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“That’s good.” He clangs the bar door shut. “Hang tight. I’ll be right back with something to clean them up.”
I sit down on my bed and dig into the lasagna. For the first time since my arrest, I’m hopeful I may eventually get out of here.
THIRTY-ONE
JULIA
The weekend brings glorious weather with warm days and chilly nights. We spend our days on the beach. The sun’s rays sparkle diamonds off the calm ocean as Conrad plays in the sand, and I lounge under our pop-up beach tent, a recent purchase from Coastal Hardware. To an outsider, we’re mother and son enjoying our last warm days of autumn. Strollers passing by would never guess we’re in imminent danger of a human trafficking cartel.
With miles of open beach in both directions, I’m able to be on constant lookout for suspicious people. My holstered gun is tucked inside the waistband of my shorts, and one of Fry’s butcher knives is hidden in my beach bag.
Work on my novel has come to a screeching halt. My appetite has vanished, and I only manage a few hours of sleep at night. Every creak in the cottage’s old floorboards sends a jolt through me. I get up several times a night to check the house, to make certain nothing is lurking in the shadows.
On Saturday evening, I sneak off to my room to watch the six o’clock news. My heart breaks into a million pieces when I see the footage of Will attacking Ethan Striker. He goes after the reporter with vengeance, the anger on his face and hate in his eyes chilling me to my core and staying with me long after the segment ends.
By Sunday afternoon, every nerve ending in my body is standing on end. I don’t know how much more of this pressure I can take. When we come off the beach around four o’clock, we rinse the sand off our gear and toys and store everything neatly on the porch. I unlock the back door and enter the cottage, stopping dead in my tracks at the sight of a distinguished-looking gentleman seated on my sofa. I pull out my gun and aim it at his head. “Who are you? And what do you want?”
The man raises his hands as he slowly rises from the sofa. “Easy there, Miss Becker. Put the gun down. I mean you no harm.”
Conrad inches closer to me. “Is that gun real, Mommy?” he whispers.
“Yes, son. It’s real. Now go to your room and don’t come out until I call you.”
My serious tone sends Conrad scurrying off to his bedroom.
I wait until I hear my son’s door close before repeating myself. “Who are you? And what do you want?”
“I’ll tell you after you put down the gun.”
I tighten my fingers on the gun’s grip. “You first.” I give him the once-over while I wait for him to make his next move. He’s nice-looking, around sixty years old, with salt-and-pepper hair and chiseled facial features. His clothes are casual but expensive—gray flannel slacks and a slate-blue, quarter-zip sweater with a pink-checked dress shirt underneath—not the attire I would expect a member of the cartel to wear.
The man lets out a frustrated sigh. “My name is Landon Whitfield. I’m an attorney representing Clarence and Loretta Beaumont.”
I crinkle my nose. “Who? I’ve never heard of them.”
“The Beaumonts are the late Tracy Darby’s parents. I’m here to offer you a deal.”
I sit down in the chair opposite him with the gun resting in my lap. “Start talking.”
The attorney lowers himself to the sofa. “I’m aware of your predicament. I know your real name is Casey Bishop, and you recently escaped Witness Protection after testifying against your husband for human trafficking.”
I work hard to keep a straight face. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. Who is Casey Bishop?”
“You are. And your son’s real name is Levi. I know everything about you, Mrs. Bishop. You’re originally from Austin, Texas. Your parents and two sisters still live there. Your husband was involved in a cartel controlled by The Six. I can either protect you, or I can turn you over to them.”
A wave of nausea overcomes me at the mention of The Six. There’s no point in pretending. My cover is blown. “How can you protect me?”
“In much the same way as WITSEC. In exchange for your testimony, I will help you and your son start a new life.”
Bile rises in my throat. “What testimony, Mr. Whitfield?” I ask, even though I have my suspicion.
“Your testimony stating you were romantically involved with Will Darby at the time of his wife’s death.”
I glare at him. “That’s not a testimony, Mr. Landon. That’s a bold-faced lie. You’re asking me to perjure myself. I could go to prison for that.”
Whitfield places his hands in his lap. “I’m prepared to offer you a very large sum of money.”
When he tells me the amount, my eyes pop. With that kind of money, Conrad and I could disappear to a remote part of the world where the cartel would never find us.
