twenty
THERE WAS NOTHING COVERT about this approach. Ryan climbed the porch steps up to Congressman Daniel Atkins’s home with Sheriff Huggins beside him. While there would be no SWAT team breach of the location, they still had several officers approaching the back of the house just in case.
Back at the office, Ryan had laid out the facts as he saw them: the video of Lauren and Harold, Lauren’s refusal to name Olivia’s father, the connection between Lauren and Congressman Atkins, and her sudden exit from teaching. A picture was beginning to appear and he hated that the idea came to him after learning about Vivian’s father. If Russell Bradley could keep a second family in the shadows, why couldn’t Congressman Atkins?
It had taken some work to convince the sheriff to ask Judge Sullivan for a warrant to verify that the rose-gold sequins in the video from the night of the fire matched the ones on the Victoria Rose hoodie he and Vivian found in Trisha Atkins’s closet.
Sweat beaded at the back of his neck even though the nighttime temperature had dropped to a balmy eighty-five. Ryan rang the doorbell, recounting the last time he was there with Vivian. It had been playful and, yes, a little sneaky, but he’d had no idea then that he would be back to arrest the Watcher.
His nerves thrummed. The pieces of his case were finally coming together and he was on the cusp of making his first major arrest, putting away the person responsible for not only extorting dozens of people for money but also Harold’s death and the fire that could’ve taken Vivian’s life as well.
Ryan’s cell phone buzzed in his pocket. He slipped it out just enough to see Vivian’s name on the phone’s screen. The woman had impeccable timing—like she had some sixth sense he was working the case. A thread of guilt tightened around his chest. Vivian would’ve wanted to be there for this, but given what the Watcher was capable of, he couldn’t risk it. He’d call her after so she could have first access to the story and make her headline, securing her job in Atlanta—where they could be together.
“Hello?”
Letting the phone slip back into his pocket, his hand slid a fraction of an inch toward his weapon when Trisha Atkins answered the door. “Mrs. Atkins, I’m Deputy Frost. This is—”
“I know who Sheriff Huggins is.” She smiled, but it didn’t match the flicker of fear that passed through her eyes. “How are you, Sheriff?”
“I’m well, ma’am.” Sheriff Huggins tipped his wide-brimmed hat. “Is Congressman Atkins here?”
“He is.” She backed away. “We’re just packing for a last-minute trip. You know, this year has been so crazy and now we’re moving. Well, anyway, he’s here. Would you like me to call for him?”
“If you don’t mind, ma’am, we’d like to speak to both of you,” Ryan said, sliding a look to Sheriff Huggins. A last-minute trip? “Shouldn’t take long.”
“Well, I, uh . . .” She smoothed her bright red hair back behind her ear. “I guess that’ll be fine.” She opened the screen door. “Come on in.”
The house looked exactly the way it had on the day of the open house. Again, Ryan’s gut twisted with guilt. He hadn’t known Vivian for long, but he knew she wasn’t going to be happy about being kept out of the loop no matter how good his reasons were. Sometimes her drive for a headline blinded her to the danger she put herself in. He shuddered to imagine what kind of trouble she got into in DC.
Trisha Atkins led them into the large family room with floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the Ogeechee River. A large deck matched the width of the expansive home, and Ryan could imagine coming home from work to enjoy a meal with Vivian and that view.
“If you’ll give me one minute, I’ll just run up and get him.” She paused at the staircase. “Would y’all like something to drink? Cookies?”
“We’re fine, ma’am,” Ryan said. He looked to Sheriff Huggins, who also gave a nod and then used his radio to give the other officers their status before taking a seat in a leather wingback chair.
Trisha jogged up the steps and Ryan could hear the muffled murmuring of a conversation. Was she scared? Did she know why they were here?
A moment later, Trisha and her husband, Congressman Daniel Atkins, joined them.
“Sheriff Huggins and Deputy . . .” He looked at Ryan.
“Frost, Ryan Frost, Congressman.”
“Aw, call me Daniel, son.” He shook Ryan’s hand. “We’re all family here in Walton, right?”
There was a slickness to the man’s tone Ryan didn’t care for and it only solidified his suspicion.
“Please, sit.” Daniel gestured to the wingback chair next to Sheriff Huggins. He took a seat on the couch and Trisha sat next to him. “I’m sorry I didn’t answer the door. Trisha and I were just packing for a quick trip to the beach.”
“Which one?” Tybee Island was only forty minutes away but not really where he could imagine the congressman and his wife escaping to. Hilton Head and St. Simons weren’t very far and much more fitting to their lifestyle.
“Mexico.” Daniel turned to his wife. “Which beach, honey?”
Trisha’s eyes darted between the three of them. “Uh, Cabo San Lucas.”
“That’s right.” He placed his hand on Trisha’s knee. “We love that place. Almost bought a house there, didn’t we, honey?” Trisha gave a tight nod. “So, what can we do for you tonight? I’ve already talked with my security team about the gala and I think everything is covered.”
“We’re not here about the gala, Congressman,” Ryan said. “We’re here to ask you and your wife some questions about Lauren Holt.”
The air in the room was sucked out like a vacuum, leaving the congressman and his wife looking desperate for oxygen. A minute passed before Daniel seemed to regain a bit of his breath. His eyes bounced between Ryan and Sheriff Huggins.
“Lauren Holt. I think I remember her. She’s a teacher at Anderson. Political science, if I recall.”
“Was a teacher. Quit two years ago.”
“Oh.” Daniel frowned. “I didn’t realize she left. That’s too bad.”
Ryan’s cell phone vibrated in his pocket. “Did you know she had a little girl?”
Daniel’s Adam’s apple moved when he swallowed, almost in sync with the lines growing tight at the corners of Trisha’s eyes. They knew about Olivia.
“Why would you ask my husband if he knew about—”
“Honey.” Daniel’s hand found his wife’s knee again, silencing her. “It’s fine.” A message was shared between them that made Trisha slump her shoulders before Daniel’s attention returned to Ryan. “It happened one time.”
Ryan slid a sideways glance at Sheriff Huggins. “What did?”
“Danny.” Trisha’s voice held a pleading tone.
“I want you to know I have never done that before. It was a slip. I’d been drinking and working late.” Daniel’s voice shook. “I confessed to Trisha immediately, and then a month later Lauren shows up at my office and tells me she’s pregnant.”
Daniel Atkins was Olivia’s father. The confession sounded genuine but also made the reason Ryan was there all the more perplexing. Ryan turned to Trisha. “So you knew about the affair—”
“It wasn’t an affair. It was a one-time thing,” Daniel said. “It never happened again.”
Trisha’s gaze remained pinned to the ground. Either she didn’t believe her husband or she was hiding something.
“Mrs. Atkins, did you attend the Anderson College basketball championship game?”
A few silent seconds ticked off before Daniel Atkins answered. “Yes, we were both there that night, but Trisha didn’t feel well and went home a little early.”
Even though Trisha’s focus was on the thick carpet in front of her, Ryan noticed her wince at her husband’s words. When she looked up, the color had drained from her face.
“Mrs. Atkins, is there something you want to tell us?”
And like a dam bulging at the seams, Trisha’s green eyes filled to the brim. She blinked and a cascade of tears streamed down her cheeks.
“Trisha, honey, what’s going on?” Daniel pivoted to face his wife, his arm protectively on her shoulder. “What’s the matter, darling?”
“I-I’m so sorry, Danny.” The words were almost inaudible. “I didn’t mean to. I was scared and I didn’t know what to do. I didn’t mean it. I promise.” Those last statements came out on desperate breaths. Her green eyes turned on Ryan. “It was an accident, I swear. I didn’t mean it.”
“Honey, calm down.” The congressman looked between Ryan and Sheriff Huggins. “What’s going on?”
“Trisha, if you’d like to have your attorney present”—Sheriff Huggins’s voice was grim—“you may make that call now. Anything you say can be used against you—”
“I j-just want it to g-go away,” Trisha said through a sob. “I’m so sorry, Danny. I was trying to protect you—us.”
Ryan’s pulse picked up. “What happened, Mrs. Atkins?”
“He was here, the reporter. Asking for Danny. Then I overheard him make a call to Lauren.” Trisha wrung her hands, tears streaking down her face. “I panicked.”
“Is that when you sent the email to Harold?”
Trisha’s teary gaze narrowed on Ryan. “What email?”
“The one of Harold and Lauren. Demanding money.” Dread corded through Ryan’s gut. “From the Watcher?”
“I-I don’t know what you’re talking about, Deputy.” Trisha wiped the mascara and tearstains beneath her eyes. “I thought you were here because of the peanut oil.”
Why wasn’t Ryan answering? Vivian steered her car into a dingy parking lot littered with broken glass and trash on the outskirts of Walton. When Frannie said hotel, she was being generous—very generous. The motel, if she could even call it that, more closely resembled the hacker motel from an Alfred Hitchcock movie. Half of the windows in the V-shaped, single-story building were boarded up. The pool might’ve once been an amenity, but now with its muddy water, cracked tile, and overgrown weeds, it looked more like a breeding hole of bacteria and disease. A chill skittered across her skin as she thought about Bethany inside one of the dimly lit rooms.
“Ryan, it’s Vivian. Please call me as soon as you get this message. It’s an emergency.”
Vivian ended the call and dropped her phone on the passenger seat. She searched for Frannie’s Honda. A row of dumpsters at the back of the parking lot was overflowing with stained mattresses, shredded chair cushions, and tube television sets that told Vivian this place was old.
Parked in the corner behind the rubbish was a silver Honda. Vivian pulled up next to it, and before she could turn off the engine, Frannie jumped out of her car, yanked open Vivian’s passenger’s-side door, and slid in.
“Thank you so much for coming.” Frannie’s voice trembled as she hugged Vivian tightly. “I didn’t know who else to call.”
“Are you sure Bethany’s inside there?”
“Mm-hmm.” Frannie nodded. “I went to her house to check on her and saw her walking down the street, so I followed her. At the corner she got into that car.”
Frannie pointed out a dark-colored sedan parked in front of one of the rooms with light barely peeking beneath the edges of a curtain. And just as Frannie had said, a silhouette of a person sat near the door, only the orange glow of a cigarette to indicate a face was hidden in the darkness.
“It felt like I was being a reporter. You know, trying to get to the truth. But when we got here”—Frannie’s scared gaze landed on the motel—“I freaked out. What are we going to do?”
“We’re going to call the police.” Vivian picked up her phone, but Frannie grabbed her hand.
“No, please. I don’t want Bethany to get into trouble.”
“Frannie, if Bethany’s in that dump, she’s already in trouble.” Vivian placed her free hand over Frannie’s. “What’s your gut tell you?”
“What?”
“When I’m running a lead on a story, I have to listen to my gut. If it tells me to keep pushing for answers, I do. When it tells me to look in this direction or that, I go with it. When it tells me there’s trouble, and I’m talking the kind that could hurt someone I care about . . . I have to decide if it’s worth it.”
Vivian couldn’t believe what she was saying. It wasn’t that long ago when gut instinct or not, she chased a story. Physical injury wasn’t common but threats were, and Vivian knew the difference between a warning given in the heat of the moment and a warning that promised imminent danger if she kept pushing. A year ago she would’ve crouched outside that hotel room trying to figure out what was happening, but something had changed. With Frannie next to her, Vivian knew whatever was taking place inside that room with Bethany didn’t require a reporter.
It required the police.
“Call Ryan.”
Frannie released Vivian’s hand, and she dialed Ryan’s number again, praying he would answer this time. She groaned when it went to voicemail again. What could he possibly be working on that he wouldn’t answer any of the ten calls she had placed in the last twenty minutes? An unsettling feeling tugged at her gut. Was Ryan working on the Watcher case? Without her? No. Ryan wasn’t like that. He knew how important Harold’s story was for her career—for her.
Vivian and Frannie jolted when a scream ripped through the night. The man once hiding in the shadow near the room stood.
“What’s happening?” Frannie whimpered.
“I-I don’t know.” Vivian licked her lips, trying to make sense of the movement happening outside the motel, but they were too far and it was too dark. “I’m going over there.”
“Wait, you said we should call the police.”
“And you are.” Vivian handed Frannie her phone. “Right now. Dial 911 and let them know where we are and that Bethany is in danger.”
Frannie’s blue eyes became glassy. “What about you?”
“I’ll be fine.” Vivian put as much courage into her voice as she could. “Stay here and keep talking to the police until they get here.”
“I don’t want to stay in here by myself.”
“Stay in the car, lock the doors, and call the police.”
Vivian reached across Frannie and opened up her glove box. She grabbed the small canister of pepper spray she hadn’t needed since moving from Washington, DC. Vivian closed her car door as quietly as she could and walked toward the hotel, hugging the tree line and hoping the shadows would keep her hidden from view.
Vivian paused next to an empty and boarded-up room. She could hear two men arguing. She risked a peek around the corner and caught a glimpse of the man still standing near the room Frannie had pointed out. It was too dark to see if he was part of the argument, but another scream followed by the sound of crying shoved Vivian out of hiding.
What am I doing? Vivian didn’t need Ryan’s warning to know she’d officially found trouble. She peeked at her car, praying Frannie was on the phone with the sheriff’s department and deputies were on their way. A shard of glass crunched beneath her shoe, drawing the glare of the man in front of her.
“What are you doing here?”
“I’m here to pick up my friend.” Vivian swallowed back the fear that was turning her knees into cooked spaghetti. “There’s been an emergency and she’s needed at home.”
The man stepped into the light of the one working bulb hanging overhead. Unfortunately, it flickered like it was ready to pitch them into darkness, making Vivian feel dizzy. “I doubt your friend is here.”
“She is.” Vivian stepped forward, trying to see around the man, but his bulk filled the space and made it impossible to see inside the room. “Bethany, it’s Vivian. I’m here to take you home.”
“What’s going on?”
Another man edged past the bigger one and in the shuffle, Vivian caught a glimpse of Bethany huddled on the bed. Her terrified eyes latched on to Vivian’s.
“Bethany, come out—”
“She’s not going anywhere until I get what I paid for,” the second man said. He was much smaller than the first guy. If it were only him, Vivian might stand a chance pushing by him, but with the two of them—she palmed the pepper spray—it would take a miracle.
“I don’t know what you paid for, but you’re not getting it from her. The police are already on their way. I’m giving you a chance to get out of here before you both end up in jail for a very long time.”
A smirk lifted the corners of the small man’s lips. The action distracted Vivian for what felt like a second, but in that time, the bigger man’s movement was so swift she barely registered the glint of the blade before it was on the side of her neck. Beefy arms crushed her torso, holding her still.
“Honey.” The small man breathed on her. “Someone is going to give me what I paid for.”
Fear ripped through Vivian at the sound of Frannie’s voice calling out to her. What was she doing outside the car?
“A three-for-one deal.”
The small man snarled. He started for her and Vivian stuck out her foot. He tripped and the big man loosened his grip enough that Vivian lifted her hand and nailed him in the face with a burst of pepper spray.
“Run, Frannie!”
The small man reared back, cursing. He charged Frannie, but Vivian was closer and jumped between them. The momentum sent their bodies crashing into Frannie. The sound of her skull smacking against the concrete silenced her yelp.