I’d learned two very important lessons having a sister for a cop. One, you can find almost anyone on the internet. And two, you’re more likely to get caught committing crimes in your own home than in plain sight.
Which was why I was committing mine in my local public library.
The kids were with Steven for the weekend, and Vero was home studying for her midterm accounting exams. I hadn’t exactly been lying when I’d told her I was going to the library to do research for the book. How else was I going to know what happened in the next chapter of the mystery surrounding the Micklers if I couldn’t figure out where Patricia went?
I claimed a seat at the last workstation in the back of the room and opened a browser. Then I typed in Patricia’s name, scouring social media sites and white pages for any information I could find about her: neighborhoods where she used to live, people she was close with, places she frequented … In less than an hour I was yawning, and not one step closer to finding her. Patricia Mickler’s life made mine look glamorous by comparison. With the exception of her office, the animal shelter where she volunteered, and the weekly Pilates class she’d mentioned, it seemed she rarely left the house. Apparently, she had even fewer friends than I did.
Patricia’s online profile featured more animals than people, the only exception being a photo of some shelter volunteers, taken at an adoption event the month prior. Patricia, clearly the oldest of the group, cuddled a white-faced mutt with a patch of black fur covering one eye. The caption said the dog’s name was Pirate, and Aaron—the young, curly-haired volunteer beside her—held the dog’s littermate, Molly.
I clicked over to her friends list, searching for the faces of the volunteers in the photo, but didn’t find any matches. Patricia didn’t appear to connect with them beyond the time she spent at the shelter. I guess I shouldn’t have been surprised; the other volunteers were all young, probably in college, and Patricia, betrayed by the smile lines and shadows around her eyes, stuck out from the fresh-faced group like a sore thumb. Maybe this was the reason she chose to compartmentalize that part of her life. Still, she looked younger in the photo than the weary, defeated woman I’d met in the Panera. Happier and more at ease somehow. As if this place were her home, and these animals were her family.
According to public records, Patricia had been an only child and her parents were deceased. From her social media pages, I knew she and Harris had met in college at the McDonough School of Business at Georgetown, which meant she’d lived within a four-mile radius of the DC beltway her entire life. I couldn’t see her cashing out and leaving town to start over someplace else alone. She seemed far too timid for a bold move like that. Maybe she was just confused and scared, holed up in a hotel room, too terrified to face what she’d done. Or too afraid of the men Harris had been tangled up with.
Wherever she was, if she didn’t come out of hiding soon, the police were going to find her. And they were going to ask her questions. And those questions would inevitably lead them to me. She’d paid me for a job. And I’d told her I had done it. As far as the police were concerned, it would seem like an open-and-shut case. My only hope was to find her first and explain to her what had happened. That I hadn’t been the one to kill her husband. Maybe, together, we could find a way to prove those other two men were guilty.
I pushed back my chair and extended my sore legs. Almost four days had passed since we’d buried Harris, but every muscle I’d used to dig his grave still felt like it was punishing me. My back groaned as I reached above my head. There had to be someone Patricia trusted enough to confide in. Someone who might know where to find her.
My arms froze midstretch.
Pilates.
The note Patricia had slid across the table had come from a woman she knew from her weekly Pilates class—Andrei Borovkov’s wife. Patricia had said they were only acquaintances, but that had clearly been a lie. If Patricia felt close enough to this woman to refer her to a contract killer, it was possible she trusted Mrs. Borovkov with other sensitive information about her life … like where she’d planned to go after paying me to murder her husband.
I slid my chair back toward the computer, preparing for the usual barrage of social media hits as I searched for Andrei Borovkov’s wife. But the first hit—and almost every hit after—was the headline of a news article about a recent triple homicide.
I remembered Georgia talking about that crime scene weeks ago; three local businessmen had been found with their throats slashed in a warehouse in Herndon. According to the headlines on my screen, the case had resulted in a mistrial.
Every article I scrolled through featured the same photo—two men ducking into a limo at the bottom of the courthouse steps. One was formidable-looking, with a bald head and hooded eyes. The other was polished and well-dressed, probably his attorney. It was taken from the same video clip I’d seen on the TV in Georgia’s apartment.
I zoomed in on the image, leaning closer to see.
My stomach dropped.
These were the same men who’d been driving the Lincoln Town Car. The same men who’d jammed the knife in Patricia’s back door.
That’s why Andrei’s name had felt so familiar when I’d read it on his wife’s note. Because I’d heard it before. On the news. It had been playing in the background at Georgia’s house when I’d picked up my kids the night we’d buried Harris.
Andrei Borovkov wasn’t just any problem husband. He was the murder suspect OCN had failed to convict. The one Georgia’s friends had been so upset about. He’d been acquitted that morning, the same day Harris Mickler was killed.
According to the article, Irina Borovkov’s husband worked as a bodyguard for a wealthy businessman named Feliks Zhirov—a man with known ties to the Russian mob.
I slapped a hand over my mouth to stifle a gasp.
You work for Feliks?
That’s what Harris had asked me in the bar, when I’d casually suggested we belonged to the same vague financial group. He’d looked sick when he said it, and I’d assumed it was because of the drugs. Patricia didn’t just know Irina Borovkov from Pilates. Their husbands were in business together—mafia business.
Harris had been stealing from the mob.
I cleared the search from the screen with shaking hands, afraid someone might see it. Then I cleared my entire search history, unsteady when I shot to my feet. Andrei Borovkov wasn’t just a bodyguard. Bodyguards protected people. They didn’t get arrested for slashing up businessmen in warehouses. They didn’t leave death threats on people’s back doors when they thought someone had stolen their boss’s money.
I’d been hired to kill an enforcer for the Russian mob.
Suddenly, I wasn’t sure which was scarier—the possibility that I’d be caught by the police for a murder I didn’t commit, or the likelihood I’d be murdered by Andrei Borovkov once he learned what his wife had done.
I slammed the door to the kitchen and fell back against it, my breath racing out of me. The lights in the house were off, and Vero’s car was gone from the garage. I bolted the door and kicked off my shoes, taking the stairs to my office two at a time. I shut myself inside, my fingers clumsy and trembling as I locked the door behind me.
The kids were safe at Steven’s house, I reminded myself. And Andrei Borovkov’s wife had no idea who I was. As long as I didn’t call the number in Irina’s note, Mrs. Borovkov’s very scary husband would never know who his wife had hired, or how to find me.
A pink flash caught my eye. One of Vero’s sticky notes fluttered, taped to my computer screen: HOT DATE. DON’T WAIT UP. I’LL BE HOME IN TIME FOR DELIA’S PARTY.
Crap. Delia’s birthday party was at eleven A.M. tomorrow. In all the chaos, I’d almost forgotten. A loose-leaf sheet of notebook paper lay across my keyboard, titled “My Birthday Wish List” in Delia’s oversize careful letters. Only one wish made the list … a puppy. Under it, I found another certified letter from Steven’s attorney. I didn’t have to open it to know what was inside.
I plucked the sticky note from the monitor. By lunchtime tomorrow, my house would be teeming with kids screaming for pizza and cake. I was nowhere near ready for Delia’s birthday. I hadn’t even bought her a gift yet.
Maybe Steven was right. Maybe I was unfit to mother my own children. Steven had never been the model parent, but the plot of my own life had gone off the rails since he’d left, and I was no closer to knowing what to do about it. The only thing I knew for sure was that I wasn’t going to sleep until I was certain no one was looking for me. Somehow, I had to avoid the police and steer clear of Andrei Borovkov.
I crept to the window, eyes peeled for strange cars outside. I caught the flash of Mrs. Haggerty’s kitchen curtains falling closed, and I quickly drew mine shut. I turned, surprised to find my socks had left impressions in the fresh vacuum tracks in the carpet. I touched my fingers together, but they were clean; the slats in the blinds were suspiciously free of dust. I sniffed the room, inhaling the sour smell I’d assumed was my own sweat-laden panic, but it was only the white vinegar Vero used to cut grime when she tidied up.
Something loosened inside me as I trailed a finger over the squeaky-clean surface of my desk. It was a relief, having someone around to balance the load. A comfort to have someone to handle the bills and help me clean up my messes, rather than rubbing my face in them. The house felt too quiet without Vero and the children. Too empty with all of them gone for the night.
I opened the top drawer of my desk, ready to burn Irina Borovkov’s note. But it was gone, too. Vero must have put it in the disposal in her panic last night. The only loose paper in the drawer was the one with Julian’s number on it. I took it out and held it, remembering Vero’s warning. She told me it would be stupid to call him, but then again, she hadn’t tossed his number in the sink.
Julian would know if the police had come snooping around the bar, looking for Harris’s car. And he might have noticed if a black Lincoln Town Car had followed me out of the parking lot that night.
Before I could change my mind, I dialed his number into the new prepaid phone I’d bought at the pharmacy earlier that morning. The call connected on its fourth ring, and my heart did an anxious flip.
“Hello?” The answering voice was deep, rough with sleep. I considered hanging up. “Whoever you are, I’m already awake. You might as well start talking.” Definitely Julian. And definitely not happy. The clock on my computer said it was already past noon, but if he’d worked last night, he probably hadn’t gone to bed before three. “If you don’t say something, I’m hanging up.”
“It’s Theresa.” The name rushed out on a held breath.
“Hey,” he said after a beat of silence. There was a rustling in the background. An image of him in a pair of clingy pajama pants and very little else parked itself front and center in my mind, completely unbidden. “Did you change your number? You came up as ‘unavailable’ on my phone.”
No, I am definitely available. It’s stupid, how available I am. “Yeah,” I said, shaking that thought from my mind. “There was an unfortunate incident involving a garbage disposal.”
“Sorry to hear it.” The words seemed to curl around a sleepy smile. “I’m glad you were able to salvage my number.”
God, I probably sounded desperate. “I’m sorry. I completely forgot you work nights. I shouldn’t have called so early, but…” But what? I hadn’t considered what I would actually say if he answered. I couldn’t come out and ask him if anyone had come to the bar asking questions about Harris, or if anyone had followed me out of the lot that night. Not without piquing his curiosity. And if I was really being honest with myself, I wasn’t even sure that was the only reason I’d called.
I shut my eyes and leaned my head against the wall. “The truth is, I’ve had a really, really crappy week, and I just needed to talk. Has anyone ever told you you’re really approachable?” His laughter chipped away at some of the tension in my shoulders. I sagged, feeling ridiculous for bothering him. “You know what, that probably sounds crazy, and I should probably just hang up now—”
“No,” he said, “it’s not crazy.” A lazy Saturday morning softness returned to his voice. “I was actually kind of hoping you would call.” In the silence that followed, I pictured him lying on his back, one arm folded behind his head, his honey-blond curls falling over his eyes. “I was worried about you.”
“You were?” I sat up straight, determined to ignore the flutter in my stomach.
“Yeah, I was wondering if you made it home okay. Did you get your alternator checked?”
I blew out a sigh as I remembered the battery. “Not yet,” I confessed. “But I will. Thanks for your help the other day.”
“I was just glad for the chance to see you again.”
A reluctant smile pulled at my cheeks. “I’m sorry I couldn’t stay longer.”
“I was hoping you’d stop by the bar last night, but it’s probably for the best that you didn’t. The place was nuts. We wouldn’t have had much time to talk.”
“Oh?” The hair on the back of my neck prickled at the sudden shift in his tone. “Nuts how?”
“There’s some police investigation going on. A detective came by. He kept pulling the waitstaff off the floor to ask questions. I was in the weeds all night.”
“What happened?”
“Some guy’s wife reported him missing. He was at the networking event on Tuesday night and no one’s heard from him since.”
“Really?” I swallowed. “Did the detective … talk to you?”
“He was mostly interested in talking to the waitstaff who worked the floor, but the waiter who served the guy was off last night, and the rest of us were too busy to remember much.” A relieved breath rushed out of me. It caught in my throat when he said, “One of the busboys remembered seeing him leave the bar with a blond woman in a black dress.”
I drew my knees to my chest, hugging them tight. “Oh?”
“I told the cop I could count at least two dozen blond women in black dresses at The Lush on any given night. But the only one that stood out in my mind was you.”
“Me?” I asked around the knot in my throat. “Why me?”
“Aside from the fact that you’re beautiful and easy to talk to?”
A nervous laugh broke free. “Did you … What did you tell him about me?”
“Only that I bumped into you in the parking lot as you were leaving. And that, try as I might to persuade you otherwise, I saw you get into your car alone.” My head thunked against my knee. Good. This was good. Julian wasn’t a witness. He was an alibi.
An alibi who thought I was beautiful. And easy to talk to. And possibly wanted to date me.
I’m sure Vero would agree it would be smart to keep the lines of communication open, right?
“So, you thought I stood out?” I asked, picking at a loose thread in my sock.
“Without question.”
“Did anyone else in the bar … you know … stand out to you?”
“No one else ordered a Bloody Mary at nine o’clock at night, if that’s what you mean.” His laugh was soft, disarming, unwinding something inside me until a laugh bubbled out of me, too.
“You didn’t … by any chance … happen to notice if anyone followed me when I left … did you?”
“No.” Julian’s silence was tinged with concern. “Why? Did something happen?”
“No, no, it’s fine,” I said quickly. Of course he hadn’t noticed. He’d probably already gone, while I’d lingered in the parking lot those few extra moments to call Patricia. And now he probably thought I was paranoid and clingy. I raked my hair from my face, surprised he couldn’t hear the rush of blood to my cheeks through the phone.
“Seriously, Theresa.” I loved the way he said my name, low and close, like we were in the same room. And I hated that the name he was whispering wasn’t mine. “Bloody Mary aside, I haven’t been able to stop thinking about you. So, to get back to your original question, yeah, I’m really glad you called. And if you want to know the truth, I’m still a little worried about you.”
I bit my lip, wishing I could take back so many things. Wishing I could start the week all over.
“You want to tell me all about your crappy week? I’m a bartender, which makes me highly qualified to listen.”
“No,” I said through a weary smile, wishing I could. “I’m better now. Thanks.” I was surprised by how true it felt. All I needed to do was plan a birthday party and not kill anyone else. Simple, right?
“I’m here if you change your mind. And I’d still like to take you out sometime.”
Sometime … when I wasn’t hiding from the police and the mafia. When I wasn’t pretending to be someone else.
“Maybe I could call you again,” I said, “when things aren’t so complicated.”
“Anytime.” Something in his voice made me think he really meant it. And I wondered if they still gave you one phone call from jail.