sat up straighter, pushing a stray lock of hair out of her face. “Besides, I doubt the drugs were even his. He never seemed to have any kind of anxiety disorder.”
Dylan came forward then and sat on the love seat opposite the couch on which Annabelle was seated. “She’s right. The only thing my dad ever had to take was Midrin, for migraines. And that was rare. Brought on by allergies. Mostly cats.” Dylan paused, swallowing loudly. “The cops told me about the Klonapin and told me he had a prescription for it. I didn’t believe them, but they checked the pharmaceutical records.” He shook his head, a bewildered expression on his face. “They told me he’d been taking it for two years!” He put his face in his hands and leaned back into the cushions of the chair.
Annabelle blinked, cut her gaze to Jack, and then looked back at Dylan. There was no way Max Anderson had been taking Klonapin for two years. She would have known.
From behind the hands that hid his face, Dylan continued, “And then they told me that he’d written a suicide note.” He fell silent again, this time for a long time. Jack watched him carefully. Annabelle threw her cover aside and got off of the couch. For an instant, Jack’s hand shot out as if to hold her down, but he drew his hand back, on second thought, and let her go.
Annabelle stood on wobbly, numb legs, and, as if her body simply knew how to do it without her mind having to take part, she moved to Dylan’s side and sat on the arm rest of the love seat. In the next instant, she was holding the teenager, drawing him into a soft embrace, cradling his head against her neck.
“The bastards wouldn’t let me have the God damned note. They said they needed to keep it for their investigation. That bitch, Garcia, said that it could take up to two weeks before I would be able to see it.” Dylan pulled away from Annabelle and looked up at her, his expression one of desperation, anger and frustration. “And the fucking thing is written to
He put his face in his hands again and the room fell silent. Annabelle watched as Dylan rocked ever so slightly back and forth on the couch. From behind his hands, he said, “They killed my mom too, didn’t they?”
This time, Jack closed his eyes. He took a deep breath and licked his lips, then opened his eyes again. “Yes.”
“They killed them both. For whatever’s on that fucking laptop.” Dylan raised his head, lowering his hands, and looked up at Annabelle. She gently brushed a lock of his curly hair from his forehead. He lowered his gaze once more, this time staring at nothing.
“My mom and dad grew up in Salt Lake City. They were high school sweet hearts.” His tone had gone even, dead. “My mom was my age when I was born. My dad, a year older. The church was furious with them, as were my grandparents. Sex before marriage and all that crap. When they told everyone they were bringing me here, they were disowned. Literally,” he laughed harshly. “Can you fucking believe that shit? Disowned because they were in love and wanted to leave that God-forsaken hell hole of a town.”
“My mom told me, years later, that my dad and grandfather had one last conversation, over the phone, after he left. It was like that song, you know? My grandpop told him it would never work, that he and my mom would never make it and that they would come crawling back.” He laughed again, this time more gently. Across from him, Jack was motionless, simply listening, absorbing the information silently. “Well, together, we proved them wrong.”
And then Dylan’s face went slack. “But they were right, weren’t they? Mom and dad were cursed.”
Annabelle was about to tell him he was wrong, but Jack’s phone rang just as she opened her mouth. She closed it and she and Dylan turned to watch the man stand and move to the adjoining kitchen, where a portable telephone hung on the wall.
He picked it up. “Yes.”
They watched as his expression became unreadable. He listened for several seconds and then said, “Thank you,” and hung up.
Jack came back into the living room and pinned Annabelle with a blue-eyed gaze of uncomfortable intensity. “Your detective Chen and her partner have been to my house,” he said simply, the Sheffield in his accent coming on strong.
Annabelle blinked. What? They’d been to Jack’s house? But why? She sighed and ran a hand through her hair. Of course. Obviously, they thought he might know something. Maybe the autopsy had come out screwy. Maybe he just looked suspicious…
She continued to watch in silence as he moved to the wall where his black sports coat hung on a hook. He pulled a cell phone from his jacket pocket and flipped it open. He took a long, deep breath, in and out through his nose, as he punched a button and the phone dialed. Who was he calling?
Annabelle could tell Jack was upset. She’d known him long enough to be able to read his body language and, quiet or not, right now there was a bucket-load of tension running through that hard body.
And then she realized why.
If the detectives had linked him to this case, then so would the bad guys, who would probably be keeping an eye on the investigation in order to cover their own asses. And if they saw the cops pay Jack a visit, then they might decide to do the same.
And Sherry would be in danger.
“It’s Thane,” Jack said suddenly, jerking Annabelle out of her realization. She listened.
“Get Sherry out of the country. She’s been wanting to visit Rome. Tell her that I’ve asked her to meet me there.”
He was quiet a few seconds and Annabelle desperately wanted to know what the person on the other end of the line was saying.
“A few days. Four at most.” He paused again and then nodded once. “Good.” He closed the phone and slipped it back into his jacket pocket.
“I’m sorry, Jack,” Annabelle said softly.
He turned to her, one eyebrow lifted inquisitively. “It isn’t your doing, luv.”
“Who’s Sherry?” Dylan asked.
“My wife.”
It was Dylan’s turn to blink. He straightened. “You’re married?”
“Yes. And I have children, in case you were going to ask that next.”
Dylan straightened further, running his hands down his pants legs as he studied Jack carefully. Jack, for his part, simply stood there, a figure of calm in black from head to toe.
“How many?”
“I have a daughter your age and a son five years younger.”
Now Annabelle could tell that Jack was trying hard not to smile. He knew that he had Dylan’s utmost attention and was probably relieved to have distracted the teenager from his pain. So, he continued calmly. “My daughter’s name is Clara. She and her younger brother, Ian, live with their mother in Essex.”
Dylan continued to rub his hands on his jeans a few moments more, and then he stood. “I’m gonna get dressed. I’m going with you to get the laptop.”
“No you’re not,” Jack told him simply, shaking his head once. His sculpted, tanned arms were crossed over his chest and his booted feet were planted apart in what could be interpreted as a fighting stance. At the same time, he seemed perfectly at ease.
“Like hell I’m not,” Dylan told him. His green eyes narrowed and his hands balled into fists at his sides.
Annabelle stood and placed her hand gently on his shoulder. “Dylan, it isn’t safe. You and I have probably already been identified by whoever killed your father. They might even know we’re here, and if we step foot out that front door,” she gestured to the apartment door several feet away, “then we’ll be followed. They’ll wait until they know where the laptop is or until we have it and then they’ll take it from us.” She lowered her hand as Dylan turned to face her. “By whatever means possible.”
“She’s right,” Jack said softly, the hint of a smile curling the corners of his mouth. Annabelle turned on him, her brown eyes sparked with a hint of angry amber.
“Yes, I am, Jack. And now that we know the detectives have been to your home, we can safely bet that they know who you are too, and that you’ll be followed just as we would have been. It isn’t safe for you to go either.”
Jack’s eyebrow lifted. He opened his mouth to speak, but Dylan beat him to it.
