Debbi Rawlins - No One Needs to Know

Was she thinking of another life? Of future plans? She understood that the Rocking B Foundation gave sizable grants and gifts. It could turn this little operation into something to be reckoned with, and considering they had access to aircraft, the potential for animal services was huge. Or maybe she was just thinking about how the foundation money, along with the stolen investments, could build her a dream home right across the border in Canada.

“We can walk and talk,” he said. “That is, if you’re not too sore. But I’d like to grab another cup of coffee.”

“There’s no such thing as too sore working a ranch. I guess you already know that.”

Not the way she did. He’d been part of a big machine. Yes, he’d had to learn all the grunt work jobs, then those that took skill. But very few times had he faced the cold of a winter morning alone, when every animal in sight was counting on him for food and shelter and care.

There was nothing simple about sanctuaries. He’d investigated a hell of a lot of them. Each time, there was one individual or couple who were the lifeblood and soul of the operation. Those who gave up any sense of a normal life to the welfare of the animals.

She’d been doing it almost on her own for two years. He didn’t have the faintest idea why. Penance made no sense. Not when she could go back to New York and really make things right. How was it he hadn’t anticipated her working like a dog? What had she done with the money she’d already stolen?

“You know, I’ve got to make a couple of phone calls.” He checked his watch, then made sure he looked at her when he added, “Would it be okay if I met you in the stable in about twenty minutes?”

There. A flash of panic that was gone in the blink of an eye. Just long enough for him to see her gaze fly to the loft and back. She didn’t want him here alone. Not for anything. But he simply waited her out.

“Sure. No problem. I’ll see you there.”

“Thanks. I won’t be long.”

Annie picked up her coffee mug, then set it in the sink without taking another sip. She hesitated at the door as if she was working out what to say to him, but in the end, she stepped outside. He watched her walk down the path, his phone to his ear.

The minute she was out of sight, he headed straight up the steps. His heart was beating too quickly, but there was nothing he could do about it. He wasn’t used to subterfuge. He’d always believed in facing his problems head-on. But this case was the exception to all his rules.

He saved the obvious for last, moving quickly around the room, looking at the floorboards, the wall for any possible nook where she could have something stashed.

With no paintings and no closet, there wasn’t much territory to explore, but he took his time. The dresser was filled with clothes, packed tight. Still, he pulled each one all the way out to look underneath the drawer. Nothing.

The bed was intact, as far as he could tell without stripping it completely, but underneath…

Coffee cans. Four of them. And an old-fashioned suitcase. That’s what he opened first, checking his watch, appalled at how long everything was taking. She could come back any second, and she’d have every reason to call the cops on him.

The suitcase was full of paperback books and music CDs. He checked every pocket twice, flipped through the books and popped open the CD cases, but he didn’t find anything noteworthy. Disappointed, he shoved the case back under the bed.

He hit one of the cans of coffee, and just to be sure, he checked. It was unopened coffee. So was the next, and the next.

The fourth one had an unsealed envelope. Inside, it was a single sheet of paper with a typed number and password. He was certain the number was for a bank account. There was also a driver’s license in the name of Alison Bishop, with a picture that sort of looked like Annie, and a roll of cash thicker than his fist.

After he took a picture of the license and the account number, he put it all back under the bed just the way he’d found it. Then he got the hell out of there before she caught him red-handed.

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