The Widow File (32 page)

BOOK: The Widow File

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The last thing Dani had done before she’d left Oklahoma five years ago was to implement another little trick her father had taught her. She stopped by the bar where she’d worked. She’d high-fived and made her good-byes and then ducked behind the bar to the big cardboard box that served as the lost-and-found collection point. It had always amazed her, the things people left behind—cell phones, wallets, IDs, even an upper dental plate. It seemed a lot of folks came through Flat Road, Oklahoma, but few came
through twice. She flipped through the items until she found something she thought she could use—a driver’s license belonging to one Tenna Rene Hardy of Lawrence, Kansas. The woman in the picture was taller than Dani but had the same black hair. As her father would have said, “A man on horseback would never know the difference.” She’d pocketed the ID and pulled away, headed for D.C.

Her last stop on the way to her new life had been in Lexington, Kentucky, where she now parked. She’d gone into the post office with the fake ID, a handful of cash, and a breathless story about needing a large post office box to send her mail to while she went on a Christian mission trip spreading the Good Word to the poor souls in Africa. The clerk had listened to her politely, taken her money, and explained to her the rules for renewing the box as needed.

Every year since, Dani sent a money order to the Lexington post office to renew her post office box. That wasn’t all she sent to Lexington. Twice a year, at Christmas and her father’s birthday, Dani would go through her stashes of cash and count out five thousand dollars. She’d stuff this into a padded envelope and mail it to Tenna Rene Hardy in Lexington, Kentucky. She never sent the packages from the same mailbox twice; she never put a return address, although she often scribbled silly little notes like “Ho Ho Ho!” and “Mama says howdy!!!” Her plan had been to take a trip this spring, collect her five years’ worth of mail, and find a new hiding place for it. Needless to say, she’d missed Christmas this year.

Dani groaned at the stiffness in her leg as she rose from the car. She fished a plastic bag from beneath her seat and grabbed the little clay magnet. She’d been eleven when her father had given this to her. He’d taken her to Keeneland and let her see the horses run. Dani ran her fingers over the running horse.

Using her car key, she pried the black magnet strip off the back. It broke away easily along the same lines she had glued it on five years before. Beneath the magnet, in a little crater in the clay, sat the post office box key. Dani limped inside and opened box 551. Nine padded envelopes sat scattered in the bottom of the drawer. Forty-five thousand dollars in cash wasn’t enough to live on forever, but it was a damned sight more than the
U.S. government had seen fit to provide. It was enough to get a good running start to somewhere.

Before the madness had taken her, Emmaline Britton had told her daughter that it was better to be careful than clever. Pulling back onto the highway with nothing but a bag of clothes, her car, and a bundle of untraceable cash, Dani Britton thought it might be better still to be both.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

If this book makes any sense at all, the credit goes to my development editor, David Downing. You are much nicer than East Coast deer. Thanks as always to Terry Goodman for being patient with me and to Christine Witthohn for always having my back. Jacque and the team at Thomas & Mercer never fail to impress with their enthusiasm, friendliness, and professionalism. I’m in good hands.

Big sloppy kisses to my entire family—blood and otherwise. A special kiss to my niece Lucia Redling, who kept me motivated during the first escape scene.

I’d be more of a wild-eyed mess than I already am without the fierce friendship of the Book Thugs. I am beholden to you.

And finally a special thank you to the raccoon that kept breaking into my house and wound up giving me the idea for the file’s hiding place. For that, I won’t kick you out of my chimney.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR