Internet-based newspaper stating she was deceased as well.
No way had Jeremy died rescuing her. For some reason, he needed the world to think he was dead. Her yearning to believe he was still alive gave her the conviction to hold that as a truth. Having faith in Jeremy’s not-dead status wasn’t the easiest. The strain of being cut off from her family and former life sometimes pressed in on her, allowing doubt to worm its way in. When that happened, guilt over possibly being the cause of his death always joined the party, and she’d have to combat it all by gripping that
something
in her heart that said it couldn’t be true and hanging on.
Over the years she had often fondled the paper, wishing for an excuse to talk to him, to know once and for all he still lived. Now that she had one, did she dare call? What if he hadn’t really meant it? She bet he rescued hundreds of people in horrible situations. Did he give them all the same offer?
She put the slip down and stared at the scrawled message.
Jeremy Malone—Cappy
555-546-2389
She ran her finger over his name and chewed her lip. Had the news of her fugitive status reached whatever part of the world he currently inhabited? If so, would he still come running if she called? He had said he’d help with no questions asked. Did she have the guts to test the theory?
Maybe it was time to find out.
***
Griffin studied the selection of snacks in the small gift shop located within a neat line of boutiques in the lobby. The old-money decadence of the Cerise Hotel clashed with the gaudy pink décor. Whoever splashed the swanky place with the stripper’s shade of lipstick needed to have their decorator’s license yanked.
All the infusion of color made the rack of candy bars and chips unappealing. He moseyed beyond the food and fingered a few magazines. He didn’t really want to buy anything but needed an excuse to loiter in the area. Suits and dresses in all their ill-fitting, cheaply made glory paraded through the front doors as the alphabet agencies set up shop on one of the floors above.
The Senator’s son’s murder had this city all abuzz.
Griffin cracked his neck from left to right and stuffed his right hand in his front jeans pocket, making sure he always kept his left side toward the open area beyond. Fucking prosthetic. He needed to blend in as much as possible, and a man wearing a fake arm tended to stick out no matter how much it cost to make it look “real.”
A swell of commotion hooked his attention and Griffin slid to the end of the aisle. Finally, the Senator and his wife arrived. Stern, joyless men accompanied the Senator as he strode across the paisley carpet. The wife remained a few steps behind with a wad of tissues gripped in her palm.
Griffin strolled out of the gift shop toward the large seating area filled with tall potted trees and palms. He pulled the bulky encrypted phone out of his jacket and opened a highly illegal app a tech head he met years ago had developed and sold to Griffin for an astronomical amount. There were plenty of free or cheap tracking apps parents could utilize to track their kids, but this beauty had a few extra perks that’d have the privacy advocates screaming and picketing. Who, honestly, would want a piece of spyware delivered to their phone via a call and Bluetooth connection and have all their calls and movements monitored by someone else without them ever knowing?
Operatives the world over, and he was the only one who had it, thanks to a fatal car “accident” the IT nerd had suffered shortly after selling the software to Griffin.
He retrieved April’s number and pressed Send.
As casually as he could, he slid his fake hand into his jeans again and headed for the couple causing the controlled chaos throughout the lobby.
The phone in Mrs. Bob Harris’s hand rang, and she jumped. She stared at it, puzzled.
“Come on,” he muttered under his breath, gripping the phone. “Answer the fucking thing.”
On
No way had Jeremy died rescuing her. For some reason, he needed the world to think he was dead. Her yearning to believe he was still alive gave her the conviction to hold that as a truth. Having faith in Jeremy’s not-dead status wasn’t the easiest. The strain of being cut off from her family and former life sometimes pressed in on her, allowing doubt to worm its way in. When that happened, guilt over possibly being the cause of his death always joined the party, and she’d have to combat it all by gripping that
something
in her heart that said it couldn’t be true and hanging on.
Over the years she had often fondled the paper, wishing for an excuse to talk to him, to know once and for all he still lived. Now that she had one, did she dare call? What if he hadn’t really meant it? She bet he rescued hundreds of people in horrible situations. Did he give them all the same offer?
She put the slip down and stared at the scrawled message.
Jeremy Malone—Cappy
555-546-2389
She ran her finger over his name and chewed her lip. Had the news of her fugitive status reached whatever part of the world he currently inhabited? If so, would he still come running if she called? He had said he’d help with no questions asked. Did she have the guts to test the theory?
Maybe it was time to find out.
***
Griffin studied the selection of snacks in the small gift shop located within a neat line of boutiques in the lobby. The old-money decadence of the Cerise Hotel clashed with the gaudy pink décor. Whoever splashed the swanky place with the stripper’s shade of lipstick needed to have their decorator’s license yanked.
All the infusion of color made the rack of candy bars and chips unappealing. He moseyed beyond the food and fingered a few magazines. He didn’t really want to buy anything but needed an excuse to loiter in the area. Suits and dresses in all their ill-fitting, cheaply made glory paraded through the front doors as the alphabet agencies set up shop on one of the floors above.
The Senator’s son’s murder had this city all abuzz.
Griffin cracked his neck from left to right and stuffed his right hand in his front jeans pocket, making sure he always kept his left side toward the open area beyond. Fucking prosthetic. He needed to blend in as much as possible, and a man wearing a fake arm tended to stick out no matter how much it cost to make it look “real.”
A swell of commotion hooked his attention and Griffin slid to the end of the aisle. Finally, the Senator and his wife arrived. Stern, joyless men accompanied the Senator as he strode across the paisley carpet. The wife remained a few steps behind with a wad of tissues gripped in her palm.
Griffin strolled out of the gift shop toward the large seating area filled with tall potted trees and palms. He pulled the bulky encrypted phone out of his jacket and opened a highly illegal app a tech head he met years ago had developed and sold to Griffin for an astronomical amount. There were plenty of free or cheap tracking apps parents could utilize to track their kids, but this beauty had a few extra perks that’d have the privacy advocates screaming and picketing. Who, honestly, would want a piece of spyware delivered to their phone via a call and Bluetooth connection and have all their calls and movements monitored by someone else without them ever knowing?
Operatives the world over, and he was the only one who had it, thanks to a fatal car “accident” the IT nerd had suffered shortly after selling the software to Griffin.
He retrieved April’s number and pressed Send.
As casually as he could, he slid his fake hand into his jeans again and headed for the couple causing the controlled chaos throughout the lobby.
The phone in Mrs. Bob Harris’s hand rang, and she jumped. She stared at it, puzzled.
“Come on,” he muttered under his breath, gripping the phone. “Answer the fucking thing.”
On
Similar Books
