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Sunday
One
Margo Angelhart
Arizona State Trooper Peter Carillo had left for work thirty minutes ago. I waited down the street, making sure he didn’t double back to check on his wife. Carillo’s job had a lot of flexibility, so he could come home anytime during his shift, but according to Annie, he rarely returned before lunch. Still, no counting on it. The plan: in and out in thirty minutes—forty, tops.
The cookie-cutter two-story house in north Phoenix, in a community called Norterra, had been built up over the last twenty-some years with near-identical homes distinguished only by slightly different facings. The Carillos lived on a large corner lot. I lightly tapped my horn as I turned into the driveway. The garage door rose and I pulled in. As I’d instructed Annie, she quickly closed the door behind me.
The front entrance was off-limits because Carillo had installed a video doorbell system that would alert him every time someone approached their front porch. The one time Annie had “accidentally” turned it off she’d paid with a gut punch. I feared if we tried that today, he might immediately return home, so decided on the stealthy approach.
I set my watch timer for thirty minutes; it was now 7:32 a.m. I hoped it didn’t take longer to get Annie and her two kids out of the house.
Annie stood in the doorway. Too-pale skin framed by thick black hair, dark circles under her eyes, but the firm set of her jaw and tilt of her head confirmed that she was committed.
I couldn’t afford to be wrong about Annie.
Last time I thought the woman I was helping escape a similar situation had been strong enough to walk, I’d been mistaken. Mistaken? What a joke. I’d miscalculated and misunderstood the people and emotions involved, and Christy ended up dead.
You can’t force them to leave, Margo. You can’t drag them out by their hair, kicking and screaming, insisting that their asshole husband will change, that it’s their fault, that if only they hadn’t done X, Y, or Z he wouldn’t have gotten mad.
Pushing Christy and failure aside—failure was not an option this time—I opened the back of my Jeep and pulled out a new luggage set, rolled it over to where Annie stood, dressed in jeans and a white T-shirt.
“Are you sure?” I searched Annie’s brown eyes for any hesitation, any doubt.
“Yes.” She nodded her head once as if to emphasize her affirmation. “I did everything you said, Margo—didn’t pack, didn’t do anything to draw suspicion.”
“We’re on the clock. Everything is in place. Where are the kids?”
“PJ is watching cartoons. Marie is stirring in her crib.”
“Leave her for now. We’ll start in your room.”
Annie led the way upstairs.
As in many of the tract homes built at the turn of the century, the master suite was spacious. Annie had taste—everything attractive and homey—but this room didn’t feel like her. While the living areas were filled with feminine touches—dried flower arrangements, tasteful and delicate antiques, and comfortable furniture suitable for toddlers, the master was completely different. Large black contemporary furniture, a black satin comforter with gold and white pillows on the king-size bed, and a wide leather love seat in front of the mounted television. The entire room was dark and overly masculine, as if Peter Carillo wanted to exert dominance over his wife in the bedroom.
I hefted the suitcase onto the bed, unzipped it. Inside was a smaller case and a duffel bag.
“Just bring what you need,” I reminded her, pulling on gloves before touching anything.
When Annie looked at my hands and frowned, I explained, “If he has the place printed, mine might pop. I’ve never been arrested, but I’m a licensed PI so my prints are on file.” Carillo would have to break the law to search in noncriminal databases. I wasn’t certain he would go that far because it could come back to bite him in the ass, but no way was I taking chances.
I tossed her the duffel. “Bathroom. Grab only essentials.”
Annie took the bag into her bathroom while I grabbed items from the dresser. A week’s worth of socks and underwear from the top drawer. Next drawer held sexy lingerie, the lacy kind that was super uncomfortable and usually bought by a man. Skip it.
Third drawer: perfectly folded pants, jeans. I selected four, put them in the largest suitcase. Bottom drawer held running shorts, sweats, tank tops. After picking out three of each, I turned to the closet.
Annie came out of the bathroom. She put the half-filled duffel down on the bed. I called from the closet, “Pick two pairs of shoes, comfortable.”
Annie came in, grabbed a pair of sneakers that matched what she currently wore, and a pair of black loafers that would go with anything. Then flip-flops. “Okay?” she asked.
I nodded as I pulled a couple T-shirts, nice blouses, and a blazer and skirt set that would be good for a job interview and rolled everything tightly for packing. Then, I added one complete change of clothes—sweats and a T-shirt—into the duffel bag. “To make traveling easier, so you can leave your big suitcase in the car.” A quick glance at the countdown: nineteen more minutes. “Anything else in here that you really want?” I waved my arm around the room.
Annie stared. “It doesn’t matter, does it?”
“These are just things, but some things are more important than others. Maybe something with sentimental value.”
