That had been twenty minutes ago. Jack’s gaze slid from Annabelle to the office once more. Nothing in the room seemed out of place or disturbed. At least, not at first glance, and not to the layman. The police were writing it off as a suicide.
“We’ll still need to question her, once she comes around. But at the moment, it’s important that we secure the area.”
Jack turned back to the uniformed officer and nodded. He’d given the man Annabelle’s contact information and he was sure they would be able to find anything further out, should they need it. He strode slowly across the room, making sure not to touch anything. Then he knelt before Annabelle, lowering his face to hers.
“Bella.”
Annabelle’s gaze slid from the floor to Jack’s ultra-blue eyes. She stared as if she didn’t recognize him, but at least she looked at him. He was the only one she would make eye contact with. Jack took a slow, deep breath, let it out through his nose, and then stood. “Come on, luv.” He gently lifted her by the arms and she followed without resistance. The medication she’d been given was most likely having an effect upon her already.
He led her out of the office, nodding at the police officers who removed the yellow tape long enough for them to slip through. Then he walked her out to his car. On the way, several people who worked in the same building attempted to step forward from where they’d been huddled outside the partitioned section and intercept him, obviously curious about what had transpired.
Jack shot them a warning look. That was all it took to stop them in their tracks.
Once he’d lowered Annabelle into his car and buckled her into the seat, he moved around to the driver’s side, slid in, and shut the door behind him. For a moment, he just sat there, staring at the woman he loved more than anything on Earth.
And then she shocked him by speaking.
“He was murdered, Jack.”
She hadn’t moved in her seat. She still gazed steadily at the dash board. But there was something in her tone that told him she was well and truly conscious and in the moment.
“I know,” he said softly.
“Why?” Now she did turn away from the dashboard, and the look of confusion she turned upon him flipped his world upside down. “Why kill Max? He was just…” Her words trailed off. She swallowed. Then she said, in little more than a whisper, “What about Dylan?”
“We’ll figure it out, Bella.” Jack reached out slowly and gently pushed a lock of hair out of her eyes. “Rest and we’ll figure it out.”
Then he pressed a switch in a control panel beside his own seat and hers began to recline. She turned away, looking forward once more. And then she closed her eyes.
When Jack had received Annabelle’s call an hour before, he’d been in the middle of a meeting with a man who had hired him at one point in the past and was hoping to hire him again. The man was a “handler”, a middle man, a contact for a contact for a contact, each with aliases for names that changed every week, if not more often.
Jack knew, when he felt the phone buzz in his jacket pocket, that it was Annabelle calling. She was the only one with the number to that particular phone. And, without even answering it, he knew it was going to be bad. She had never called him before. Not once. Jack insisted she have his number, just in case, but the fact of the matter was, she abhorred cell phones. If she was calling now, in the middle of a Tuesday, in sunny weather, there could only be a few reasons why.
Death and dismemberment were two of them.
He’d guessed right with the first one. When he felt the phone, he excused himself quickly, stepped into the restaurant hallway, and answered it. On the other end, Annabelle’s voice came in raspy, uneven breaths. She was having trouble taking in air. And her words chilled him to the bone.
He hung up with her and dialed 911 without even thinking. Without considering who he, himself, was.
The medical response team that arrived at Design Max with the first batch of police had given Annabelle some kind of injection right off the bat. Jack assumed it had been only a few moments before he, himself, had arrived upon the scene. They’d told him that whatever they’d given to her would make her sleep. Then they escorted Cassie to a blue and white and proceeded to get as much information as they could from her and any of the building’s employees who’d returned early enough from lunch.
Now Jack watched Annabelle sleep. Her long lashes rested, like half moons, upon the apples of her cheeks. Her full, naturally pink lips were slightly open and her soft breath had slowed. He could tell the exact moment that she entered that deeper stage of rest. He’d come to learn about such things long ago.
In sleep, her face took on such an innocent, defenseless cast that Jack found himself wanting a good, stiff drink. And he didn’t drink.
He turned away from her and gazed out the front window, watching the crime scene investigators move about the area that had been sectioned off with bright yellow tape. To his left, a cop waved at him impatiently and then motioned to the street beyond the lot, anxious for him to be gone and out of the way. At the same time, other employees of the building were being sent away or escorted to marked police vehicles, where they would most likely be driven to the station house for questioning.
It was obvious to Jack that even the cops weren’t entirely convinced it was suicide. He wondered what they’d found at the scene that made them suddenly suspect foul play. Was it what he, himself, had noticed? And what about Annabelle? What had made her so positive, at first sight, that Max had been murdered?
He glanced once more at her sleeping form. She was a clever girl. Very clever.
He was thankful, at once, for Annabelle’s uncooperative response to the questioning the authorities had already attempted to put her through. It allowed her to escape the responsibility temporarily, and placed her care in his hands. For now.
It was enough. Jack put the black, shiny car in reverse, backed it out of the parking space, and then drove it from the lot.
Annabelle rolled over and hugged the pillow closer. She blinked, yawned, and then blinked again. Her vision de-blurred and a black framed photograph on the wall came into focus. A single raven, caught in mid-flight filled the frame, its blue-black body in stark contrast with the white matting surrounding it. Annabelle blinked again. She peered into the raven’s eye, taking in the yellow iris, the bottomless pool of inky mystery at its center.
And then, as if coming fully awake from a dream, she realized that she had no such photographs in her home. At least, she didn’t think she did. Her thoughts were still somewhat fuzzy. Did she? No. No ravens.
She blinked once more and rolled back over, taking in her surroundings as she did so. King size bed with black bed sheets, thick and soft. White walls, with black framed photographs or paintings; simple, minimalist and clean cut. Ten foot ceilings, but in here it was recessed so that they were even taller. Black curtains.
At once, everything came back to her. She knew where she was. She recognized the style, even if she had never been in this room before. She knew whose room it was and why she was there. Painfully, her heart slammed hard, once, against her ribcage and she gasped.
Instinctively, she clutched at her chest and curled into herself, closing her eyes.
Murdered.
She was at Jack’s place. Not his home, because Sherry would be at his home. This must be one of his apartments… Annabelle drew in a tight breath, tensing against the trembling that began to take over her small frame. A flood of memories from that afternoon slammed into her.
She’d had a panic attack and been drugged by the EMT’s. Jack had come. They’d taken Cassie away…
Nausea roiled in her belly. There was something she needed to do. Something she needed to tell Jack. It was why she hadn’t spoken to the cops. She had been in shock, yes, but not as badly as she’d led them to believe. She just needed to see Jack.
“
