Читать книгу Desperate Measures - Christy Barritt - Страница 12

THREE

“A murder suspect? I don’t believe it.” John glanced across the sandy yard just as Samantha stepped onto the porch with an armful of sheets. Connor ran ahead of her, and she began racing after him. Connor giggled as his lead widened. That was not an image of a killer. Samantha, if anything, was a victim. “What did you tell him?”

“I told him I couldn’t believe Samantha could ever hurt another person and that I had no idea where she went. It’s the truth. I don’t want to know. My guess is that this agent is trying to track her down, though. I don’t know how long it’s going to take.”

“I don’t think you ever answered my original question. Why are you telling me this?” John asked.

“Samantha texted Kylie last night and did an informal character check on you. She wanted to find out if you were a classy kind of guy.”

“And Kylie said?”

“She said she’d trust you with her life. I know your past. I figured you might have passed on your contact information to Samantha. I just thought I’d let you know what happened last night. Just in case. I have a hard time believing Samantha’s dangerous. But, should you see her, keep that in mind.”

John did see her. She paused at his cabin doorway, then turned around to get his approval before going inside. When he nodded, she flashed a smile and then ducked into the doorway.

A killer?

Never.

But whatever was going on in her life sure had created a tangled web. If he were smart, he’d stay away.

But the chivalrous side of him couldn’t stand to see a woman or child in danger.

He wasn’t sure what he’d been thinking when he’d agreed to hire her. He knew what Alyssa would tell him. She would say that his heart was too big for its own good. Then she’d smile and tell him that’s why she loved him so much.

There wasn’t a day that went by that he didn’t miss that woman. Time had made his grief more bearable, but it hadn’t lessened his loss.

That’s why he had to help Samantha while still keeping her at a distance. His moral duty was to aid someone in need. But helping was as far as it went.

* * *

After working a seven hour day, Samantha relished the tepid shower water. She was even thankful for the lousy water pressure as she scrubbed the grime off nearly every visible surface of skin. She had to admit that the physical labor today had felt good, despite her sore ribs and the tender skin around her eye.

She’d been working a desk job for the past few months. While working this new job, she found it invigorating to submerge herself into a task at hand, even better because Connor could work alongside her. Her injuries were grim reminders that not everything was as idyllic as it seemed here, though.

She climbed out, toweled dry, and pulled on some clean clothes. Then she rubbed the steam from the mirror and stared at her reflection. She noted the lines around her eyes and on her forehead. Those hadn’t been there a year ago. The events of the past twelve months had taken a toll on every part of her—physically, emotionally and spiritually.

Her mom had once told Samantha that she was a survivor. She held on to her mom’s proclamation, hoping it was true. But she didn’t feel like one. Sure, maybe she’d managed to stay alive. But somehow, she hadn’t felt as if she was truly living in a long time. Fear and guilt could be a prison of their own.

“You ready, Mom?”

She looked over at Connor, her heart squeezing with both love and guilt. “Sure thing.” She dried her hands and then hooked an arm around her son’s neck. “Thanks for helping today. Admit it—you had fun.”

He shrugged. “I don’t know if I’d say that.”

The place had shaped up quickly. Samantha had washed everything, scrubbed the floors and peeled down wallpaper. It didn’t look that bad after all.

Meanwhile, John had patched the roof, fixed a broken stair on the porch and removed a hornet’s nest from outside. Connor had even gotten into the action. He’d helped with painting and had scrubbed the fridge.

They’d all worked together—in silence. Samantha was thankful. Talking led to questions, and she didn’t want the questions to lead to lies.

“We’re going to be okay, Connor,” she assured him.

“Mom?”

“Yes?”

“I changed my mind. Can we stay here for a while? Please? I’m so tired of moving.”

Her heart squeezed. “I think we can stay awhile.”

“You think? That means you’re not promising anything.” Not much got past her son, and she wouldn’t lie to him.

“It’s complicated, Connor.”

He frowned.

Samantha leaned down in front of him until they were eye to eye. “I’m doing the best I can. I hope we can stay here for a while, Connor. I really do.”

“Promise me.”

“I promise that I’ll do my best to stay here. I know it’s not exactly what you want to hear. But it’s the most I can give you.”

“Okay.” He frowned again and reluctantly began walking with Samantha toward John’s house. She should have refused John’s invitation to dinner. But she had no groceries and no time to buy anything. Besides, having dinner with someone wasn’t a promise of anything—not a promise of friendship or trust or anything other than a professional relationship.

Despite that, Samantha should have probably said no. Her jaw ached. She was tired. And she was scared.

The fewer people who saw her face here, the better. It was bad enough that the sheriff had already seen her. The last thing she needed was for him to run some kind of background check on her.

If he did, then she’d be out of a job, behind bars and Connor would have no one. The cops back in Texas still thought she was involved in the scheme her husband and his friends had devised. When Billy—the ringleader—had heard she was going to turn them in, he’d put money into her personal bank account—large sums of money. Money that made her look guilty. He’d planted emails that made it look as though she was the mastermind behind his scheme to scam people out of their investments. He’d lined everything up just right so that, if he fell, then she’d fall with him.

That’s why it was so important that she remained low-key and not arouse anyone’s suspicions.

The problem was that she could already see in her boss’s eyes that he was perceptive and intelligent. How long would it take for John to put it together that she was running from both the bad guys and from the law?

If he discovered that information, would he turn her in?

The smell of a charcoal grill billowed in the air as they approached. John looked up from an old, park-style grill—one that was cemented into the ground—and grinned.

“How’s the cabin coming?” he asked.

“I think it will be fine. I really appreciate your letting us stay here.”

“I appreciate the help. I was sincere when I said I needed a hand.”

Samantha paused by the grill, second-guessing herself for a moment. Maybe she should have refused his offer. She’d done such a good job keeping to herself. She couldn’t let herself feel too safe here on the island. “Is there anything I can do to help get dinner ready?”

“It’s nothing fancy. I’m fine. You can just relax.”

Relax? She almost wanted to snort. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d relaxed. No, she was always on guard, always alert.

Despite that, she sat in an old deck chair on the porch of John’s cabin. Connor plopped on the steps and began running a stick over the sand, drawing pictures.

She looked out in the distance.

The Chesapeake Bay was blue and pristine. The sun was setting across the water, smearing pink and purple lights together. Wisps of dune grass sprinkled the area. Pelicans flew overhead, and the smell of seawater brought an unusual sense of comfort.

A false sense of comfort and security, for that matter.

“So, tell us about Smuggler’s Cove,” Samantha urged.

“It’s a national treasure, if you ask me.” John flipped the fish and a scrumptious scent filled the air.

Samantha took a moment to soak him in.

The man was gorgeous with his broad frame, his head full of dark hair, and his warm brown eyes. No one could deny that.

But that didn’t matter to Samantha. It was the single life for her, from now until eternity. Every man she’d ever trusted had ultimately let her down. She didn’t see that changing...well, ever. Men were all the same, as far as she was concerned.

At five, her father had left. Her boyfriend in college had cheated on her. Her husband had swindled people out of thousands of dollars, choosing money over his family.

She’d never met a man she could trust.

Which was why she needed to concentrate on something else at the moment.

“I think the neighborhood where I grew up is bigger than this place,” she said, careful to not reveal too much about herself.

But her words were true. The whole island could only be maybe fifty acres. It was small enough that Samantha, as she’d traveled from the wharf to John’s yesterday, had seen tombstones in people’s front yards.

He chuckled. “You could be right. I think there’s only around a thousand residents here. It’s unlike any place I’ve ever been. At high tide, the waters rise and small wooden bridges connect various parts of the island. Only about sixty percent is inhabitable. The rest is marshland.”

“I hate to see what that means during hurricane season.”

“They say the island was formed from a hurricane and another one could easily erase it. In fact, there’s an island north of here—locals call it the Uppards—that was once inhabited. Residents abandoned it about forty years ago because of flooding. The entire island became submerged during storms.”

“It was probably a good idea that they ditched the place then.” She crossed her legs, soaking in the sun for a moment. “What about the accent I heard on some of the locals. I wasn’t imagining that, was I?”

John closed the grill and leaned against a picnic table. “Not at all. When the island was first settled by the British back in the 1880s—yes, we’re talking nearly as far back as John Smith and Pocahontas—they were isolated. Really isolated. More so than they are now. Their way of life was preserved for a long time, even the accent stuck around. In recent years, it’s become not as prominent with television and visitors and so.”

“Fascinating. I didn’t get a good look at what’s here. I take it there’s not a Macy’s.”

He chuckled. “No, no Macy’s. But there is a general store, three restaurants, a bed and breakfast, the docks and the homes of the residents living here.”

“Why’s it called Smuggler’s Cove?” Connor asked.

“Many years ago, pirates were said to have buried their loot on the island, thus the name Smuggler’s Cove.”

“So, if I look hard enough, I could find treasure? Awesome! Can I start now?”

Samantha shrugged. “Go for it. Just don’t wander too far away.”

As Connor scurried off, John turned toward her. “So, you said you had experience in construction?”

She nodded. “I worked for a construction company, doing their books. I also helped Connor’s father with flipping houses. My uncle was a handyman, so he taught me a lot.” Even her uncle had ended up leaving his wife for another woman. He’d totally lost contact with the rest of the family when that happened.

She leaned back into the chair, imaging herself living a different life. A life where she could sit back and relax and enjoy the world around her. But there was no need to dwell on what wasn’t. She had to concentrate on survival. “How about you? Is this what you do for a living? Restoring cabins?”

“Nah, I quit my regular job at the Coast Guard Training Center. Decided I needed a change of pace.”

Why would someone do that? Samantha wondered. But the question wasn’t hers to ask. Not now. Besides, too many personal questions could be dangerous. She needed to stay on neutral ground.

She nodded. “Where are you from?”

“Texas originally. Gloucester for the past several years. Smuggler’s Cove now.”

Tension crept up her spine at the mention of Texas. “Really? What part of Texas?”

“The Houston area.”

Just a coincidence, she told herself. He probably hadn’t heard of Billy. Probably hadn’t heard about what happened to her husband. But what if somehow he made the connection that her former husband was a part of the gang that had cheated the city’s richest out of their money? What if he put two and two together?

She stared out to sea. The island seemed so secluded, so far off the beaten path.

But that seclusion would either keep her safe or keep her trapped.

“I just remembered a phone call I need to make,” Samantha blurted. She had to excuse herself before her face gave way any more of her thoughts.

“Go right ahead. I’ll finish cooking these fish. Dinner will be ready in no time.”

She stood and plodded through the sand, going far enough away that John wouldn’t be able to hear any of her conversation.

She walked toward the shoreline, noting how Connor dug holes in the sand not far away. Still searching for buried treasure. She smiled sadly as she looked over at him.

Reaching into her pocket, she pulled out a cheap track phone she’d bought from the gas station beside the hotel last night. She’d needed to call a few people, but she didn’t want to be traced. She’d thrown her old phone into a river, trying to take every precaution possible not to be tracked.

She wished she could simply walk away from her life in Yorktown and disappear. But her boss was counting on her. He might call the police if she simply left without a word. And Connor’s summer school teacher would worry if he just stopped going to classes. It was best she covered her tracks and made everyone think this was a last-minute trip. That way no one would call the police. The last thing she needed was a missing-persons report.

She cleared her throat and dialed her boss’s number. A moment later, Hank came on the line. “Samantha, where are you?”

“I’m sorry, Hank. Something’s come up. A family emergency.”

“Man, Samantha, I’m sorry to hear that. Talk about awful timing, all the way around.”

She bristled. “What do you mean?”

“You heard about Lisa, right?”

Samantha’s muscles constricted. Lisa had promised not to say a word about their meeting. And Samantha hadn’t even told Lisa where she was going. The fewer people who knew, the better. She’d only asked Lisa for a ride because she couldn’t risk keeping her car. The thug who’d attacked her had seen the vehicle. He knew her license plate.

“No, I didn’t hear.” Her throat burned with the words.

“She died last night. She ran off the side of the road, apparently. No one really knows what happened. Rumor has it that she had some drugs in her system.”

“Lisa didn’t do drugs,” Samantha said. “You know that.”

And Lisa hadn’t been high when she’d helped Samantha. An inkling of the truth began to creep into her mind. Someone had killed her and covered their tracks. Just like someone had killed Anthony and made Samantha look guilty.

“She’s gone. I can’t believe it. And now you’re not here. I don’t know what I’ll do without you two ladies.”

“I’m sorry, Hank. I really am.”

“Come back as soon as you can, you hear?”

“You got it.”

As she hung up, cold, stark fear swept over her.

Lisa... Not Lisa. This was Samantha’s fault. She’d put her friend in danger. She should have been more careful, tried to be more independent.

Now her friend was dead.

Guilt pounded at her conscience. If she could only go back, she’d do things differently. She’d keep her friend out of this.

But it was too late to change anything of that.

She’d managed to escape these thugs before. Why did she feel as if her time had run out? All of the running in the world wouldn’t make her feel safe right now.