The note was handwritten, and there were no pictures this time. My jaw tightened as I read the script in all caps:
You have my diamonds. No one will be hurt if you return them to me. I’m watching you. Put the diamonds inside the lunch bag you take to work. Leave the bag behind the dumpster at roxy’s tomorrow morning. Don’t call the police. I’ll know if you do.
A wave of fear overtook me, and I felt tears welling up inside. At any moment, the delicate dam holding back my hysteria would break. I struggled to think clearly. He needed the diamonds. If I called the police, he couldn’t do anything to me because he still needed the diamonds.
Criminals always tell you not to call the police. Anger flared in my chest, and I dialed the cell number Tony had given me. It went to his voice mail, and I hung up. I dialed 911 but didn’t push the call button. Holding the phone so tight it hurt my fingers, I walked through my house.
It had been searched, but no one would know that but me. The cushion on my secondhand couch had a nickel-sized stain on one side, and I always put that side down. The dark brown spot caught my attention as soon as I entered my living room. Whoever had searched my house had done so methodically and carefully. They didn’t want the search reported to the police.
But I had an eye for detail. Wes often teased me about my anal-retentive qualities, but it served me well in the wedding business—and now. The afghan that draped over my grandma’s chair had been shifted to the left side. In my room, the picture of Briette and me had been moved just enough that it caught the glare from the light. I reached out to move it back but stopped. Would the police dust for fingerprints?
No. If this person had searched my home so carefully that only I would know, he wouldn’t be dumb enough to leave a fingerprint. My house was empty. I hadn’t noticed anything amiss when I first entered. Hopefully that meant the quilt still kept my secrets.
I could taste the fear as I entered my front room and stared at the interlocking rings of cream and sea-foam green fabric spread across the wine-red background. Each circle had a dark green square where it intersected with another ring. The squares reminded me of a diamond sitting atop a solitaire engagement ring.
The quilt was folded exactly as I’d left it. I knelt down and pulled back the edge until I could see the signature block. A whoosh of breath escaped when I felt the bump sewn into the fabric. The diamonds were still safe, but what about me?
I leaned back and took deep cleansing breaths, trying to settle my nerves, which were going ballistic. Then my skin tingled with a new fear. What if my house was bugged or under surveillance? There was no time to consider the ramifications of what I was about to do. I had to act. I tried Tony’s cell again with no luck. I thought of calling Dallas, but he’d probably tell me to call the police.
After I double-checked that my doors were locked, I grabbed my seam ripper and prepared to assault my quilt once more. I ripped open the stitches holding the diamonds in place. When my fingers closed around the diamonds, I let out the breath I’d been holding and stuffed the bag down my shirt. Holding my cell phone, I returned to my bedroom. The house was quiet, and the stillness added to the tension. I could hear my heart pounding in my ears as I tried to think of a plan.
It was almost five-thirty. I needed to get rid of the diamonds. The thief hadn’t found them in my house, but if he came back, I knew I would turn them over in a heartbeat. I also knew what a bad idea that would be, because in the movies, the person playing me—the girl who took the diamond smuggler’s cache and then returned them at gunpoint—always ended up dead.
My closet door was slightly ajar, and I noticed that the toes of my running shoes were turned away from the wall. They weren’t where I’d left them, either, but it gave me an idea. Slipping into the bathroom, I changed into running gear, rolled the bag of diamonds into a tube, and tucked it in my sports bra. I pulled on a jacket and a pair of jeans over my running shorts.
If they were watching me, I needed to think ahead, and I wanted it to look like I was heading for the mountain. On my way out, I grabbed an apple, a cheese stick, and some crackers. At the last minute, I remembered the dinners from Mom and shoved them into my cramped freezer space.
Keeping my head down, I hurried out to my vehicle, jumped inside, and locked the doors. I drove up Warm Springs Road. The traffic was light, as usual on Sunday, and I kept an eye out for anyone tailing me. The road narrowed as I drew closer to the mountain pass that led to the natural hot springs.
When the stretch of road was clear both ways, I jammed my foot on the gas pedal and careened to the right into a dead end just past a section of cabin-like homes. I whipped the Mountaineer around and put it in park. Watching the dashboard clock, I waited five full minutes and counted four cars, none of which included a
