“She won’t share.”
“What if she already has?”
Catherine’s brows peaked in question.
“I don’t know if she has or not. I told her not to, and she said it was too late.”
“What does that mean?”
Tony shook his head. “I don’t know.” His dark gaze penetrated. “And, to be honest, I’m tired of discussing it.”
Her gray eyes swirled with unasked questions. Finally, she stood and walked toward the door. Just before reaching her destination, Catherine stopped. “Just one more thing, Mr. Rawlings. Did my name enter the discussion?”
“We talked about you—but not in the context of her delivery or my past. She said to tell you hello and that she missed you.”
Catherine nodded, obviously wanting to ask more, but recognizing that her time had expired. Wisely, she slid behind the door, leaving Tony alone with his whirlwind of thoughts.
The confession of evil works is the first beginning of good works.
—Saint Augustine
Tony waited—and waited—and waited. With his cell phone on his lap and his head against the cool car window, his mind spun and slipped into scenarios, possibilities, and dreams. It was strange how a thought can transform into a full-out movie played behind closed eyes. Tony’s flight from Iowa City to San Diego took less than four hours. He’d had pressing matters that delayed his desired departure; nevertheless, he was once again on West Coast soil by 6:00 PM, PST.
By the time he was seated behind the steering wheel of a rented car, he had the confirming text message from Phil Roach:
“MS. NICHOLS HAS ORDERED TWO MEALS TO BE DELIVERED TO HER SUITE. HER GUEST RECENTLY ARRIVED. I’VE CONFIRMED THAT SHE TOO IS A GUEST AT THE U.S. GRANT. HER NAME IS MEREDITH RUSSEL. SHE’S A JOURNALIST. FOR PUBLICATION SHE USES THE NAME BANKS.”
Every muscle in Tony’s body tensed. Blood coursed through his veins and echoed in his ears; the reverberating sound kept beat as splashes of red infiltrated his vision. The innocent steering wheel received the brunt of his displeasure as he struck it repeatedly with his clenched fist. After a few loudly yelled expletives, the red faded enough for his vision to register. He was still in the parking lot of the private airstrip. Running his bruised hand through his hair, Tony inhaled deeply and began to text his reply.
His shaky fingers didn’t want to cooperate with the small keypad. Finally, he said, “Screw this,” and dialed Roach’s cell. “I fuck’n knew that was what was happening. Keep watching her suite, and let me know the second something changes. I’m at the airstrip but should be there soon.”
“I have a camera set on her door,” Roach replied.
Tony paid him well enough; he should have damn cameras in the suite. “Text me every ten minutes. I want to know the exact moment that woman leaves Claire’s suite. And text me her room number.”
“Yes, sir.”
This damn nightmare felt like it had been going on for weeks, but in reality it only been happening since late the same morning. Shelly had sent an email with a copy of Meredith Banks’ planned retraction. It was a seemingly benign article stating that in 2010, she’d used her journalistic prowess to connect the dots of her story about Claire Nichols, and that Ms. Nichols never mentioned or alluded to her involvement with Anthony Rawlings. Apparently, Meredith submitted the short article to various publications. Thankfully, Shelly had connections—connections who understood Anthony Rawlings’ desire for privacy. Someone from Rolling Stone alerted her. She’d been able to dissuade a few avenues of publication, and the Rawlings legal team was diligently working to stop more. With each mile toward the U.S. Grant Hotel, Tony’s disappointment grew.
It wasn’t the retraction that bothered Tony, other than the fact that it confirmed Claire’s innocence during the supposed interview nearly three years ago. He tried not to remember that night or the horrendous weeks that followed. Nevertheless, the parallels to his current situation were ironic. Once again, he was waiting, just as he’d waited for her that night in her suite. In 2010, she was at her lake, unaware of the circumstances of his rage. Tonight, she wasn’t innocent. Claire was willfully, willingly divulging private information. She was in that damn hotel, eating and talking with Meredith Banks. She was breaking his rules with no regard for the consequences!
Last time he flew home from New York, this time it was from home to San Diego. As the sky darkened and he sat silently watching the people come and go from the grand hotel, Tony imagined the conversation occurring floors above in the luxurious suite. He wouldn’t have it—this was not debatable.
The part of the article that upset Tony, sent off alarms, and caused the Rawlings legal team to scurry was the last paragraph. Tony had it memorized:
She has, however, promised me exclusive rights to her story, promising an enlightening view into the world of her true relationship with one of this country’s wealthiest men, as well as the truth behind her arrest, plea, incarceration, and unconventional release. Please stay tuned. The wait will be worth it!
The one variable that was dissimilar to 2010 was the intensity of the redness. There were moments as he waited that it deepened, blinding him to the world outside of the car, but then he would remember Claire—her lying on the floor of the suite, battered and unconscious, the doctor and nurse’s prognosis before she regained consciousness, and the bruises that took forever to fade. Each memory worked to lessen the crimson. He wouldn’t allow another accident, but he would confront her. Tony would make sure that she understood that this alliance with Meredith Banks would not continue.