Found Wanting (10 page)

"I take good care of him."

"I can see that." Emma pursed her lips as she looked Alaina over. "It would appear that you're not as good at taking care of yourself."

Cliff returned, laden with bags of food, and Emma rose to meet him. "Thank you, dear."

Alaina started to call Jonah over, but Emma said, "You eat first. He's busy right now."

Alaina didn't have to be persuaded. She'd lived with the gnawing hunger for too many days now, and she had fed Jonah the last of their cheese and crackers only an hour before. As she tore into the turkey club, she felt Emma watching, assessing. She sensed the woman's disapproval but refused to worry about it. She'd endured worse, and she and Jonah would be on their way soon enough.

"You haven't told me your name," Emma said.

"Anna," Alaina said, feeling an unexpected twinge at the lie. "Anna King."

"Anna King," Emma repeated, as if testing the name for authenticity. "Anna, I happen to have a job opening."

Alaina lowered her sandwich, shocked.

"It doesn't pay much," Emma went on. "But if it works out --"

"I'll take it." Alaina didn't care how desperate she sounded. She was desperate. She'd do anything to avoid going back to her family, defeated.

Emma smiled. "Well, then. Finish your lunch, and we'll start getting you trained."

And so began the first truly nurturing relationship Alaina had ever had. Emma was a Godsend in every way. She seemed to sense that Alaina had no interest in discussing where she and Jonah had come from, and she didn't ask.

After the first month, she persuaded Alaina to move into the extra bedroom in her apartment above the bookstore. Alaina didn't hesitate. She had come to adore Emma, and so had Jonah. The feelings were mutual. Emma doted on them both as if Alaina were her daughter and Jonah her grandson. The three of them lived in Emma's tiny apartment for a year before Emma talked Alaina into applying to the university whose campus was practically next door to the store.

With the aid of scholarships, student loans and supplemental help from Emma, Alaina entered the University of Wisconsin as a freshman the same day that Jonah started preschool.

Alaina began to marvel at her good fortune. She finally felt safe. She finally felt secure, sure that a college education would guarantee her ability to provide her son a good life. What was more, she finally knew unconditional love.

That was when she started having the nightmare. It was always the same: Layton attacked her while Jonah lay nearby, bleeding. She knew her son was slowly dying, but no matter how hard she fought, she couldn't get away from Layton to help Jonah. Each time, she woke up screaming and sobbing.

Emma didn't pry. She simply, very gently, persuaded Alaina to see a counselor. Alaina surprised herself by agreeing. She surprised herself further by telling the counselor what Layton had done to her, though she edited out any details that might have given away his, or her, identity.

The diagnosis: post-traumatic stress. "You've begun to let your guard down," the counselor said, "and that's when it's most likely to sneak up on you."

By the time Alaina concluded her junior year of college and her third year of therapy, she felt healthier mentally and physically than she ever had. Life was damn good.

She should have known that that would be when it was most likely to fall apart.

Chapter 9

Alaina's hands shook as she dug in the flower bed outside her apartment door. Last fall, after Jonah lost his key and was locked out, she had buried a spare in a fake rock. But the maintenance crew had since planted new flowers, adding mulch and fresh soil. If the rock had been found, it might have been tossed out. She was already working in her head how to get in if she couldn't find the key.

The sliding door on the deck didn't have the most reliable lock, but she didn't think she was strong enough to force it. The windows were securely locked -- she made sure every night before turning in, no matter how unlikely it was that one had been opened without her knowledge.

Sitting back on her heels, keyless, she studied the front door. Kicking it or otherwise forcing it was not option. She wasn't strong enough, and besides, the force it would take would probably drive her to her knees. Maintenance was no longer on the clock by now, so it would take too long for someone to come open it for her.

Frustration welled up inside her until she had to concentrate to keep from screaming. She didn't have time for this. Jonah needed her. She'd already determined he wasn't here. That meant he had to be at the airport, waiting and worrying.

Hang on, baby, I'm coming.

Brushing the dirt from her hands, Alaina pushed to her feet and raced around the building to the back. The sliding door on the cement slab that served as a deck seemed to be the best option. But when she examined it, she discovered that someone else had reached the same conclusion. The door, half off its track, slid jerkily open, and Alaina stepped into the kitchen and hit the light switch.

The devastation stole her breath. Dishes that had been in the cupboards had been smashed to bits on the floor. The microwave looked like it had been hammered by a brick, the cart that had held it reduced to sticks. The ficus tree that had thrived near the sliding door had been ripped apart, the dirt from its pot thrown around by the handfuls.

The rubble crunched under her feet as she picked her way through it. When all was said and done, it didn't matter. She'd planned to leave it all behind anyway. But the destruction of what was hers and Jonah's was another violation. Whoever had done this hadn't been looking to steal. If they had, the screen of the television wouldn't have been shattered. No, whoever did this did it to violate, to punish. She imagined that the people who shredded the cushions of her sofa had also shot Grant and hurt Lucas.

In the bedroom, her stomach pitched as if she stood on the deck of a boat tossed by three-foot waves. She braced a hand on the wall, her heart stuttering. The closet had been emptied, all of its contents torn to pieces and scattered. A burnt smell permeated the air, and she glanced inside the metal waste can near the door to see blackened sides and a pile of ashes.

What did they burn?

The answer struck her like a fist to the temple. "No," she whispered, tearing through the debris for the locked fireproof box she used to store the paperwork she had accumulated over the years to maintain the identities she and Jonah would assume next. Along with the passports, birth certificates and credit cards she had bought through underground channels years ago, she kept more than a thousand dollars in it.

She found the beige metal box and sat back on her heels, almost giving in to despair. The lock had been broken. The box was empty. Its contents -- or probably everything except the cash -- had been reduced to ashes. She hurled the box against the wall. "Dammit!"

Now what would she do? She and Jonah would have to start from scratch again. No money. No credit. No job. No friends. The thought of it made her head spin, and she fisted her hands in her hair, struggling to get a grip.

When she had the despair under control, she realized that none of this mattered if she didn't find Jonah. If she lost him, then she truly would have nothing. He was her life, her reason for breathing. Everything she had done for the past fourteen years had been for him. She would die for him. She would die without him.

Shoving to her feet, she surveyed the damage in her room and Jonah's and determined that nothing was salvageable. Not even a pair of underwear. The thoroughness of the destruction was staggering, and it struck her that she had seriously underestimated the depth of Layton's rage. Apparently, he had nurtured his hatred for her for fourteen years, and now he was venting it. Though, knowing him, rather than getting his own hands dirty, he had instructed his henchmen to do this. Not as a warning, but as a promise.

The message: First, I'm going to make it very difficult for you to run, and then I'm going to destroy you.

Alaina walked out of the wreckage that had been the home she had shared with Jonah for the past five years and didn't look back.

* * *

"What is that?" Addison asked.

"PlayStation 2." Layton grinned over his shoulder at her from where he sat in front of the television, a game controller gripped in both hands. "Want to play? I'll show you how."

"Since when do you play video games?"

He shrugged, grimacing in frustration as the colorful character on the TV let out a wounded sound and, wearing a pair of angel wings, drifted toward the top of the screen. "That damn turtle thing with the saw blades on its back kills me every time."

Addison sauntered over to the coffee table and examined the CDs piled on it. The titles ranged from ominous-sounding, like Tomb Raider and Resident Evil, to themes like basketball, hockey and car racing. She imagined the games would appeal to a teenage boy.

Her pulse took off at a clip as she studied her husband, who was intent on maneuvering the character on the TV to smash boxes to collect points. His blond hair was damp from a recent shower, and she thought he looked tired, though he seemed to have more energy at the moment than he had had in weeks. "Are you expecting a guest?" she asked.

He didn't respond, or even glance at her.

"Layton."

The video game character issued another yelp, and Layton sat back, the controller in his lap. He glanced up at her, looking boyishly exasperated. "This thing is addictive."

She was struck by how handsome he was, reminded of why she had fallen for him so many years before. The first time she'd met him -- on a visit to her father's office -- she'd wanted him. He was everything: charming, good-looking, smart. When they'd begun dating, he'd lavished flowers and gifts and compliments on her, always seeming interested in what she had to say, always fascinated by stories of her childhood. He'd shared little information about his own, but what he had said suggested that his past was desperately unhappy. His wounded soul had made him all the more attractive to her, and she'd vowed to give him a life so full, so joyful that he would forget his wretched past. Now, full and joyful were not words she would use to describe their lives together. And she was pretty sure she wasn't the only one to blame.

Clearing her throat, conscious of the way he watched her with an expectant look on his face, she asked, "Who's the game for?"

His expression gave away nothing. "Why can't it be for me?"

"You don't have time for games. You rarely even have time to dine with me."

"Maybe I'm trying to change."

"Why now?" she asked.

"Why not?"

She sat beside him on the sofa. "You'd tell me if something was wrong, wouldn't you?"

"Nothing's wrong, Addy. Everything's just great."

She looked into his eyes and saw that he meant it. There was a light in them that hadn't been there for a long time. She wondered again why the FBI was investigating him, wondered for the millionth time what he had done with her father's company when no one had been looking.

She took a breath. "It's been six weeks, Layton. I think we should talk about it."

"Talk about what?"

She sighed. "I know Daddy's will upset you."

Getting up, he began disconnecting the game and packing it in its box. "I'm over it, Addy."

"Are you?"