I'm so sorry.”

“Not as sorry as I am.”

The rage was building in me. A man who hit a woman wasn't a man, he was a monster. I wanted to kill him for hurting my friends.

“Did he ever hit Paisley?” I tried to even out my voice, but wasn't entirely successful.

“His little angel?” Amy laughed sarcastically. “Never.”

“But she was hurt.”

Amy nodded. “Yes. She was.”

She plucked a piece of sandwich off the table and stuck it in her mouth.

“There's a new pizza place near Paisley's school. She keeps calling it sin bust, but I think she means thin crust. We should go there Friday.”

“Amy . . .”

She looked up at me, pleading in her eyes, and I knew it was time to put my own needs aside. I leaned back in my chair.

“There are good points to having a boyfriend in witness protection,” I said. “Leaves all your date nights open.”

She chewed her bottom lip. “I was actually thinking Jonathan might come, too. If you don't mind.”

I couldn't help but feel a little disappointed.

“I didn't realize you two were still a thing.”

“We had lunch yesterday, and dinner last week. He's great.”

“You sound almost as excited as I am about this roast beef sandwich.”

She gave me a look. “It's a good sandwich.”

“Yeah,” I said. “It's
great
.”

She picked up a piece of bread and threw it at me.

“You know, Mike's been asking about you . . .”

She flinched. “What's he saying? ‘How's that crazy friend of yours?'”

“More like, ‘How's that sexy friend of yours?'”

She blushed. Honest to God, she had it bad for that guy.

“Well,” she said. And then she didn't say anything else. Just stared off into space.

The intercom buzzed, and then Derrick's voice came on the line.

“Anna, you back there?”

I rose, and walked to the sink, where the intercom box was attached to the wall. I pressed the red button.

“That depends,” I said.

“I need you up front.”

“Someone thinks they're the boss of me,” I whispered to Amy.

“That's because I am,” said Derrick, surprising me. Realizing my mistake, he sighed. “Click the green button to turn off the receiver.”

Amy was laughing in the background. Giggling, I let her clean up lunch and made my way to the reception area, where a woman in jeans and a prison-uniform orange T-shirt was looking through the bottles of shampoo. Her back was to me, and her reddish-brown hair was pulled into a tight ponytail.

Derrick nodded in her direction. “Ms. Lannister is looking to set up an appointment, but wanted to meet you first.”

This wasn't totally uncommon. Sometimes clients referred friends who stopped by to shake my hand before I had them naked on my table. They were usually the anxious types—definitely in need of massages.

I put on my most comforting smile, and went in for the meet and greet.

“Ms. Lannister, I'm Anna. I'm so glad you stopped . . .”

The words drifted off as Agent Jamison turned to face me. She looked less severe than she had the other night. Pretty even, with her pink cheeks and lip gloss. We were tucked away from the front desk and the waiting area, but I glanced around anyway to make sure no one could hear.

“Where is he?” I asked, a sense of urgency swelling in my chest. “What happened?”

She held out her hand.

“Shake my hand, Anna,” she said.

I did.

“He's fine. Don't worry. I'm here because, frankly, he's a pain in the ass.”

My inner diva grinned, despite my outer concern. Still, even thinking of him brought back memories of our last time together, when he'd sent me away with Mike.

“What happened?” I asked again.

“His father left some message. Got him all hot and bothered. I don't know. He's refusing to cooperate until he checks in on him.”

I pictured Thomas, alone in his apartment. Had Reznik paid him a visit, too?

“What did his father say?”

“I don't know.” She kept smiling, but her eyes betrayed her annoyance. “I don't care, to be honest. I just need my source to play ball, and right now he's making it difficult.”

“Better do what he says then.”
And if I just happen to be at Thomas's house when you guys swing by, well, so be it.

“Not going to happen,” she said. “But as a courtesy, I'm asking you to do it.”

I didn't like her telling me what to do, even if I would have done it on my own anyway.

“Does he know you're asking me?”

Her lips tightened. “He's made it very clear anything Anna Rossi–related is off the table.”

I wasn't sure what to make of that.

“Why not just call the police if there's a problem?”

She exhaled through her teeth. “I did and they were sent away.”

At least Alec's father wasn't in danger. My money was on Thomas drunk dialing him in the middle of a binge, but why he wouldn't just ask someone to contact his sponsor, Mac, didn't make sense.

“I'll do it on one condition.”

“Not going to happen,” she said.

I narrowed my eyes. “You can't keep him locked up forever.”

“Not forever,” she said. “Just until the trial. Distance makes the heart grow fonder, think of it that way.”

“Then I'm not going to see his dad.”

She smiled. “Yes, you are.”

Goddammit. She was right.

With that, she gave a polite wave to Derrick, and headed outside.

“She doesn't want to schedule?” he asked with a frown.

It took a moment to harness my death glare.

“Not right now,” I said. But my mood lightened as my mind shifted to something she'd mentioned. Alec may not be able to talk to me, but if he'd received a message from his father, he might have access to his voice mail.

“I don't have any more appointments on the book tonight,” I said. “Mind if I take off early?”

“A
lec, it's Anna. It's quarter to six and I'm on my way to your dad's place. I should be there in twenty minutes.”

I hung up my cell phone, merging onto the freeway that would take me to the north side of town. Like every other time I'd called the past week, Alec's phone had gone straight to voice mail, but I hadn't thought he might be listening to his messages until Agent Jamison had alluded to it.

My speed climbed. I grinned like a fool. Maybe Alec had done this deliberately—set up a way for us to meet without alerting the FBI. It was a long shot, I realized, but it wasn't entirely out of the question. Marcos was going to be pissed of course when he got to Rave and found I wasn't there. He'd probably sigh, or give me that serious, squinty look of his.

That Marcos. He could be so dramatic.

I probably should have called him, but he was getting his beauty sleep. Though I was fairly certain he was part robot, all the late nights had to be wearing on him.

Quickly, I dialed Thomas's number, but he didn't answer. This wasn't unusual, but given what Agent Jamison had told me, I was a little concerned.

I exited the freeway, and drove through the familiar slums, rethinking my plan not to alert my escort. It was getting dark, and there were more people loitering on the streets than normal. Most of them stared at me as I passed. One guy in a navy tracksuit nodded for me to turn off into an alley, apparently thinking I was here to score some drugs.

I shivered as I passed Raw, the sushi bar where Reznik spent his time, and though the parking lot was more crowded than the last time I was here, my eyes were immediately drawn to a black SUV, parked at the curb in front of one of the vacant shops a few doors down. They should have put a sign up in the window: “Hey, Reznik, I see you!” But maybe the FBI wasn't trying to be discreet. With the scarred face of the man who'd attacked us at the hotel fresh in my mind, I sped on.

A short while later, I was at the decrepit apartment building, climbing the stairs two at a time. Before I reached the top I could hear Thomas's dog, Askem, barking, and felt my brows pull inward. He didn't usually announce my presence until I knocked.

A little harder than necessary, I beat the side of my fist against the door.

“Thomas? It's Anna.”

Askem kept barking.

“Thomas, can you hear me?” I knocked again.

The bark became louder as Askem ran to the door and began to scratch at the wood.

I swallowed the fear clawing its way up my windpipe. This wasn't like Thomas. Even if it took him a little longer to get to the door, he almost always called out.

I pulled my phone from my clutch and called him again. It rang; I could hear it both in my ear and inside the house. I hung up and beat on the door again.

“Thomas!” I called. I tried the handle. Locked.

No wonder Alec had refused to cooperate until someone checked on him. Stupid to think he'd been trying to communicate with me. What an idiot.

I could have called the police and waited, but I had a bad feeling that would take too long. Instead, I squatted to examine the lock—it wasn't a dead bolt, which meant it wouldn't be too difficult to jimmy.

I snagged my wallet from my purse and scanned through the contents. Credit cards were too tough, but a hotel room key, like the one I still had from when I'd stayed with Alec, would be perfect.

“Just like riding a bike,” I muttered.

I slid the key between the door and the jamb, remembering how I used to watch my birth mother do this at cheap motels when she'd “forgotten the key.” She'd take what she needed, and we'd move on. Even then I knew she was doing something wrong, but that didn't stop me from learning when she'd offered to teach me how.

Maybe I was too hard on her. She'd given me something after all.

I leaned all my weight against the door, and pulled the card as close to the handle as I could without breaking it. One flick of the rusty bronze lever, and the door popped inward.

Had I not been on a mission, I would have patted myself on the back.

The old golden retriever's growl turned into a whine as he came to smell my hand. He began to prance, nails clicking on the linoleum.

The apartment was dark.

“Thomas?” I called.

I went through the kitchen, then peered around the corner into the living room, afraid of what I would find. My keys were gripped tightly in my fist, ready to be used as a weapon should I need one. Askem trotted ahead of me into the hallway.

It was then that I smelled it. The potent, bitter scent of bile that wafted through the air. It grew stronger as I followed the dog, emanating from the bathroom, where a man's shoe was on its side, just beyond the door. I raced forward. The room was dark, but I could still make out Thomas's large form, lying across the floor in a pool of his own vomit.

“Thomas?” I flipped on the lights and knelt beside him, fighting my own gag reflex as I grasped his shoulder. How long had he been like this? Hours? More than a day? I should have asked Jamison when Alec had gotten the message.

I put two fingers on his neck to check his pulse.

He was alive.

“Wake up,” I said, trading my worry for something stronger. “Did you hear me, Thomas?” I shook his shoulder, but he didn't move.

I felt around his skull for any lumps or cuts, but found nothing. As I reached his shoulder, he groaned.

“It's Anna,” I said. His face scrunched up in pain.

“We need to move,” I said. “You threw up.”

“Stop yelling already,” he said. “I hear you fine.”

I leaned back against the wall and contemplated slapping him upside his bound-to-be-sore head. Instead, I pulled my shirt up over my nose and mouth, and helped prop him up against the wall. He moaned like a zombie, clutching his head with one hand, his stomach with the other.

Wetting a towel in the sink, I wiped his pale face, and then did a quick cleanup of the floor. Memories of my birth mother's withdrawal were all too clear. Shaking, fever, hallucinations. If Thomas went that route—if he'd already been that route—we would need to find a hospital fast.

“How long's it been since you had something to drink?” I asked.

“Too long.” His cloudy blue eyes were still shut tightly. He was trembling like he had hypothermia, despite the fact that it had to be at least eighty degrees in here.

“It's just after six,” I said. “Think about it.”

He squinted at me. “Last night. Late.”

“Any seizures?” I asked.

A slight shake of his head. “Mac brought pills for DTs.”

“What pills?”

“Kitchen counter.”

I left him for a moment to find the pills he was talking about. An expired prescription for diazepam, for a Cormac Farrell. The antianxiety medication was sometimes used to treat delirium tremens, a condition brought on by acute alcohol withdrawal. Something I'd been lucky enough to learn about at a very young age. I wasn't sure how I felt about Mac, who had no more of an MD than I did, passing around pills, even if there were only three in the bottle.

I filled up a glass with water, not yet convinced I was going to give him the medication, and returned to the bathroom.

“Where is Mac now?” I asked. If there was ever a time for a sponsor, this was it.

“Gone,” he said. “I told him to go.”

“And he listened?” I tapped my heel, irritated. There was no way Thomas needed to be left alone now.

“I was persuasive.” He'd turned, and was resting his cheek on the cold porcelain on the outside of the shower. “May have tried to hit him. With a bottle.”

I shook my head. The man was pitiful.

“Try to hit me with a bottle, and I will take your ass out, do you understand?”

I would take the zombie groan as a
yes
.

“Can you stand?”

He didn't answer, which I took as an
I'd rather not
.

It took every ounce of strength in my body to pull him up, but I finally got him there. Leaning him against the wall, I turned on the shower, and then helped him out of his shirt and shoes. The pants he would have to manage on his own.

“Let's get you cleaned up.”

“No sponge bath?” he asked.

I watched him sway, then correct himself. It occurred to me he might still be a little drunk.

“Watch it,” I warned.

Thomas showered alone, but I did leave the door open just in case he toppled over. He was a mess, and there was no way I was leaving him here to drink himself to death. But I couldn't exactly stay here either. Marcos would come looking for me sooner or later, and I doubted he was going to take kindly to my visit so near to Reznik's known hangout.

Hoping I had Alec's blessing, I searched through the cabinets, emptying a bottle of Jack Daniel's straight down the drain. There were two beers left in the fridge, and I dumped those as well. The empties clinked against each other as I filled the trash can. I was on my way to search his bedroom when a knock came at the door.

Grabbing my keys, I pulled back the cover over my keychain Mace. I took quiet steps to the door, thinking of Reznik, the man with the scar on his cheek, any number of cronies who could have followed me here.

I glanced through the peephole that came standard in these apartments, and saw the figure of a woman, facing the opposite way. Her dirty blond hair hung mid-back, and in her beige shell and knee-length black skirt she was dressed way too nice for this neighborhood.

I cracked open the door. She turned toward me.

“Yes . . .” I trailed off. Her face was familiar. It took a moment to place where I'd seen her before. At Alec's apartment, soon after he'd come home. She'd said she'd been on the wrong floor and left quickly.

“I recognize you,” I said as her cheeks grew rosy.

“I-I'm looking for Alec Flynn,” she said.

“He's not here.”

She turned to leave, but I lunged through the doorway and snagged her arm.

“Who are you?”

“I need to see Mr. Flynn.”

My blood chilled. I gripped the Mace harder, and held tight to her arm even as she tried to jerk away. Quickly, I scanned her body for weapons, but unless she was hiding a knife in the wallet tucked under her arm, she was clean.

“Did Reznik send you?” I asked. Is that why she'd been at Alec's apartment before? Because she'd been looking for him for Reznik?

She looked genuinely confused, but I didn't trust it.

“I don't know what you're talking about.”

“How did you find this address?” I realized I sounded paranoid. I didn't care.

She pulled back. My fingers were pressing so hard into her bare skin they were leaving white spots.

“Let me go.” There was fear in her voice that wasn't faked, and because of that, I did as she said. Quickly, she fled down the stairs.

“Why do you want to see him?” I called after her.

She didn't answer. I watched her jog awkwardly in her high heels toward the nearest car, a black MINI Coupe, parked under a flickering streetlamp, and speed away.

I only caught the first four numbers of her license plate, but it was better than nothing.