One Week To Live by Joan Beth Erickson

on his cell phone. As soon as they boarded, Dunning pushed the close-door button effectively cutting off anyone else from riding the elevator with them. Then he dropped a bombshell.
    “I know that your real name is Angela Parducci Martinelli.”
    She stared at him in shock. No one had called her by that in a long time. “How do you know that?”
    “I do thorough background checks on anyone I’m going to interview. How’s Tony doing these days?”
    Her mouth grew dry. “How do you…?”
    He smiled. “Tony and I went to the same college, belonged to the same fraternity.”
    “I see,” she managed to stutter. Tony never mentioned Dunning’s name, but that didn’t surprise her. She really knew very little about her ex-husband.
    “We keep in touch. I heard about the divorce.”
    She didn’t reply. How much did he know about the divorce? She doubted her ex ever divulged her side of the story. “The next time you contact him, please don’t mention that you’ve seen me.”
    “Divorces can be messy.”
    “You could say that.” And what else did the man’s research reveal? How far into her past did he delve?
    When they arrived at her floor, she retrieved her purse and brought it to the reception area. Fortunately, the nosy receptionist was away from her desk. Reaching in his suit pocket, Dunning pulled out plastic gloves, put them on, and placed the note in a small evidence bag. Without saying another word, he took off the gloves, shoved them in his coat pocket, and left.
    As if her life wasn’t complicated enough. Could she trust the man not to tell her ex-husband her whereabouts? She doubted it. Did she need to run again? She hoped not. Unwelcome memories and fears surfaced. Would she ever escape her ex?
    ****
    Looking out the condo’s window, Brian saw the summer desert storm’s approach. Late afternoon clouds billowed up over the nearby mountains. Beginning as innocent puffy white cumulus shapes, they quickly shot skyward into a mass of thunderheads. Then the clouds flattened out turning from gray to ominous black. Soon the rain would come in buckets, the air rumble with thunder, and the wind gust. The potted palms on the condo’s deck started to whip around as the storm approached.
    Sitting at the table in front of the floor-to-ceiling living room window, he turned his attention back to his computer screen. In his gut, he knew the article was good. He read through the story again. He needed to capture the step-by-step process of finding the child. Readers needed to feel the anguish of a distraught mother coming to Vegas to wait for her daughter’s return, and the frustration of a psychic afraid to help that mother because she feared failure. This piece did that. So why couldn’t he file it, send off the e-mail?
    He knew why, Angie. She’d asked him not to write about her ever again, but how could he avoid mentioning her? As a psychic she was an integral part of the story. He admired what she could do and wanted to tell the world about it. How could he know she shied away from publicity? After the San Diego article, she’d told him he’d betrayed her, but he didn’t look at it that way.
    He again reached for his computer mouse. With so many abductions out there, it was important to keep this story alive. He couldn’t let people forget there was a missing child in danger. He had to make Angie see that she added the human interest element to the story that made people read it. Clicking the button, he sent the story off and powered down his laptop satisfied with the work accomplished. He glanced out the condo window. The menacing clouds moved across the valley obscuring the sun. Large raindrops splashed on the balcony floor and thunder rattled the windows.
    He glanced at his watch. If he hurried, he could catch Angie before she left work. Over drinks and dinner he’d tell her about his latest article.
    ****
    He paced back and forth in front of the bank of elevators leading to her office. The upper-floor