Allison Brennan - Playing Dead

“What?”

“We know he’s in town. We have surveillance footage of him at a diner off the interstate headed for Sacramento.”

“I don’t know where my father is,” she said firmly. “You can go now.”

Dave stepped forward. “You heard her.”

“I believe you,” Donovan said.

“Good,” Dave said.

Claire looked at the Fed oddly.

Donovan said, “I believe you don’t know where he is. I’m asking have you been ‘in contact’ with your father.”

She shook her head. She was shaking. This was all coming to a head too fast. She hadn’t finished pursuing all possibilities. And there were so many. She felt the weight of doing this all alone, but she stood straighter and looked Donovan in the eye. “Get off my property.”

Two strong hands rested firmly on her shoulders. She glanced up and saw Mitch behind her. He hadn’t said anything since the Fed walked in, but his stalwart, quiet presence comforted her.

There was too much riding on this. She had to follow up on Frank Lowe and Taverton’s personal papers. She had to talk to Lowe’s former boss in Isleton.

Mitch said, “You need to back down. This is Claire’s home.” He squeezed her shoulders, and she leaned back against him. She was independent to a fault, she knew that, but having Mitch behind her-literally and figuratively-renewed her inner strength.

“Like I told you last night, Mr. Bianchi, aiding and abetting is a-”

“That’s enough!” Dave exclaimed.

Claire frowned at him. “Dave, I-”

“They’re playing you, Claire. Good cop, bad cop. Classic game.”

Claire didn’t know what Dave was talking about, but her head began to pound. “This isn’t a game. This is just the Feds going after my dad. We talked about this, and there’s-”

“No, Claire, it’s more than that.”

Mitch’s hands fell from her shoulders. She almost didn’t register it, until she felt chilled.

Her brain registered the deception before her heart felt it. Then, like a knife cutting through her skin, she bled inside.

She stared at Dave. Everyone was silent. She felt like a child, the last person in the room who still believed in Santa Claus, until his beard was pulled off.

“Agent Donovan, you need to leave,” she said, her voice shaky.

“We’ll talk tomorrow,” Donovan said, stepping back.

“Bianchi?” Dave said.

Mitch didn’t say anything.

“Or should I say Special Agent Bianchi?”

Claire faced Mitch. He stood only a foot behind her. Santa Claus wasn’t real. And neither was Mitch.

When she looked in Mitch’s eyes she knew Dave spoke the truth. The blood drained from her face and her heart emptied, leaving her with a sick, hollow feeling in the pit of her stomach.

“Claire-” Mitch reached out to touch her face.

She turned from him, biting her cheek to keep from yelling or crying or coming out swinging. She wanted to do all three. Instead, she found her voice for one word.

“Leave.”

The unbearably long time-twenty-five seconds-it took for Mitch to join Agent Donovan on the porch tested Claire’s resolve. But she stood firm.

She slammed the door behind them, dry heaving.

Dave stepped toward her, touched her lightly on the back. “Claire, sweetheart, I’m so sorry-”

She turned and pushed him in the chest so hard he took a step back. “You asshole! You did a background check on him when I told you not to! I’ve told you over and over to leave my boyfriends alone!”

“I wanted to protect you. I wasn’t going to say anything, but then I didn’t know he was an FBI agent until. .”

“Just go. Just leave. Leave me alone! ”

“Please don’t. .”

“Now.” She didn’t want Dave to see her fall apart. She didn’t want anyone to witness her pain.

Reluctantly, he left. Claire bolted the door behind him, her body sliding bonelessly to the hardwood floor. She hugged her knees tightly to her chest and sobbed uncontrollably.

Mitch sat in the Fox amp; Goose drinking Guinness while Steve talked at him- at him, because Mitch wasn’t listening. He couldn’t get Claire’s stricken expression out of his mind. The strong beer did nothing to diminish the awful memory.

“Mitch, listen up,” Steve said. “We have to come up with another plan.”

“Plan. Right. Bring Nolan back to town and have him sidle up to Claire. Word from the single women around the watercooler is that he’s good-looking.” Mitch drained his first pint and motioned to the bartender to bring him another.

Mitch had never drunk Guinness before meeting Claire; the rich brew had ruined all other beers for him. Worse, the dark stout and Claire were a joint memory.

“Get serious, Mitch. I know it’s a blow, and I know you like the girl, but we have an overriding issue: finding O’Brien. Because we’re confident he’s in town, we need to stake out Claire’s house. We’ll bring in another team since we’re too recognizable.”

“Claire will spot a tail.”

“We don’t have a choice. We can ask for Lexie-being a woman might provide a bit of cover, and she’s one of the best at discretion.”

“Lexie’s good. And she doesn’t look like a Fed.”

“And we do?”

Mitch looked at Steve. “You more than me, but yeah, we do.”

Claire was never going to forgive him.

“Spill it,” Steve said. “Something’s different. I know you’re hung up on O’Brien’s daughter, but this-I’m sorry she had to find out like she did, but you knew it was going to happen sooner or later. Get over it. It’s just a job.”

Mitch slammed the pint on the table with more force than he intended. Beer sloshed over the sides. “It was more than the job.”

Mitch wiped up the spill with cocktail napkins and drained a third of the glass.

“You’re in love with her,” said Steve.

What did Mitch know about love? You don’t lie to those you love. You don’t manipulate them, use them, hurt them.

“You’ll get through this, Mitch. Focus on the job. Hell, that’s the only way I can go home to an empty house some nights.”

Steve motioned for another pint. What a pity party, Mitch thought. Steve hadn’t had it easy in the relationship department. He’d married his high school sweetheart, had a kid, then left, ostensibly because of his job. Steve, like Mitch, took risks. To save lives, sometimes you had to risk your own. Now his ex was remarried to a doctor-same long hours, but less risk of being killed. Steve saw his son every other weekend.

“I’ll take you back to Nolan’s. First thing tomorrow we head down to Isleton and canvass for information about Oliver Maddox. He met someone there. That someone may know more about whatever got Maddox killed.”

“Maybe he met his killer down there,” said Mitch.

“I don’t follow.”

“He goes down there, starts questioning the wrong person. That individual follows him, runs him off the road.” Mitch frowned.

“Sounds plausible. You don’t think so?”

“But if he was being chased down River Road he’d have both hands on the wheel. Would he think of swallowing the flash drive? Either he was nervous when he left his house in Davis and swallowed it as protection, or he saw someone he recognized who was a threat, and swallowed it to protect the information.”

“And then was run off the road.”

Mitch shook his head. “There was no damage to his Explorer to suggest that he was run off the road.”

“You just said you thought he was run off the road. And someone can be run off the road without their car being hit.”

“I was thinking out loud. Maybe he was but that doesn’t explain the contusion on the back of Maddox’s head. You know what I think?”