Rebecca York: Betrayed

He’d remedied that as an adult. Now his home was a showplace, with all the comforts he’d lacked as a child—including all the candy he wanted. Which hadn’t done his teeth any good. But today you didn’t have to worry too much about that. You could get implants—which were better than the real thing.

As he sucked on the candy, he thought about Shane Gallagher and decided that bumping the guy off might not be such a great idea right now. It would be suspicious if the head of S&D security bought the farm just after he’d done that heroic hostage rescue.

Heaving his considerable bulk out of the custom-made leather chair in his den, Jerome crossed to the bar at the side of the room and poured some schnapps into a glass. The peppermint liqueur was just the thing to go with the mint candy—with a bit more punch.

He took an appreciative swallow. It was imported from Germany. An indulgence he’d only enjoyed as an adult. In addition to banning candy from the house, Dad had also lectured extensively on the evils of alcohol.

After taking a few sips, Jerome set the glass down and paced the room, his expensive alligator shoes making no sound on the thick carpet. He was a short, stout man wearing top-of-the-line Gucci jeans and a five-hundred-dollar cashmere sweater over a soft white dress shirt, all in plus sizes. And the outsized heavy gold chain at his neck winked in the illumination from the overhead lights as he walked to the window, then back to the chair.

He glanced toward the door. He’d given his staff the night off because he wanted to be alone. Now he was thinking that he should have kept Mario around to give him a massage. That would have relaxed his tense muscles.

There was a new product in development that he had vowed to get from S&D. And he wasn’t going to let anything stand in the way of him acquiring it.

He’d tried and failed once, and maybe he’d even thought about giving up. But now the newscast was like a sign winking on and off in the darkness—pointing him in the right direction. He’d set up a couple of options. Finally, he knew which one he was going to take.

Or was that plan too risky?

He picked up the glass of schnapps and took another swallow while he considered his options.

Elena lived in what was called a garden apartment. Not one of the sexy new developments north of Rockville, but an older yellow-brick complex in the less fashionable part of the city. Still, living there meant she could afford to be on her own, which was important to her.

She drove past her building and circled the parking lot, checking to see if the car she’d spotted was still behind her. Although it seemed to have disappeared, she wished she could have gotten a space closer to her door.

The lot was full of older model cars, pickup trucks, and vehicles like delivery trucks and service vans that were owned by local businesses but driven home by workers.

She parked between a van from a rug cleaning company and a pickup with a padlocked toolbox under the back window. And before she got out of her car, she took the canister of Mace out of her bag and held it in her left hand. Her keys were in her right hand as she walked rapidly up the sidewalk to the front entrance of her building. Grateful that the light wasn’t out at the mailboxes as it had been the week before, she got her mail, then climbed the steps to her second-floor apartment. Once she was inside, she slid the security chain into place and breathed out a little sigh.

She stopped in the living room to straighten the brightly colored accent pillow on the discount easy chair, then turned on the kitchen light and shuffled through the mail, separating the bills from the advertisements. The bills went into a drawer in the heavy, carved sideboard she’d picked up at a garage sale. The ads went into the trash. That was the way she liked it. Everything in its place.

She listened to several messages from friends and coworkers who had heard the news and wanted to make sure she was okay.

She returned most of the calls, keeping her voice bright and cheerful even though she’d had an exhausting and frightening day.

Finally, she went into the kitchen, glad she didn’t have to cook. As was her habit, on Saturday she’d gone to the grocery store and bought the ingredients for several of her favorite dishes—some from home and some popular American entrées. She’d spent a couple of hours cooking and stored the food in the refrigerator. Now she got out a casserole of chicken and vegetable stew and some of the rice and beans she’d always liked. San Marcos comfort food, she guessed you’d call it.

Scooping some onto a plate, she microwaved her dinner while she went down the hall to the bedroom to kick off her medium-heeled shoes and change into sweatpants and a T-shirt.

It was tempting to simply drape her slacks and the blue blouse over the back of the scarred straight-backed chair she’d painted a cheerful yellow, but she hung them neatly in the closet before going back to the kitchen and taking the plate out of the microwave. She brought the meal to the table, along with a glass of cold tea from a pitcher in the refrigerator.

The food was good. She’d asked Momma to teach her to make a lot of the dishes they’d enjoyed back home, and she and her mother had spent many hours together in the kitchen. Those were some of her best memories of her parents. No politics. No sibling rivalry. Just two women in the kitchen, cooking.

She should be hungry, but after making it through only half the food, she put down her fork. Knowing she wasn’t going to eat anymore, she covered the plate with plastic wrap and put it back in the refrigerator.

She looked toward the living room, thinking she might turn on the television and find out if there was anything new about the hostage takedown. Then she canceled the idea. Why go through it again? And maybe if she got a good night’s sleep, she’d be ready to face tomorrow at S&D.

She wouldn’t kid herself. A lot more people than the friends who’d called were going to be curious about today’s events, and she needed to think about what to say. And think about Lincoln Kinkead’s suggestion. He’d said she could talk to a therapist. It wasn’t something she would have considered on her own. But he’d made the offer, and maybe she shouldn’t dismiss the idea out of hand.

For the moment, she was still feeling shaky. She turned on the shower and got undressed. After standing under the pounding water for ten minutes, she told herself she felt better, although it was only marginally true.

Wrapped in a towel, she used the blow-dryer on her hair, then got out one of the long sleep shirts that she liked to wear. This one had a picture of a cat and a fawn cuddled up together, and she smiled at the picture before pulling on the shirt.

Before getting into bed, she took one of the over-the-counter sleeping tablets that she needed occasionally.

It helped her relax, but after slipping into bed, she lay rigidly under the covers. Finally she got up again and turned on the bathroom light, then closed the door so that only a sliver of illumination came through the crack. She hated that she needed the light, but after the ordeal of the day, she didn’t want to be in the dark. Truly, she didn’t want to be alone, but there was no one she’d feel comfortable calling this late at night.

A face drifted into her mind, Shane Gallagher’s face. She clamped her hands around the edge of the sheet, ordering herself to get him out of her mind. She barely knew him, and she certainly wasn’t going to ask him to watch over her.

She felt a laugh bubbling in her throat. No, she wasn’t going to call him .

Instead, she worked the pillow into a better position under her neck, moved her shoulders to get comfortable, and closed her eyes. Maybe the pill she’d taken had started working, because she felt herself letting go. And soon she had crossed from wakefulness to sleep.