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“I know, but…” Guilt suddenly fills his eyes. “I fucking lied, Michael. I couldn’t kill her. I still can’t believe I almost did it in the first place.”
I make a mental note to press him about this when he looks like his emotions are under control, because he looks like he’s about to break down and cry. I haven’t seen him do that in years, and I want to keep it that way.
“It’s okay,” I say. “I just don’t understand how that job ties into Meredith being a conflict of interest for you.”
“Ali Carter was formerly Ali Carter Thatchwood.” He pauses. “She’s Meredith’s mother.”
What the fuck? “What?” I narrow my eyes at him, refusing to believe the words that just fell from his mouth. “What the fuck did you just say?
“Don’t worry. I haven’t spoken to her since, she’s long moved on, and it would’ve never worked out between us anyway.”
I tap my fingers against the table, glaring at him in utter shock. Waiting for him to give me the goddamn explanation I deserved, before I beat it out of him.
“I couldn’t bring myself to push her down into the sea with the anchor, so…” His voice trails off for several seconds. “I kept her tied up and told her that she had two options. She could either roll off the boat herself and let the anchor follow her, or she could agree to stay missing for the rest of her life.” He lets out a breath. “I had to convince her to take option two.”
I set down my glass. “Where is she now?”
“She died a tragic death, and she’ll never be found.” He mocks me, rolling his eyes. “Safe and currently deeply in love with a man who isn’t me.”
“She never thanked you for saving her life?”
“No,” he says, swallowing. “She said that by taking her away from her old life, by ripping her away from everything she loved, that I’d still killed her. She didn’t want to see or hear from me again.
“And you were fine with that?”
“Does it look like I was fine with that?” He shoots me a glare as he tosses back the rest of his drink. “It is what it is. I learned a valuable lesson, so you won’t have to. Don’t fall for the targets. It’ll never work out.”
Silence stretches between us for several minutes, and I can’t help but think of the time when Meredith suddenly left my club, when an Adele song triggered the memory of her mother’s death. Then I remember all of the other nights when she’d burst into tears while lying in my arms, whispering, “You’re all I have now in this city, Michael…I know I barely know you, but you’re really all I have…”
Shaking away those thoughts, I can’t help but ask the obvious. “Who ordered the hit on her mother?”
“I don’t think so.” He shakes his head. “I’ve let you in on enough logistics.”
“Who the fuck was it, Trevor?”
“Depends.” He hesitates. “Can you promise that you won’t react or do anything about it?”
“No.”
“Can you promise that you won’t react or do anything about it for at least two weeks?”
“I can consider it.”
“I guess that’s as fair as I’ll get with you on that,” he says, hesitating again. “It was her father’s sister, Meredith’s aunt. She only spoke to the underlings, though. She had no idea about me being involved at all.”
I let out a breath. “What a fucked-up family.”
“Tell me about it.” He shrugs.
“Do you still have the video of her asking for the hit?”
“Only if you promise not to get mad at me for keeping it.”
“I won’t.” I lean back. “I think it’s one of the smartest things you’ve ever done.”
He nods, sighing. “Where’d you leave Meredith?”
“Mexico.”
“Do you miss her?”
“Not at all.”
He smiles. “Do you have a backup plan to get her where she needs to be for the rest of her life?”
“I do.”
“Good.” He nods, orders another round of beer. His cell phone rings, and he tells me that he needs to step outside.
To prevent myself from thinking about everything he’s just said about Meredith’s mother, I look up at the television and try to immerse myself in the real-world. The images onscreen are of people rushing on the streets, of protestors committing utter anarchy.
As the ticker flashes on screen, I squint and read the words.
Drug Cartels Wreak Havoc on Mexican Resorts; Sixty Injured. Seventy Dead.
I immediately stand up and walk closer to the screen, noticing that the resorts in question are twenty miles away from the one where I left Meredith. But if the reporters’ words hold any weight, her resort could be a target, too.
Pulling out my phone, I call my contact at the airport.
“Yes, Mr. Anderson?” a deep voice answers on the first ring. “How may I help you today?”
“I need you to tell me which flight my wife took to Switzerland,” I say. “Flight number and date, please.”
