I wasn’t sure if I followed him because I didn’t have many other options or because I was curious. My gut told me he wasn’t interested in hurting me, and ransom definitely wasn’t his goal—this house was the size of my house times five.
Up the front steps, he held one of the double doors for me. My attention focused past the shadowed entry across the house, to the main source of light, a wall of windows and glass doors that looked to the forest, and I thought maybe, to cliffs. He led me to the right, toward a kitchen. The large window over the sink stopped most of the shadows at the archway.
He motioned for me to have a seat at the kitchen table. I sat and considered how to handle this. I wasn’t sure how to go about getting answers out of him. I used to be able to get my father to tell me things, but that was forever ago. I barely interacted with people anymore.
He walked around the marble-topped island to one of the many cabinets. His shoes made little sound on the stone floors. Why did his dress shoes have rubber soles? That didn’t seem to match how well-tailored his suit was, his extravagant car, the sparkling light fixtures in his house. And I knew this must be his house—how else would he know exactly where the plates were?
The room smelled of the remnants of a meal, chicken maybe, and marinara sauce. A pot, perhaps from the sauce, sat on the counter by the sink, drying on a towel.
I sat there quietly, trying to be calm, to keep from insisting he give me answers.
He set a plate in front of me with two rolls and a small jar of apple butter. “You must be hungry.”
I said nothing, trying to contain my annoyance.
He moved toward the sink. Clink of glasses in a cabinet. Water running.
His phone rang. Water still running, he answered his phone with, “It’s done.” His tone was low, angry. “I know… Do your job… Most likely. Stay alert…” His voice became too quiet to hear over the rush from the faucet. He slipped his phone back into his breast pocket and returned to set a glass of water in front of me.
His tall frame in its dark suit loomed over me, threw a shadow across the room. He pulled the next chair out and faced me as he sat.
His voice was soft, kind. “Please don’t be afraid.”
What was it with him and that word?
“What do you think you’re protecting me from?” I asked. If his honest intentions were to protect me, he had to have something wrong. My life was simple, dull, easy. I did my job then went home. That was it. What kind of trouble could a bookkeeper get into? My tone calmed. “I don’t understand.”
“I know.”
His gaze turned down and toward the glass of water on the table. The tilt of his head showed the precise angles of his jaw, his nose, his brow. His fair skin had a pureness to it. Finally, he looked back up and spoke in a calm, deep voice. “I promise you’re safe. I won’t let anyone hurt you.”
I tried to keep the frustration out of my voice. “I don’t understand.”
“I know, Adriane.”
Something was warm in my chest. He affected me strongly for some reason, which just added to my frustration. I wasn’t used to people having much impact on me.
“My name is Alec Kaden,” he said. “Our fathers were…associates.”
My face twisted in more confusion. Wait, I’d heard his name, or rather, read it—something about his taking over a factory outside Seattle. I only read the front page of the paper, not the financial section, but I’d gotten the feeling his name appeared there often. And there was something else, something with the name Kaden, something from a long time ago and not pleasant…
“Your father was an accountant,” he said, “at the same firm at which you now work. You’re smart like he was, perhaps too smart.”
He leaned as if trying to catch my gaze. His hand moved toward mine as it rested on my little bag in my lap, but stopped. The back of his hand wasn’t smooth like his palm. His first two knuckles looked like they’d been battered, cracked open on multiple occasions. They were thick. The skin was tough on the rest, but not as gnarled as on those two. He’d hit things, a lot of things.
With as much focus as I could, I looked him in the eye. Everything about him was hard, unyielding, and yet the kindness in his eyes mixed with that hardness, like flowers blooming out of rock.
Head tilted forward, he bored his gaze into me. “A few days ago,” he said, “you discovered more than you were supposed to.” His jaw clenched. “Samuel Dean.”
“No. He said I made a mistake.” Mr. Mason had made it clear that I’d gotten it wrong—very clear. He’d let me do nothing but tedious filing for the last several days.
“John Mason knew damn well it wasn’t a mistake. He told Dean what you found. It was more than embezzlement, Adriane. He should have never let you work on that account.”
“I’m just a bookkeeper.”
His eyebrow cocked. “And yet you found what he had so carefully hidden.”
“No, I…” But I’d known I was right—Councilman Samuel Dean was embezzling from the city. I’d tried to trust that Mr. Mason was more accurate in his assessment, but what Alec was saying was starting to make sense.
“They’ve been watching you, deciding if you were a threat, if you were expendable. Today the decision was made.”
My mouth opened, but nothing came out.
“I had to act quickly.” The hard edge of his voice softened. “I’m so sorry I scared you.”
“How do you know about this?” I asked.
He hesitated. “I know much about the people in this city. I keep tabs on those of influence.”
Could he possibly be any more vague? I opened my mouth to ask for more explanation, but then another man in a dark suit walked into the kitchen.
“Have you checked?” he asked Alec.
“I’ve got this under control.” Alec’s voice was cold. “And you?”
There must have been an order hidden in the phrase. The other man said, “Yes, sir,” and left.
Alec turned back to me. “You must be tired—you’ve had a trying day. I have a room prepared for you.” He paused then, with a reluctant sigh, added, “But first I must ask one more favor.” He nodded toward my bag. “May I?”
I just looked at him.
“I’m sorry,” he said, “but I must check your bag.”
“Why?”
“They have been watching you very closely.”
I opened my mouth to speak as he interrupted with another quiet, “Please.”
I handed him my bag.
He quickly searched the contents and put each item on the table—wallet, phone, keys, and a little notebook and pencil. As he checked each pocket of my wallet, it shocked me that it really didn’t bother me, didn’t feel like an invasion of privacy, even though I never let anyone look through my things. Then he put his hand in the bag as if searching for more. I watched curiously. There was nothing more to find.
A quiet ripping sound. He removed his hand and held it out so I could see a small device in his palm. Then he put it on the floor and ground it into the travertine with his heel.
My stomach lurched as I stared at the little pile of debris. “They were listening?”
There was sympathy in his voice. “Yes.”
I tried to calm myself by remembering that they—whoever exactly they were—had heard very little. Other than work, just silence as I read or sketched.
He returned my wallet, notebook, and pencil to the bag and handed it back to me.
He picked up my phone and keys. “I’ll need to hold on to these, if you’ll allow. It isn’t wise to use your phone, and I would like to borrow your keys. Once we find the opportunity, we will need to search your house. Do you happen to have any papers from work there?”
I shook my head. A bookkeeper taking financial records home—that was a sure way to get fired. “What do you mean ‘search my house’?” And who was “we”?
He continued to sound sympathetic. “I’ll try to have some of your things brought back for you,” he said. “Do you have anything in particular you would like to have retrieved?”
“You want me to stay here?”
“For your safety.”
“How long?”
“I will do everything possible to make it safe for you, but I’m not sure how long that will take.”
“Are you crazy?”
He held my eye contact and continued to speak in that low, calm voice of his. “I know how bright you are, intuitive, even.” He motioned toward the little pile of debris on the floor. “You’ve seen the bug for yourself.” He rested his hand on his thigh, and his voice quieted even more. “And I can see that you know I’m being truthful.”
I said nothing.
“Surely, you see,” he said, “it’s wiser not to risk the danger simply because you’re uncomfortable staying here, with your routine being broken.”
I stared at him for a few seconds. How’d he know that?
Then I looked away, toward the window above the sink and out to the wild trees that reached into the neat and tidy flowerbeds. The thought of breaking my careful routine almost seemed worse than any of the danger he was talking about. My routine was how I got through my days, my life.
He stood.
I was still.
“Is there anything I can get for you?” he asked. “I want to make this as comfortable as possible.”
I shook my head.
“If you think of anything, please let me know.”
A pause.
“A room has been prepared for you,” he said. “You must be tired.”
I looked up at him. The sun touched just the side of his face and cast the rest in shadow. He held his hand out.
I glanced at his hand. Then I stood.
He led me across the stone floor of the entry to the staircase that stood between the dining and great rooms. The polished, dark wood curved gracefully to the second story from which I could see out the tall windows that crowned the French doors in the shadowed living room below. The lack of sun was now turning the forest black, but glowing pink clouds still streaked the sky.
At the top of the stairs, he led me to the right, to the last door, and then stopped to open it. He allowed me to step through, walked in behind, and paused just inside.
“I hope you’ll be comfortable. I’ll have a man in the hall, and you need only ask,” he said. “He’ll get you anything you want.”
I nodded.
He touched the bolt on the door. There was a brass plate on the outside, where the keyhole would be. “It locks only from the inside.”
He paused as if waiting for me to say something. I was quiet.
He turned to go.
“Alec.”
He paused. When he turned back to me, something in his eyes was different, like he was farther away. “Yes?”
“None of this makes sense.” I understood the words, but it was like reading a story in a book, not what happened in my life.
“You’re safe,” he said.
“I don’t know if I can stay here.”
“You’re safe. I promise.” With an attempt at a smile, he walked out and closed the door behind himself.
Anxiety began to tingle up my spine.
I turned, barely seeing the room, and found someplace to sit—a sofa next to a crackling fireplace. I looked into the hot flames and tried to sort the chaos in my head.
A bug in my purse. Mr. Mason had to have been the one to plant it there—he was the only one who could’ve had access. I found myself doubting everyone I interacted with on a regular basis, even Bobby, the boy from the mailroom who tended to follow me around.
I didn’t really know anyone—couldn’t trust anyone.
And what about Alec? Who was he? How was he involved?
Then there was Councilman Dean. This didn’t seem like the way a politician would go about things. Wouldn’t he try a bribe or something? It didn’t fit. I was missing something, a lot of somethings. Although my gut told me everything he’d said was the truth, Alec hadn’t told me much, maybe so as not to scare me. Not knowing was worse. I didn’t know if Councilman Dean wanted to hurt me, or simply scare me. Alec had said I was too great a risk and expendable, but I wasn’t sure if I knew exactly what that meant—what it meant to me.