Shadows Of Truth. Sharon Mignerey

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      Rachel swiped a sweaty palm across her forehead, wishing her brain would engage sometime soon and that the panic in her chest would subside. This was bizarre beyond words. This meeting was supposed to lead to good things, to renew a career she had loved. It wasn’t supposed to be one more fear to pile on all the others.

      “Reliable resources tell me that you have—or can get—what I want.”

      “Antiques?”

      He clucked his tongue. “Rachel, I’ve been told you’re a smart woman.” He looked steadily at her, those blue eyes cold and clear, “I’ve been told you already have the…” He paused. “…The item I want.”

      Rachel felt completely disconnected, hating how much this all made perfect sense and how nothing about this situation was the least bit sensible. How would Jane know someone like this man—someone shaking her down like the third-grade bully who had regularly taken her lunch money.

      Only much more dangerous.

      “You don’t have to look so stunned, Rachel. You understand my requirements, don’t you?”

      The simple answer was yes. But she couldn’t bring herself to say the word, somehow sure that doing so would mean admitting that she had a half-million dollars that she’d never even seen.

      The man had said something about goods or services. “What services?”

      “A refund,” he corrected. “That should have been returned months ago.”

      “A refund?” Muzzy from the conflicting thoughts going through her head, she looked toward the door where Jane had disappeared.

      He smiled. “I knew you’d understand.”

      Rachel lifted a hand toward the door. “Jane thinks you want my expertise in antiques.”

      “It’s best if it remains that way, as I’m sure you’ll agree.”

      “But—”

      “Now, then. When can I expect delivery?”

      “I don’t have your—”

      “Then I suggest you talk to whomever does.”

      The library door clicked open on the heels of a quick knock, and Jane breezed into the room. “Cook says dinner is ready whenever we are. Is Rachel going to be able to help you?”

      “I’m sure of it,” he said with a smile, handing Rachel a picture that had somehow magically appeared in his hand. “She was just telling me about her family.”

      But she hadn’t been. Numb and feeling completely out of her depth, Rachel glanced down at the photograph. It was of her father, Sarah and Andy at the park a couple of blocks from her house. Andy had the Blue’s Clues Band-Aid on his knee from where he had skinned it.

      The day before.

      This picture had been taken yesterday.

      “You have a lovely family,” he said. “I can see why you’re so proud of little…Sarah, did you say her name was? And Andy. He looks like a wild one.”

      This man knows the names of my children. He has a picture of my children. She stared at the photograph, looking for all the world like one she might have taken. Only she hadn’t.

      “He’s four now, isn’t he, Rachel?” Jane asked.

      “Yes.” Rachel looked up, found Simon Graden standing close enough to touch, a benevolent-looking smile on his face. Then she looked into his eyes and found them to be as cold as the fear slithering through her belly.

      “There’s nothing more compelling than family, is there? So nice your father can spend time with your children in the park. And he’s a retired minister, you say?”

      Once more, Rachel nodded, her neck and lips stiff. This man was threatening her. And if he could get close enough to take pictures, he could get close enough to do worse.

      He extended his hand again, this time with a business card between his fingers. “You’ll call me as soon as you can arrange delivery?”

      Rachel automatically took the card, a slight nod to her head, the gesture rooted in the fear swamping her.

      “Oh, this is great,” Jane said, crossing the room, a wide smile lighting her face, and giving Rachel a squeeze. “I’ve been so worried about you with that whole nasty business with Angela. And I just knew that you’d be able to get back in business again if you had a little help. It’s no wonder you’re looking a little dazed. Sometimes good news is almost harder to take in than bad news.”

      Rachel glanced from Simon to Jane, both of them smiling as though things were wonderful and she wasn’t teetering at the edge of an emotional cliff. She swallowed the bile that burned the back of her throat.

      “You should thank Jane,” Simon said. “Friends who will go out of their way for you are rare.”

      “Yes,” Rachel agreed faintly, looking around for her purse. All she wanted to do was leave. Run. Gather up her children and her father and simply disappear.

      “After you’ve had a chance to research that one item you were going to check on when you get home,” Simon said, “you can call me.”

      Rachel looked from him to Jane, who smiled.

      “Now that I know you’re back in business again, we’ll talk. I’m remodeling the patio and I was thinking a big bronze urn would be just thing. You know, like that Roman one you showed me last year.” As if realizing she was about to go off on a tangent, Jane laughed. “I’ll save that for next time. It’s so nice to see you again, Rachel.”

      “You, too.” Good manners made Rachel respond as she went out the door. Somehow she kept from running down the wide marble hallway to the front entry. Outside, the setting sun was lodged between two peaks, streaming golden rays across the valley. She stared unseeingly at the beauty for a moment, her mind utterly blank, then ran down the wide flagstone steps toward her car.

      He wanted her to call him. But she didn’t have his money, didn’t have any idea how to convince him that she didn’t.

      In her car, she jammed her key into the ignition and noticed her hand shaking. As the engine revved, she looked at the crumpled picture of her family. Tears burning her eyes, she smoothed out the glossy paper, her fingers lingering over the images of her son and her daughter.

      He knew how to find them. And he had threatened her, all the while making it sound as though she was agreeing to find some rare antique for him. What could she even say to anyone else? He’d made it look as though the photograph was hers. He hadn’t said, “I’ll hurt your children.”

      He didn’t have to.

      She put the car into gear and headed down the picturesque road that led back to the highway and her hour-long drive home. She glanced at the fuel gauge, praying she had enough gas to make it home, while sweat coated her palms.

      She’d hoped for a reprieve. Instead, this СКАЧАТЬ