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“Since I’ll be in Savannah tracking leads, I would feel better having someone on the scene in Water’s Edge. He could start by looking into Julia’s past.”
“Fine. Hire him.” My insides churn in anger. What if Julia really is a plant? What if she’s been using me all this time? To bring our children into her dirty little scheme is twisted.
Marlowe tenses when Mia’s minivan appears in the driveway. “Who’s that?”
“Don’t worry. It’s only my housekeeper returning from taking my children to school.”
“Is she aware of the situation? I don’t want to alarm her when I scour the house for listening devices.”
“She doesn’t yet, but she needs to know. I’ll talk to her while you conduct your sweep.”
I walk around the side of the house and help Mia carry grocery bags into the house. While she’s unloading them, I explain about Tracy’s parents’ unethical attempts to get custody of my children.
“I don’t blame you if you want to look for employment elsewhere,” I say. “Although we’d all be sad to see you go.”
“No way, Mister Will. I love my job, and you need me right now.”
“You’re right about that.” I give her a half hug. “I want you to be on heightened alert. If you see anything that concerns you, I want you to call me immediately. If I’m not available, get in touch with Ashton.”
“Yes, sir. I understand.”
I brew another cup of coffee and take it outside to the veranda. I make several business calls while I wait for Marlowe to finish inside.
Ninety minutes later, he emerges from the house. “As I suspected, I found several different state-of-the-art listening devices.” He riffles through the backpack and pulls out a handful of tiny gadgets. “These are extremely costly. They were planted by professionals. My curiosity about your in-laws is growing by the minute. I can hardly wait to expose them.”
TWENTY-NINE
JULIA
I live in constant fear of being ambushed. I’m always looking over my shoulder and in my rearview mirror. I’m fairly certain Ethan Striker is driving the old silver Honda Accord that is often tailing me from several cars back. But the driver of the ever-present black Tahoe never gets close enough for me to see either the person behind the wheel or the license plate. I pray it’s the people working for Will’s in-laws and not the boogeymen.
After dropping Conrad at school in the mornings, I head over to the shooting range where Courtney from Coastal Hardware instructs me on improving my aim. While she doesn’t press me for details, she senses my concern for my safety and teaches me some basic self-defense moves.
Most days when I return home with Conrad at noon, I find something out of order. A carton of milk left out on the kitchen counter. The television on. The screen door unlatched. I attribute these to my frazzled state of mind. So far, I’ve seen no evidence the boogeymen are stalking me.
My work in progress takes an abrupt turn when I decide to make major changes to my first draft, brought on by current events in my life. I surprise my characters with a plot twist, and they are scrambling to save their relationship from the outside forces threatening them. My sweet romance has transitioned into a romantic suspense. But that’s okay by me. I’m a mystery writer at heart.
I spend my afternoons on the porch writing while Conrad plays at my feet with his Legos or in the yard with his trucks. He’s playing in the dunes, driving his dump truck in the sand, on Friday afternoon when Detective Rourke and Officer Porter appear from the side of the house. Conrad waves at them, but he doesn’t get up to greet them.
I remain seated at the table as well. “And here you are again. Like déjà vu. You could’ve called first to let me know you were coming.”
Rourke grunts. “Why would we do that, Miss Becker?”
“Out of respect, Detective,” I say, and motion for them to join me at the table. “What’s this about?”
“Your background check.” Rourke opens his tablet on the table in front of him. “It’s clean.”
My mouth goes dry at the mention of my fake background. “Of course, it’s clean. I’m a law-abiding citizen. Is that a problem?”
“It’s too clean, Miss Becker. If you don’t mind, I’d like to go over your history.” Rourke taps his tablet, and the screen comes alive.
I mind, but I’m in no position to argue. “Fine. But can we make it quick?” I gesture at my computer. “As you can see, I’m working.”
“Your romance characters can wait,” Rourke says in a derogatory manner that tells me how little he thinks of my career.
For the next ten minutes, he grills me about the life Eleanor invented for me in Denver. Where I went to school from kindergarten through college. The address of my childhood home. The grocery store where I worked as a clerk. The hospital where Conrad was born.
“Very good, Miss Becker. Your memorization skills are excellent. Now tell me about your husband.”
