Friday night, as Cara snuggled into the corner of the couch, she was once again grateful she was back on research duty. Nothing beat wearing her flannel hedgehog pajamas and an oversize hoodie to work. Balancing her laptop on her thighs, she twisted around to grab Abbott’s file from the end table.
She’d been through the slim file over a dozen times, but she was determined to find a lead. There had to be a detail she’d missed that would be helpful in tracking him. “Geoffrey Princeton Abbott,” she muttered to herself. “Wow. Could that name be more pretentious?” She scanned the familiar details. Forty-four years old, no known children, no known current girlfriend or boyfriend, father dead, mother estranged and living in Portugal. Tipping her head back, she stared at the ceiling. The file was a dead end. She needed a new source of information.
Kavenski immediately popped into her head, but she promptly shoved that thought away. She needed to let that skip go.
Her phone beeped with a text, and she grabbed it from the back of the couch to see that Molly, who’d been shadowing Abbott all afternoon, had followed her quarry to Dutch’s. Molly was parked and watching the bar, waiting for him to leave.
Cara frowned, guilt prickling at her. She hated the thought of Molly being there on her own, with no Henry Kavenski to save her if necessary. She should’ve told her sister about the possible danger. Even though Cara was ninety-nine percent sure there hadn’t been an intentional attempt on her life, she still felt like she’d sent Molly out on her own without giving her the full story.
Resolving to tell her sister about the near hit-and-run once Molly returned, Cara sent a quick text acknowledgment and set her phone on the back of the couch. She flipped through the rest of Abbott’s file, frowning. She’d been over and over it, and it still read as more of an inspirational life story than a criminal’s background. If anything, it was suspicious because of its total squeaky-clean perfection.
Geoffrey Abbott had grown up in Denver and Aspen and had gone to expensive private schools. After graduating from the University of Colorado in Boulder, he’d snowboarded professionally for a few years before retiring at age twenty-six. He’d bought a high-end hotel in Aspen soon after that, and split his time between a loft in LoDo—Lower Downtown Denver—and his resort. He’d never married, just dated occasionally, and—on paper at least—was the very model of a hard-working businessperson.
The only red flag in the file—besides skipping out on bail—was that the FBI had investigated him, which resulted in the tax-evasion charge. According to Cara’s information, there wasn’t anything that had triggered the federal investigation, which made her wonder how much dirt she’d missed. She started reading through all of the data again, needing it fresh in her mind before she started digging deeper.
“Huh,” she said out loud just as Norah was coming down the stairs. Warrant followed, his tail swishing happily from side to side as he jumped up onto the couch and curled into a large, fluffy ball that covered Cara’s toes—and the rest of the couch.
“Did you find something?” Norah’s voice was hopeful. Cara knew her sister had been trying to track down any warrants on the infamous Layla, which had to be frustrating.
“Maybe,” Cara said absently as she looked up at her sister. “How’s progress?”
Norah made a face. “I wasn’t getting anywhere, so I’ve given up on that avenue of investigation until we can get a last name—and spelling—for Layla. Any chance your new source knows more about her?”
“I’m sure he does, but I don’t know how to get ahold of him until he pops out of a bush in front of me. He’s changed motels again, and I never got his phone number.” I wish, a small part of her brain whispered, but the rest of her quickly shushed that wistful voice. When Norah’s face fell with obvious disappointment, Cara hurried to add, “I promise I’ll ask if I stumble over him in the shrubbery.”
“Thanks.” Norah perched on the sofa arm and peered at the contents of the file over Cara’s shoulder. “What were you huh-ing about a minute ago?”
“This.” Cara tapped the line of text she’d just been looking at. “St. Thomas More Academy in Colorado Springs. Abbott spent part of his junior and all of his senior year there. Isn’t that basically the rich-kid alternative to juvie?” As she asked the question, she handed the file to Norah so she could open her laptop.
“I believe so. Wasn’t that the place where one of the students died of heat exhaustion?” Norah asked, leaning closer to see the laptop screen. The school’s website wasn’t much help, except to confirm that it was a military-style private school with a strong emphasis on discipline. Cara returned to her general search and found a number of news articles detailing the incident that Norah had mentioned.
“That’s the place,” Cara said as she continued scanning the Colorado Springs Gazette article. A fifteen-year-old boy died during a group ten-mile run. There was a police investigation, but no one had been found to be at fault. Switching over to the file again, Cara noted the name of his previous school. “He was in Aspen at the Anchor Academy until February of his junior year. Guess I’m going to be checking the police blotter for crimes committed by minors right around that time.”
“Good plan.” Norah made a face as she pushed herself back to her feet. “I wish I could help.”
That made Cara focus on her sister with her full attention. “You look nice. Are you going out?” She felt bad that the question came out sounding so incredulous, but Norah never wanted to go out or do anything social.
“Yes.” Norah scrunched up her face again. “Dwayne’s completed his parole, so he was able to leave California. He wants to meet for dinner.”
“Oh! I didn’t know POS was in town. Will he be stopping by here to pick you up?” Cara often forgot that Norah’s dad was still alive, since he was usually serving time or on parole. She would never say it out loud, but Cara didn’t think it was fair that Dwayne was still alive and kicking, while her and Charlie’s dad, Victor Chavis, had died when the twins were only two. Cara couldn’t really remember her biological dad, except for brief, blurry flashes that she worried might just be imagination, but according to everyone who had known him, Victor had basically been an angel living on earth. Dwayne, on the other hand, proudly went by the well-earned nickname POS.
“No, I’m meeting him at that family buffet place in Langston,” Norah answered, and Cara tried to shove away any lingering pangs of grief and anger at the unfairness of life. “Mom still has that protection order out on him, so he can’t come to the house.” Norah’s voice was pragmatic.
“Poor Norah.” Cara couldn’t keep the sympathetic amusement out of her voice, especially after her sister made an exaggerated yuck face. “You have to hang out with POS at a restaurant with a sneeze guard?”
“It’s okay.” Norah pulled a long sweater on over her tunic and leggings. “He’ll get arrested again soon enough, so I only need to suffer through this every three to five years.”
That made Cara laugh out loud. “That’s a very healthy attitude.”
Norah shrugged as she headed for the door. “It’s been like this my whole life, so I’ve had twenty-three years to get used to it.”
“Well, tell POS I said hi.”
“I will. Text me if you find out anything interesting.” Norah had opened the door, but she wasn’t leaving. From the longing in her expression, Cara knew that she was dying to dig in and do some research, rather than eating wilted iceberg lettuce and lukewarm canned corn at the buffet. Knowing POS as they did, Norah would end up paying.
“You know it. Do you have some money?”
Norah nodded as she patted her pocket. “Mind if I take your car?”
“Of course not.” Cara held up one hedgehog-covered leg. “As you can see, I’m not planning on going anywhere tonight, except maybe to the kitchen to get me and Warrant a snack.” At his name—or possibly at the word snack—Warrant thumped his tail a few times. “Have as much fun as you can. Hopefully, your visit will be quick and painless, like pulling out a splinter.”
From Norah’s expression, she wasn’t holding out much hope of that. “Thanks,” she said a little hollowly. She finally left, calling out just before she pulled the door shut, “Turn the alarm on.”
“Right.” The rule was that the alarm was always on at night, if the house was empty, or if only one person was home. Putting her laptop and the file on the coffee table, Cara pulled her toes out from underneath Warrant and moved over to the alarm controls. Setting one to Occupied, she moved to lock the two dead bolts securing the front door.
Once she was fully alarmed and locked inside, she looked over at the dog, who’d stretched out to cover the entire couch. “Since I’m up, I might as well get some research snacks, right?”
Warrant’s tail thumped against the cushion again, making Cara more certain that he’d learned the word snacks. It made sense. Snacks were his very favorite thing in the world.
She made some microwave popcorn and filled her water bottle before returning to claim her spot. It took some battling with Warrant, but she finally wedged her way back into her corner on the couch. Grabbing a handful of popcorn, she flipped up her laptop screen. “All right, Warrant. Let’s see what Geoffrey-with-a-G did to get shipped off to military school.”
Pulling up the Aspen Times police blotter, she quickly found that the paper’s archives didn’t go back far enough for her needs.
“Guess we’re doing this the hard way.” Cara typed in the year Abbott had transferred, along with Anchor Academy and Aspen. When hundreds of thousands of search results came back, she tried adding various other words, including arrested, theft, and—feeling especially morbid—murdered. Nothing incriminating popped up. She scrolled through the disappointing results with one hand while popping a few popcorn kernels into her mouth with the other. Deleting murdered, she tried adding died to the other keywords in the search bar and hit Enter.
“That’s it,” she murmured, clicking on the second result listed. It was an old newspaper article about the memorial service for an Anchor Academy student, Doug Lear. In late January, just a few weeks before Abbott had transferred schools, Lear had died of alcohol poisoning. Two students, one male and one female, had been questioned by the police about their involvement, but only the male student had been charged with hazing and expelled.
The doorbell rang, and Cara groaned. “Please go away,” she said under her breath, dropping a forgotten handful of popcorn kernels back in the bowl. In response, the doorbell rang again. Warrant lifted his head and gave her a pained look. “Normal dogs would bark a warning at visitors—especially unwanted ones.” When Warrant just stared at her with liquid eyes and his ears pressed back, she sighed.
The bell rang for the third time, and he slunk off the couch and up the stairs. She assumed he was going to jam himself under Molly’s bed, the place he usually hid during thunderstorms and July Fourth fireworks. The doorbell pealed again, making her swear. She huffed, carefully placing her popcorn, computer, and water bottle down.
She didn’t want to answer, didn’t want to deal with anyone rude enough to show up at someone’s house at seven thirty in the evening without being asked—not to mention someone who repeatedly rang the doorbell, hurting poor Warrant’s ears, rather than taking the hint and leaving. Only the thought that it might be someone needing help was enough to leverage Cara off the couch. She stomped to the door and peered through the peephole. The person she saw on the porch just enraged her more.
“Go away, Stuart!” she called through the door, leaving the alarm and dead bolts engaged. There was no way in heck she was going to open the door for Stuart Powers.
“I have to talk to you!” Stuart shouted back, louder than he needed to be heard through the door.
Cara winced. All the neighbors had to be listening to this. The Pax sisters were already the pariahs of the neighborhood, so this would be one of many, many transgressions for the neighborhood association to gossip over. “Go away, Stuart! I’m not going to talk to you!”
“I’m not leaving until we talk!” He rang the doorbell several times in a row, and Cara shot a worried look toward the ceiling, hoping that Warrant wasn’t freaking out too much.
“I’m calling the cops, then!” She made a face as she shouted the threat. She really didn’t want to have to call the police. Although most local law-enforcement officers would handle the situation well, there were a few—especially a certain detective—who would take pleasure in making everything a thousand times worse. The way her luck was going, she was almost certain to have Detective Mill show up at her door. Ever since Molly and John had gotten his crooked partner arrested, Mill had been keeping an uncomfortably close eye on all the Paxes. He’d jump at the opportunity to take this call.
Stuart laughed loudly as if he could read her thoughts. “Do it! They’d love to get another chance to look around Jane Pax’s house!”
Swallowing a groan, Cara squeezed her eyes closed and tried to think. Molly would rush home if she knew what was happening, but Cara didn’t want her sister to have to deal with Stuart, either. Charlie and Felicity—both of whom would’ve had a ball tossing Stuart into the street—were chasing after Jane. John Carmondy would’ve been her next choice, but he was out of town, too.
“Ugh,” she muttered as softly as possible. “Now would be a good time to jump out of the bushes, Kavenski!” Since the doorbell continued to chime, she assumed he hadn’t heard her almost-silent call for help. She decided to just wait Stuart out, pressing her hands over her ears when the constant dinging of the doorbell grew insanity-inducing. Her head was starting to throb, and she knew that poor Warrant had to be in the middle of a doggie meltdown.
Finally, she couldn’t stand it any longer. “I’ll take my chances with the cops.” Pivoting toward her phone, she started to take one step and then froze. A guy dressed all in black—from his knit face mask to his military-style boots—stood just a few feet away. He jerked to a stop, obviously not expecting her movement, and they stared at each other. Her first oddly calm thought was that their new alarm system had betrayed her, and she flicked the quickest of glances toward the alarm controls. The screen was blank and lifeless. The intruder must’ve disabled the security system.
Quit obsessing about the alarm and move! her brain screamed, breaking her paralysis, and her legs obeyed. She dove sideways, toward her phone, and yelled to the idiot who was still poking rhythmically at the doorbell. “Stuart! Call the cops! Someone’s in my house!”
The chiming paused but then picked up tempo, and she knew that either Stuart was the most evil little woodchuck in Colorado, or he was in on this—whatever this was.
She’d almost made it to the coffee table, her hand extended toward her phone, when a burly arm wrapped around her middle, jerking her back before her fingers could close around the device. Her heart pounded so loudly in her ears that she could barely hear the doorbell. Cara started screaming, the tiny, practical part of her brain that wasn’t blind with panic hoping for once that her nosy and judgmental neighbors were listening. Anything to bring the cops to the house to help.
Cara was yanked back, her spine pressed tightly against the intruder’s chest, surprise stealing her breath for a moment. Her elbow automatically swung back, and her assailant’s breath was driven out in an audible whoosh. Desperately trying to remember her training, Cara stomped on the foot behind her, cursing her stocking feet as her heel came down on the hard surface of a steel-toed boot. The arm around her middle tightened again, and Cara twisted, trying to turn enough to aim a heel strike at the intruder’s nose, but he anticipated her next move and dodged the blow. The side of her hand glanced off his knit-covered cheek, the miss sending her off-balance.
Her body rocked to the side, but she didn’t wait to regain her footing before kicking out again, hoping to hit his knees. Her sole slammed against his shin, but it wasn’t hard enough to make him release his grip. Balling her hand into a fist, she let it fly in a backswing toward the side of his face. Before it could connect, he lurched forward, taking both of them to the floor.
This is bad! She grimaced with effort as she fought to get out from underneath him, but wrestling had always been her weakest point in the basic self-defense training Felicity had given them. Now, with panic swamping her brain and keeping her from remembering the techniques she’d been taught, Cara was reduced to ineffective squirming and glancing backward blows that only managed to tire her out.
She sucked in a breath, prepared to start screaming again, when something pricked the side of her neck. Her head swung back, and the back of her skull connected with his face. She felt a fierce sense of satisfaction as she heard a male voice start nasally swearing. She desperately hoped she’d broken his nose.
When he reared back after she head-butted him, she struggled frantically, using her breath to fight rather than scream, but her arms grew heavy and the living room was already getting wobbly around the edges.
Darkness crept in from the sides of her vision, and she prayed that she wasn’t dying. She tried screaming again, but her lungs were having trouble getting enough air through her vocal cords, and her yell turned into a pathetic whimper.
Her phone chimed from the coffee table, and she renewed her struggles, hating that she was so close to a rescue and yet it was impossible. There was no way to get to her phone, and she wasn’t even able to scream. Not even the nosiest neighbor would hear her cries for help over the constant dinging of the doorbell.
As the darkness edged in, she gradually stopped fighting, her limbs turning leaden and uncooperative.
All she could manage was a final mutter. “I’m…going to…kill you, Stuart.” Then everything went dark.