Chapter
twenty-four
An explosion from the adjoining room caused Britt to jerk upright.
Immediately, she heard shouting. Scuffling. Then gunfire.
Her heart rate bolted into a sprint. What had happened?
She levered her feet underneath her and pushed herself to standing.
Urgent male voices. More thudding.
Tom slid inside the room where she was being held and closed the door. He strode toward her, face grim.
Whatever was going down in the next room—it couldn’t be good for Tom. He might even have decided to free her to use her as a shield.
She had no intention of serving as his shield.
The second he released her, he’d doubtless try to grab her. Then what? Force her cooperation by pointing a gun at her?
The clamor in the next room continued as Tom lifted a pair of cutters to the restraint binding her wrists.
The instant her wrists sprang apart, Britt lunged away from him. She’d been assessing the rusty metal bar lying on the room’s floor since they’d caged her here. She lifted it now.
He came at her fast. She swung the bar with all her might. He jerked out of its path and continued to advance. She swung again. Again. Without success. The heaviness of the metal sucked the strength from her arms. She gathered her energy and sliced the bar through the air—
He caught it in midair and attempted to yank it from her.
Her fingers clenched the bar, fighting to hold on.
Tom gave a mighty pull. Metal scraped her palms as Tom wrenched it from her and tossed it aside. It landed with a terrible clatter.
He made a swipe for her. She dodged just beyond his reach. Angrily, he thrust a hand inside his suit jacket—
The door banged open, and a SWAT officer filled the opening. His vision and his gun’s sight swerved past Britt before stopping on Tom. “Freeze.”
Time seemed to spin as Britt and the officer waited for Tom’s response.
“Hands where I can see them,” the officer said, approaching. A second officer followed him in. Then a third.
Gradually, Tom lifted his palms.
Two of the officers descended on him. The third made his way to Britt. “Ms. Bradford? Are you all right?”
He wore so much gear—helmet, loaded vest, arm guards—that he almost looked like RoboCop. However, his eyes were kind.
“I’m fine.” Her voice sounded sturdier than she felt. The visual evidence was telling her that she might be safe. But her adrenaline wasn’t buying it. Streams of it coursed through her, making her feel faint and like she could swim the English Channel and shaky and hyper alert all at the same time.
Through the door, she saw the debris of the exchange between Tom’s men and the officers. Overturned chairs. Strewn papers. A man’s arm, lying motionless against the floor at an unnatural angle—
Her attention skittered from that sight, rising to observe more SWAT team members entering the space.
“Right this way, Ms. Bradford,” the one with the kind eyes said.
He took a gentle hold of her elbow and steered her forward.
“Have you found the painting?” she asked.
The officer tapped the rectangular crate as they passed. “I believe this is it, right here.”
“You’ll . . . make sure it’s in there?”
“We’ll make sure.”
They progressed down a hallway, a foyer.
She’d been saved. Freed.
People were talking. Sounds were swirling around her. Yet it felt strangely as though she had cotton in her ears . . . as if she were floating through a loud movie of a crime scene inside a bubble of drastically subdued sound.
“Britt?”
The spell altered just enough to allow her to distinguish her name.
“I’m Detective Kurt Shaw.”
He was tall and bald. “Nice to meet you,” she replied automatically.
“Are you okay?”
“Yes.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes. I’m fine.”
“Good.” His astute gaze ran over her. “Looks like your wrists are injured.”
Surprised, she noticed that he was right. In addition to the scratches on her palms from the pipe, the tie had chafed her skin in places until it bled. “It’s—” She found she needed to swallow. “It’s just scrapes. I was trying to tug my wrists free.”
“All right. We’ll get that taken care of outside.” He made a mannerly gesture for her to go through the doors ahead of him. They emptied into a crowded parking lot.
“Zander helped us find you,” Kurt said.
Her chest throbbed at the mention of Zander’s name.
“He’s here,” Kurt continued. “Would you like to see him before we have someone look at those wrists?”
Squad cars jammed the lot. A van. An ambulance.
Numerous people were going about their professional duties, yet she had the sense that they were all also cataloguing her appearance. She was their . . . kidnap victim.
She was exactly who she’d always been, just more than a little shaken up. The idea that these people saw her as something different—kidnap victim—was an odd revelation to absorb. So odd, she felt the bubble rising around her again.
To these people, she was like the daughter in the movie Taken. Which tempted her to grab a megaphone and make an announcement. I’m perfectly fine, everyone! No harm done.
“He’s just there.” Kurt pointed. “I’ll come get you in a minute.”
Britt glanced in the direction he’d indicated and saw Zander, standing as still as a tree in the middle of a swarming army. He was watching her, red and blue lights revolving behind him. Slowly, she walked forward.
His feet were braced apart. His arms hung by his sides, his knuckles angry red. He wore the black T-shirt and worn jeans he’d had on earlier. Furrows marked his inky hair. His fair skin was whiter than usual, which caused the bruise that ran beneath one eye and across his cheekbone to stand out starkly in contrast.
He had the look of a vase that had been fractured but hadn’t yet broken apart.
It had been a very bad day for them both.
When she reached him, he enveloped her in his arms. Her head notched into its place just beneath his chin, her ear pressed to his heart. He rested his jaw against the top of her head.
They were circled by benevolent, heroic strangers who’d successfully rescued her and reclaimed Young Woman at Rest. However, he was the only person here who knew her. And he was wondrously familiar.
The luxurious scent of his cologne soothed her. His body heat warmed her. His arms communicated physical power and emotional commitment.
Neither of them spoke. And neither let go.
She remained exactly where she was, holding him tightly. Bit by bit, the volume of their environment rose back to its proper level.
Her emotions billowed, pressing outward against the inside of her skin, making her feel as if she were on the verge of sobbing . . . which she didn’t understand. She and Zander were both fine. She should be nothing but happy in this moment. She was happy. It’s just that she wasn’t only happy.
She was also angry at Tom and his men. Horrified that she hadn’t been able to do more to defend herself or to escape. Ashamed and relieved and anxious simultaneously. Most of all, she felt helpless. Today’s events had stripped her sense of security from her. So much so, that she wanted to dissolve against Zander.
Except that if she lost control of herself now, she worried that it might be very ugly and very public. She could not weep in front of all these spectators. Or Zander, even.
She cherished him. Her heart was steely toward many things, but the section of it that belonged to him had gone alarmingly tender.
Back when she’d been ten years old and had burned her inner wrist, accepting her mom’s comfort had seemed to Britt like a liability. In this situation, loving Zander seemed like a liability, too. Best to keep the partition between them a little while longer. Until she had her feet back underneath her, she needed a sliver of distance.
She adjusted her position so that she could study his battered face. “You’re going to have a black eye.”
He regarded her gravely. “Your hands are bloody.”
“You have a bruise on your cheek.”
“The hem of your shirt is ripped.”
“Your knuckles are a mess.”
“Your hair is one big tangle.”
At that, her lips quirked into a curve.
“I was worried,” he said.
A simple sentence. Yet she comprehended its weight. He didn’t want to burden her by saying more, because he probably felt that he’d gotten off lighter than she had today. I was worried was an understatement the way pail of water was an understatement for ocean.
“I was worried about you, too.”
“I wish I’d told you as soon as I unlocked Frank’s phone.”
“What was the passcode?”
Dark lashes accentuated his slightly bloodshot midnight blue eyes. “Love.”
“Ah.”
“I also wish I’d never gone to Olympia,” he continued. “The FBI told me they were coming. I should have waited.”
She might be jumbled at the moment, but she was too fair to let him think this was his fault. “I wish I hadn’t chased you to Olympia without thinking through all the possibilities. I ended up bringing Tom down on us. I’m really sorry.”
“I’m sorry that I mixed you up in this. Britt, I would never want to hurt you—”
“I know.”
Tension lined his brow as he took in the contours of her face. “What did they do to you?”
“They put a hood over my head and drove me here. Then they secured my wrists behind a pipe and left me alone in a grimy room.” And I thought they might kill me, and I thought they might have killed you. “That’s all.”
He waited for her to elaborate, but she didn’t want to talk about it more.
“That’s all,” she repeated.
“Are you all right?”
“I am.”
Again, he waited. “Britt.”
“I’m all right, and I need for you to believe that I’m all right so that I can go on being all right.” Her voice betrayed her by trembling a bit.
Understanding tinged his face. “You can tell me whatever you need to.”
“I know. But I don’t need to tell you anything more at this particular moment.”
“Okay.” He lifted first one of her wrists, then the other. His jaw turned brutally grim—
“Excuse me,” Kurt called. “If you’re ready, Ms. Bradford, the paramedics can check you out.”
She and Zander walked to the ambulance. Britt sat on the vehicle’s open bumper while the paramedics checked her vitals and tended to her wrists. She asked Zander question after question about the things that had happened to him after she’d left The Residences, until she understood how the SWAT team had found her.
Minutes later, they sat in the back seat of Kurt’s SUV on their way to the Merryweather Police Station to give their statements.
“Do you want to call your parents or do you want me to do it?” Zander asked.
She didn’t want to do anything. She only wanted to sit, allowing this car to carry her along, watching the scenery blur by. Her limbs had become as heavy as lead.
However, if Zander called her parents on her behalf, then her family would be even more upset than they were already going to be. “I’ll call. Do you have your phone?”
“No, they took it from me.”
“They took mine, too.”
“You can use mine.” Kurt passed his cell phone back.
She dialed her dad, the more even-keeled of her parents. Using a this-is-no-big-deal tone, she recounted everything that had happened.
Her dad informed her that he and Mom would meet her at the station and that she’d spend the night with them. She attempted to protest, but he quickly overruled her, and she didn’t have the energy to argue.
She returned the phone to Kurt.
Zander interlaced his fingers with hers and placed their joined hands on his thigh. The back of his head rested against the seat. His attention slid to her, and he squeezed her fingers.
Once again, her thin defenses began to splinter—
Stop it, Britt. Keep it together.
Tipping her temple against the cool window, she returned her gaze to the world beyond.
Britt glanced at the clock positioned on the bedside table of her room at Bradfordwood. 5:14 a.m. Dawn.
She flicked her focus to the night-light plugged into her bathroom counter’s backsplash. When she’d been small, a night-light that depicted a cow jumping over the moon had occupied that spot. After that, a dog night-light. After that, a chocolate cake night-light. After that, this simple and classy adult model.
She’d outgrown the need of a night-light long ago. She didn’t sleep with one at home. Yet during all the awake hours sandwiched in between the lousy three and half hours of sleep she’d managed during the night, she’d focused on the night-light while her mind rampaged.
The illumination it gave should have been reassuring. It was steady and warm and it saved her from coal black darkness. She kept waiting to experience its reassurance. But so far, she hadn’t.
After her parents had brought her here from the police station last night, they’d offered to make her a big dinner. She hadn’t been up for it. Instead, she’d parked herself in front of the TV. Eventually, her dad had delivered a dinner of her childhood comfort foods on a TV tray—peanut butter and jelly sandwich, carrots, Cheetos.
After that, her sisters had stopped by and everyone had clucked over her and given her fretful looks, which she’d loathed. Claiming tiredness, she’d excused herself as early as possible and retreated here, to her old bedroom, to hide. She’d talked on the phone with Zander, who hadn’t pressured her to spill her guts, which she’d appreciated. Even so, the sound of his voice had caused tears to rush to her eyes, so she’d kept it brief.
Sleep had seemed like the antidote for the exhaustion weighting her body, so she’d showered, changed into the pair of pajamas her mom had loaned her, and crawled beneath the covers. The more she’d strained for relaxation, however, the less her muscles had wanted to loosen. The more she’d tried to fill her mind with peaceful thoughts, the more it had fixated on the moments when Tom’s men had wrestled her into their car.
A quiet sound drew Britt’s attention to the hallway door. It slid open a few feet, revealing a feminine silhouette. Her mom, checking on her.
“I’m awake,” Britt said.
“Rough night’s sleep?”
“Sadly, yes. You too?”
“Sadly, yes. It’s early. You should try to get more sleep.”
“Nah.” Britt scooted up so that she was sitting against the pillows propped against the antique metal headboard. “I’d rather start the day now than lie here trying to sleep.”
Mom neared and clicked on the lamp next to the clock.
“First the kayaking accident and now this.” Britt squinted as her eyes adjusted. “I’ve decided to avoid death-defying situations for a while.”
“That’s a resolution I can fully support.” Mom, wearing a white fleece robe, lowered herself to the edge of the mattress near Britt’s legs. “How long do you think your decision to avoid death-defying situations will last? I’d like to pace myself.” Her quick smile transformed her face.
“I think I might be able to make it a whole month,” Britt teased.
“A whole month?” Mom asked wryly. “As long as that?”
“As long as that.”
Mom liked to pull her strawberry blond hair into a topknot for sleep. The style was very similar to the style Britt favored when making chocolate. Mom’s hair was shorter, though, so several strands had come undone to glide around her ears and neck. “I can’t stop thinking about what happened to you yesterday.”
“Me neither. I want to feel like myself again.” The prospect of feeling this unsettled for days? Intolerable.
“Yesterday was really, really scary, Britt. I’m afraid it might take some time for you to feel like yourself again.”
“I hope not.”
Mom’s brown eyes seemed to see right down into the hidden valleys of Britt’s personality. “You’ve never been a complainer.”
“No.”
“I mean, when you were a teenager, you’d complain about what was being served for dinner or Dad’s driving or the temperature inside the house.”
“Don’t forget that terrible radio station you used to play. I complained about that.”
“But you never complained about the really hard things.”
“It’s just . . . not my way.”
“I get that. We both love our independence, you and I. And yet, there were times . . . there are times . . . when I worry that you don’t feel you have the right to saddle us with the difficult stuff because of our family dynamics or our history or both.”
“You want me to saddle you with the difficult stuff?”
“Of course I do.” Compassion infused every word. “If it would help.”
“You’ve all endured more than I have.”
“No one in our family is keeping score to determine who’s endured the most or least. You know that, right? We’re not in competition with one another.”
“I know that in theory. But I’d feel like an idiot if I melted into a puddle in front of you guys simply because I was placed in a room by myself for a few hours and got some scrapes on my hands.”
“Every person in this family is going to need support occasionally. Even you.”
Skepticism pushed upward within her, but her mom leveled an adamant I’m-right-about-this face at Britt, so there was no point in disagreeing.
“Even you,” Mom insisted.
Britt considered the beloved angles of her mom’s cheekbones, chin, and forehead. Kathleen Bradford hadn’t sailed through life on calm seas only. She’d faced her share of storms and lived to tell the tale. “How did you survive your dad’s death?” Britt asked. She genuinely wanted to know. Her mom had only been seven when the small plane her dad had been piloting crashed.
“I survived because I let God carry me through it.” She smoothed the long ends of her robe’s belt. “Here’s what I know for sure: You can rely on Him in the hard as well as in the easy. If He leads you into something hard, then He’ll provide the grace you need to bear up under it.”
That sounded wildly oversimplified. And at the same time, beyond reach, because Britt had no idea how to actually apply that advice to herself. How could she let God carry her?
Dad strode into the bedroom, the handles of two mugs clasped in one hand, the handle of a third in his other hand. “Morning, sweetheart.”
“Not you, too,” Britt said to him. “Couldn’t sleep?”
“Nope. You’re a grown-up, even though I want you to know that I—”
“Never gave your permission for that to happen.”
“Exactly. Like it or not, you’ll always be my little girl.” He extended one of the mugs.
She accepted it from him. Coffee, hot and fragrant. “Thank you.”
He passed the next mug to her mom, then went to the window and parted the curtains. Beyond, black trees formed a lacework pattern against a brightening lavender sky.
“We’ll make you breakfast,” Mom said.
“Yes! Buttermilk pancakes.” Dad looked so excited at the chance to make her favorite that she didn’t have the heart to tell them she wasn’t hungry. In truth, she was anti-hungry. The thought of food made her nauseous.
“I’ll stay home, and you and I can take the boat out,” Dad said. “Or watch movies. Or read. We’ll spend the day relaxing.”
“Thanks, but I’m going to go to work today.”
Mom frowned. “It might be smart to take a day or two to recover.”
“Except that I hardly got any work done yesterday, and the chocolate isn’t going to make itself.”
“You always make sure you have enough inventory,” Dad said. “You can afford to take a few personal days.”
“I can, but I want to go in.” Work would keep her hands—and hopefully her brain—occupied. She craved that. “My kitchen is more tranquil than a spa.”
They regarded her doubtfully. She could read their tiredness and concern. Yet overlaying those things was clear evidence of their serenity. They were worried about her, yes. But they felt normal. They felt like themselves. They weren’t about to jump out of their skins, like she was. Thus, they couldn’t fully understand.
“Well . . . if you’re sure,” Dad said.
“I’m sure.” Britt spoke with a certainty she did not feel.
Letter Frank left for Carolyn in the apartment at The Residences:
Carolyn,
If you’re reading this, it probably means that I’m dead. It definitely means that you’ve found the painting.
I want to explain.
Even as I write these words, I’m aware that my secrets are unexplainable and unpardonable. Still, I want to make sure that you know a few important things.
1) I was one of the three thieves involved in the Triple Play. Young Woman at Rest by Renoir is my share of the heist.
2) My real name is James Richard Ross. I decided to use an alias back when I was casing the Pascal Museum. Which is why, when I met you, I introduced myself as Frank Pierce.
3) I didn’t intend to fall in love the summer we met. But after just a few conversations with you, I was sunk. When I began to fall in love with you, I considered calling off my involvement in the heist. I wish I had. Back then, I didn’t know whether you’d ever come to feel for me what I felt for you. Also, at that point, I was deeply involved in the planning of the heist, and the others were counting on me. I told myself I couldn’t let them down.
4) I was shot in the leg by a security guard as I ran from the Pascal. For two weeks I waited to return to you while I recuperated. That entire time, you were the only thing on my mind. I was motivated to get better for one reason and one reason only. You.
5) Leading up to the heist, I was prepared to sell the Renoir. But afterward . . . after you . . . everything I thought I wanted and thought I’d do shifted. I no longer wanted to do the dishonorable thing and sell the painting for my own profit. So I kept it.
6) Many times over the years I decided to return Young Woman at Rest to the Pascal. I laid the groundwork to do just that. But each time, just as I was about to take action, stress would eat away at me, and I’d second-guess myself. I was terrified that I’d get caught. I’ve always been terrified of that. If the police had found a way to trace the painting back to me, then the truth would’ve come out. I’d have been hauled away, which I deserved. You, Courtney, and Sarah would have been devastated, which you didn’t deserve.
7) After a time, I came to view the painting as an insurance policy. It’s by far the most expensive thing I’ve ever had. After our girls were born and the weight of responsibility became heavier, I couldn’t force myself to let go of the security the painting represented. What if you or our girls got sick and I had to pay medical bills? What if our house burned down? What if something happened to me that made it impossible for me to support you?
If there’d come a time when I needed to sell the painting to rescue you, or our girls, I would have sold it in a minute. I’d have had to lie to you about the origin of the money. But I’d have done it.
There are many important things in this life, but none as important to me as our family.
Now that you understand these things about me, I’m scared as I sit here . . . thinking about how you might feel. I know you’ll feel betrayed by my lies. I need you to understand that I kept this secret because I wasn’t brave enough to risk losing your love.
I’m afraid you’ll wonder how much of our life together was true. The answer: All of it was true. I kept a painting and my past life hidden. But every day of our marriage has been real. Every time I told you I loved you, I was telling the honest truth.
My early years were fighting and struggle. My years with you have been peace and joy. If I had a whole book to fill, I could never tell you all the ways you gave hope to a hopeless, good-for-nothing man.
I love you. I love our girls.
Please forgive me for my mistakes. Please forgive me for stealing what did not belong to me and for remaining silent about things I should have spoken.
You gave me a life, Carolyn. A real, full life, complete with everything I could have asked for. We didn’t have the money the painting could have brought us, which was fine with me because I knew that, between us, we had something far more valuable.
If I’m gone, please know that I’m grateful for every hour I had with you. I received beyond what I ever should have received, and I know how lucky I am.
I love you very much.
Frank