Elusive (On The Run Book #1) (8 page)

She was up here with a ladder and
had a screwdriver in her hand. She might as well look there, too. She moved up
a step on the ladder. It only took a few turns of the screwdriver to loosen the
cover. She gave it a twist and it dropped down, exposing more wires curled into
a tight ball.
Okay. There you
go. Nothing. Now you can go to bed and sleep easy...after you figure out where to
stash the rolls of money
.

She shoved the cover back into
place, but it stuck. It wouldn’t slide into the grooves so she could replace
the screws. She pulled the cover away and ran her fingers along the inner rim.
Instead of the smooth metal she expected, her fingers touched something with a
slightly bumpy texture. She ran her fingertips along the uneven surface until
she found an edge, then slid her finger under it and pulled it out. It was a
small book.

She recognized it even before she
flipped the dark blue book over and saw the gold lettering on the front. It was
a passport. The face in the picture belonged to her ex-husband, but the name
didn’t.

––––––––

Dallas

Wednesday, 11:22 p.m.

––––––––

“BRIAN Kenneth McGee,” Zoe
whispered as she read the name off the passport, shaking her head. “What have
you gotten me into, Jack?”

Almost fearfully, Zoe reached back
up and felt around inside the rest of the cover. Sure enough, on the other side
there was another passport, this one with a woman’s picture. Irena Anna
Whitehead. In her thirties, she had dark hair, cut in a shoulder-length bob,
which framed her pale face. She wore severe rectangular dark-framed glasses and
had a wide face and a delicate mouth. Not a beautiful face, but striking. There
was a confidence that showed through even in the personality-erasing identity
photo.

Still perched on the top of the
ladder, Zoe repositioned her hip and leaned against the top step of the ladder.
Her whole world had been thrown out of sync in the last twenty-four hours, and
she felt a little unsteady. Why did this passport for Brian have Jack’s
picture? Who was Irena? Why did Jack have her passport? Were the passports
fakes?

They certainly looked authentic.
When she angled the page with the photo to the light, a film of embossed seals
glittered. She made sure there was nothing else unusual inside the cover of the
ceiling fan, then replaced it. It slid easily into the track this time. She
quickly replaced the screws then scrambled down the ladder. Downstairs in her
room, she pulled open her top dresser drawer and pushed aside a tangle of
jewelry along with a pile of notebooks. She found her passport under a twist of
scarves. She’d only used it once, for Helen’s destination wedding in Cancun.

Zoe compared the passports and
couldn’t see any difference between the two she’d found in the ceiling fan and
hers, except that the passports for “Brian” and “Irena” had never been used.
Zoe stacked all three passports and tapped them against her chin. Why have a
passport with a name other than your own? A thought struck her, and she felt as
if she’d been punched in the gut. What if Jack wasn’t his real name—what if it
was Brian? She felt slightly sick at the thought. Had he deceived her for
years? Who was he? And this Irena person, who was she?

Zoe opened the Brian passport. No
one looks good in their passport photo, but Jack’s squared off jaw and blue
eyes insured that he looked passable, despite the horrible lighting that gave
his skin a yellow cast. His hair was different, longer around the ears, and it
was a bit darker than it was now. He looked...younger, more fresh-faced and eager
than he did now. The issue date of the passport was four years ago. What had he
been doing four years ago?

She sat down on the edge of the
bed and looked up at the ceiling. Jack had never been one to talk about his
past. She hadn’t pressed. His dad died during his senior year of college. His
mom had been fighting cancer for years and died a year later, so Zoe had always
assumed that talking about his past was too painful.

Jack had graduated from college in
Georgia with an engineering degree, then gone to work for a pharmaceutical
company right out of college, but he’d hated it. She squinted up at the corner
of the room. What had he said? Something about a friend from school had helped
him get a federal job. He’d moved to D.C. and lived in a condo in Georgetown,
he’d said. Cubicle work, he’d called it. Boring. So boring that he’d quit after
a few years and put every penny he had into the GRS with Connor. Had he ever
traveled outside the U.S.? And why did he have a passport for Irena?

“You’re not going to get any
answers sitting here,” she muttered to herself and went to get the ladder.
There were three more ceiling fans in the house. By the time she’d worked her
way downstairs to the flea market room, she’d found two more thick rolls of
cash. Her short nap had rejuvenated her, and she was wide-awake, almost jittery,
as she climbed down the ladder into the debris of the flea market room after
replacing the cover of the last ceiling fan.

She surveyed the chaos, thinking
this would be a great place to hide something. It was a life-size Where’s Waldo
puzzle. She began in the corner by the door and worked her way though the room.
The only interesting thing she found was her polka dot flip-flops that she had
lost. One hand on her hip, she surveyed the room and considered what to do
next.

Look through the kitchen? Her gut
reaction told her that Jack wouldn’t have hidden anything there. It was the
room she was in the most of the time. The island was basically her office, and
since she worked from home it was her default location. There hadn’t been
anything hidden in the ceiling fan in her room either, so it appeared that Jack
avoided areas that they had designated as her space.

She had looked through his car,
his room, and his computer files. Had Helen checked his e-mail? Zoe
absentmindedly pushed her hair off her forehead as she rewound what Helen said.
No, she’d said she checked his documents. Zoe had only glanced at the recent
e-mail. There might be something in his sent mail folder...

Fifteen minutes later, she’d
changed into a tank top and silk pajama pants and was lounging in her bed with
Jack’s laptop balanced on her legs. Her hair, damp from her quick shower, was
twisted up in a clip on top of her head. She’d placed the passports and rolls
of money in the envelope with the pictures Connor had sent. It was on the bed
among the scattering of throw pillows.

As she opened Jack’s computer, she
felt none of the qualms she had earlier. Clearly Jack was involved in something
and, with his disappearance, he’d pulled her into it, too. She opened the
e-mail program. The more she knew, the better she’d be.

Her burst of energy burned off
quickly, and by the time she’d worked her way through a week’s worth of boring
e-mails about routine GRS business, she could barely keep her eyes open.
Discussions about how much copy paper to buy and whether or not they should
upgrade their printer did not make for thrilling reading.
This is why I don’t want to work in an
office
, she thought to herself as she rubbed her eyes. Across the
room, her phone buzzed. Zoe shifted the computer to the bed and lunged for her
jeans that she’d dropped over the back of a chair in the corner. Both her phone
and Jack’s were in the pockets of her jeans. She grabbed the hem, reeled the
jeans to her, and pulled the ringing phone out before the call could go to voicemail.

“Zoe Hunter, please,” said a rich,
languid female voice with a trace of a Southern accent.

“Speaking,” Zoe said. She hadn’t
checked the incoming call and didn’t recognize the voice.

“This is Eddie with Murano
Glassworks, returning your call. How can I help you?”

“Oh, right.” Zoe thumped back onto
the bed. She’d forgotten about the call to Eddie. How to break the news? She
fiddled with a strand of her hair that had escaped from the clip. “I called
about Jack...I have some bad news.”

“What was that? The connection
isn’t good.”

How had the Highway Patrol said
it? What words had they used? Zoe scrambled to remember, but she couldn’t
recall their exact phrases. Better to just come out with it, she decided. “I
have some news about Jack, Jack Andrews. I’m really sorry to tell you this, but
Jack is missing.”

The line went silent.

After a few beats, Zoe asked, “Are
you still there?”

“Ah, yes, but you must have the
wrong number. I don’t know a Jack...what did you say his last name was?”

“Andrews.” Maybe Helen was right
and there were two people named Eddie at the business?

“No. Sorry,” the woman said, her
voice indicating the call was over.

“Wait! Don’t hang up. Is there
another Eddie there?”

“No.”

“But there has to be,” Zoe
insisted. “Jack’s cousin Eddie works at Murano Glassworks.”

“We have exactly four employees,
including myself and there’s no other Eddie. I’m the owner—I should know.”

“Then it’s got to be you,” Zoe
said. “Jack talked about his cousin in Vegas, even met with you on his business
trips out there.”

“I don’t know what this Jack guy
told you—”

“He’s my ex-husband, and I have an
e-mail he sent you,” Zoe’s free hand dug into the comforter, twisting and
wrinkling the lush fabric.

“I wish I could help you, but I
don’t know him,” the woman said and hung up.

Zoe pulled the phone away from her
ear and stared at it, checking the number. Yes, she recognized the pattern of
the last four numbers. It was the number she’d dialed earlier, the number from
Jack’s e-mail to this Murano Glassworks place. “What is going on?” she asked
aloud, rubbing her forehead.

––––––––

Dallas

Thursday, 8:37 a.m.

––––––––

THE sun had barely cleared the
treetops, and the humidity was already building, but Zoe barely noticed as her
feet pounded the asphalt. She had awoken with all the questions still buzzing
around her brain and decided a run might clear her head. It felt good to focus
inwardly, settling into the comforting rhythm of her breathing and the pulse of
the music in her ears. On her tight budget, she couldn’t afford a gym or the
martial arts classes that she and Jack had briefly taken together during the
early months of their marriage. Any kind of fitness classes were out of her
reach financially now, but she didn’t mind. She had some kickboxing and yoga
videos for when the weather was too bad to go outside, but running was her most
frequent workout—cheapest, too. She splurged on a pair of Asics running shoes
once a year, and she was set.

She made the turn in the
cul-de-sac near the end of her run at Whispering Wind Court, her cue to crank
up the speed. She loved her sprint home, and she shot out of the short
cul-de-sac, her ponytail beating against her shoulders as her arms pumped. She
glanced left and right before she dashed across the street and that was when
she caught a glimpse of the brown car again. She stumbled, regained her
balance, and automatically returned to her quick pace.

That
can’t be a coincidence
. Her thoughts raced as quickly as her feet.
It was the same car she’d seen yesterday, doing the slow roll by her house, and
now it was back again. She made the turn onto her block, and instead of running
home, she dodged into her neighbor’s yard and slipped behind the tall hedge
that bordered their house.

Breathing noisily, she crouched,
wishing she hadn’t worn a hot pink tank. At least her running shorts were
black. She waited, her heart hammering and her calves tightening from the
abrupt halt in exercise and her awkward position. She shifted on the balls of
her feet. The street remained empty and quiet, except for the chatter of a
squirrel.
Maybe I am losing it
.

Then she heard the low purr of an
engine and the brown car slid past. The older FBI guy, the quiet one, was on
the passenger side, and his gaze scoured the street.

Zoe leaned back against her
neighbor’s house. The rough brick bit into her bare shoulders. They were
following her. Watching her. The thought made her heart rate climb more than
her jog had.

Zoe quickly shadowed the hedge and
slipped into her backyard. She slammed into the kitchen, grabbed a paper towel,
and wiped the sweat from her forehead and the back of her neck as she sprinted
upstairs. In Jack’s bedroom, she stood to one side of the window, careful not
to let her sweaty back touch the gold curtains. Her breathing had returned to
normal, and she was doing some calf stretches by the time the brown car eased
up to the curb a few houses down and parked.

Zoe bit her lip as she stared at
the car. No one got out. Why were they following her? What did they have to
gain from watching her? She knew nothing about GRS and after her discoveries
last night, it was apparent that she didn’t even know Jack that well. Heck,
they probably knew more about him—the real Jack—than she did. She stepped away
from the window and went to shower, hoping it would be a blazing hot and humid
day. Maybe that would send them on their way.

After her shower, she placed
another call to Murano Glassworks. She’d called before her run, but they hadn’t
been open, so she was relieved when a human answered. It was a woman, but she
didn’t have Eddie’s sultry Southern accent.

“Eddie, please,” Zoe said,
crisply.

“Who should I say is calling?”

Zoe gave her name and listened to
the Black Eyed Peas singing about how it was going to be a good night. Zoe
didn’t share their optimism. The same woman came back on the line. “Sorry.
Eddie can’t take your call, and she would like for you to stop calling.” The
dial tone sounded before Zoe could form a reply.

“Of all the...” Zoe muttered,
hitting redial. Eddie had answers. Zoe knew she did. Jack had gone to Las
Vegas. Zoe had seen the travel confirmation messages in his e-mail, and he’d
mentioned Eddie plenty of times. Zoe even had the e-mail they’d exchanged.

The call rang, then finally went
to the store’s voicemail. They obviously had caller ID. She needed another
phone. She dialed on the home phone and asked for Eddie, but the same woman
sighed with exasperation. “I recognize your voice. I’m not going to put you
through, so you might as well stop calling. If you persist, it’s harassment,
you know. We’ll contact the police.”

“Listen, I’ve got the FBI
practically camped out on my doorstep—” The woman hung up on her. Zoe let out a
growl.