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Right. Just a conversation. “And I have some prime Scottsdale oceanfront property you might be interested in.”
“I don’t know what she told you—”
“Okay, you want serious? I know who Jennifer is, I know what she did, and she is scared. Meeting with her daddy? Not going to happen.”
“You talk to him,” Miriam said quickly. “Listen to him. Then you’ll understand he means her no harm.”
“I’ll think about it.”
A car came up the road. It slowed and turned into Logan’s driveway. Brittney’s Range Rover, but she was in the passenger seat. I couldn’t see who was driving. The garage door started to rise.
“He knows she’s here,” Miriam said, “and I know she doesn’t have the money to disappear again. Does she want to be on the run for the rest of her life, especially when there is no need to be running? Her father is no threat to her. He just wants to see her.”
Interesting. I wanted to know more, because I agreed with Miriam that running should be the last option. But I didn’t have time to discuss as the car pulled into Brittney’s slot in the four-car garage, next to Logan’s Tesla.
“I’ll call you back,” I said, then hung up over her objections and silenced my phone.
The garage door was closing before I could see who was driving, and the garage was on the opposite side of the house from where I was sitting under the tree. I didn’t like the situation, and immediately called Logan.
He didn’t answer. I tried again. Again, no answer.
Dammit. Who had Brittney brought home? Would she have the audacity to bring Brad Parsons?
Yes, I thought, yes she would.
I jumped out of the Jeep and ran across the large cobblestone driveway. Dismissing the idea of knocking on the door—if they were up to something, I doubted Brittney would answer it—I ran to the garage door and waited a beat, to make sure they’d entered the house.
I used Logan’s code for the garage and the door silently rolled open. I skirted past the cars and to the door that led inside the house.
Maybe nothing was wrong. Maybe Brittney wasn’t up to something.
I didn’t buy it. Why bring a third party to the house? Knowing that her husband was coming home to ostensibly pack for a business trip, she brings a friend by?
It just wasn’t adding up for me.
I opened the door that led into the house. I hadn’t been inside before, though I’d looked up the floor plans during my research phase. The garage opened into a small mud room that led to a laundry room bigger than my bedroom. Stop, listen. I didn’t hear anything. Yeah, I knew the house was big, but shouldn’t I hear voices? Conversation?
Cautious, I ventured out of the laundry room. Logan should be packing, so I imagined he’d be in his bedroom. The master suite was to the left. I went down the hall to double doors that were open.
The king-sized bed hadn’t been made, the comforter on the floor, the sheet and blanket tangled at the bottom. Either Brittney was a restless sleeper, or two people had been here last night.
There was a sitting area and a small office off the bedroom, plus a giant—and I mean humongous—closet. Inside the closet two suitcases were open on luggage racks, both half-filled with men’s clothes. The larger side of the closet was packed with more clothes than I had owned in my lifetime; Logan’s side was also full, but appeared to have twenty or thirty button-down shirts all the same style with slightly different patterns. Half long-sleeved, half short. Slacks hanging on pant-hangers. Polo shirts pressed and hung in a rainbow of colors. A tuxedo and five suits in clear protective bags. In the two weeks I’d been tracking Logan, he’d worn a suit once.
The larger suitcase had shirts and pants neatly folded; the smaller one had shorts, boxers, socks, and two pairs of shoes.
But Logan wasn’t here. A pile of workout clothes were on the table in the center of the closet, next to the bags, as if he’d been sorting through them when he left.
Where was he? Where was Brittney?
I stood just inside the bedroom door and listened for anything to tell me where they were. The house had good bones, good soundproofing, and there were no creaks or echoes, even with the tile floors. Nearly six thousand square feet on one story—except for a family room and Logan’s office upstairs.
I suspected that’s where they were, but then I heard Brittney in the kitchen.
“No, Logan, you can’t!”
It was a wail, and I imagined that Logan had told her he was leaving her.
Logan said something too quiet for me to hear, but I wondered where Brittney’s driver was. He hadn’t stayed in the car. It had to be Parsons—who else?
