He put his face in his hands again and the room fell silent. Annabelle watched as Dylan rocked ever so slightly back and forth on the couch. From behind his hands, he said, “They killed my mom too, didn’t they?”
This time, Jack closed his eyes. He took a deep breath and licked his lips, then opened his eyes again. “Yes.”
“They killed them both. For whatever’s on that fucking laptop.” Dylan raised his head, lowering his hands, and looked up at Annabelle. She gently brushed a lock of his curly hair from his forehead. He lowered his gaze once more, this time staring at nothing.
“My mom and dad grew up in Salt Lake City. They were high school sweet hearts.” His tone had gone even, dead. “My mom was my age when I was born. My dad, a year older. The church was furious with them, as were my grandparents. Sex before marriage and all that crap. When they told everyone they were bringing me here, they were disowned. Literally,” he laughed harshly. “Can you fucking believe that shit? Disowned because they were in love and wanted to leave that God-forsaken hell hole of a town.”
“My mom told me, years later, that my dad and grandfather had one last conversation, over the phone, after he left. It was like that song, you know? My grandpop told him it would never work, that he and my mom would never make it and that they would come crawling back.” He laughed again, this time more gently. Across from him, Jack was motionless, simply listening, absorbing the information silently. “Well, together, we proved them wrong.”
And then Dylan’s face went slack. “But they were right, weren’t they? Mom and dad were cursed.”
Annabelle was about to tell him he was wrong, but Jack’s phone rang just as she opened her mouth. She closed it and she and Dylan turned to watch the man stand and move to the adjoining kitchen, where a portable telephone hung on the wall.
He picked it up. “Yes.”
They watched as his expression became unreadable. He listened for several seconds and then said, “Thank you,” and hung up.
Jack came back into the living room and pinned Annabelle with a blue-eyed gaze of uncomfortable intensity. “Your detective Chen and her partner have been to my house,” he said simply, the Sheffield in his accent coming on strong.
Annabelle blinked. What? They’d been to Jack’s house? But why? She sighed and ran a hand through her hair. Of course. Obviously, they thought he might know something. Maybe the autopsy had come out screwy. Maybe he just looked suspicious…
She continued to watch in silence as he moved to the wall where his black sports coat hung on a hook. He pulled a cell phone from his jacket pocket and flipped it open. He took a long, deep breath, in and out through his nose, as he punched a button and the phone dialed. Who was he calling?
Annabelle could tell Jack was upset. She’d known him long enough to be able to read his body language and, quiet or not, right now there was a bucket-load of tension running through that hard body.
And then she realized why.
If the detectives had linked him to this case, then so would the bad guys, who would probably be keeping an eye on the investigation in order to cover their own asses. And if they saw the cops pay Jack a visit, then they might decide to do the same.
And Sherry would be in danger.
“It’s Thane,” Jack said suddenly, jerking Annabelle out of her realization. She listened.
“Get Sherry out of the country. She’s been wanting to visit Rome. Tell her that I’ve asked her to meet me there.”
He was quiet a few seconds and Annabelle desperately wanted to know what the person on the other end of the line was saying.
“A few days. Four at most.” He paused again and then nodded once. “Good.” He closed the phone and slipped it back into his jacket pocket.
“I’m sorry, Jack,” Annabelle said softly.
He turned to her, one eyebrow lifted inquisitively. “It isn’t your doing, luv.”
“Who’s Sherry?” Dylan asked.
“My wife.”
It was Dylan’s turn to blink. He straightened. “You’re married?”
“Yes. And I have children, in case you were going to ask that next.”
Dylan straightened further, running his hands down his pants legs as he studied Jack carefully. Jack, for his part, simply stood there, a figure of calm in black from head to toe.
“How many?”
“I have a daughter your age and a son five years younger.”
Now Annabelle could tell that Jack was trying hard not to smile. He knew that he had Dylan’s utmost attention and was probably relieved to have distracted the teenager from his pain. So, he continued calmly. “My daughter’s name is Clara. She and her younger brother, Ian, live with their mother in Essex.”
Dylan continued to rub his hands on his jeans a few moments more, and then he stood. “I’m gonna get dressed. I’m going with you to get the laptop.”
“No you’re not,” Jack told him simply, shaking his head once. His sculpted, tanned arms were crossed over his chest and his booted feet were planted apart in what could be interpreted as a fighting stance. At the same time, he seemed perfectly at ease.
“Like hell I’m not,” Dylan told him. His green eyes narrowed and his hands balled into fists at his sides.
Annabelle stood and placed her hand gently on his shoulder. “Dylan, it isn’t safe. You and I have probably already been identified by whoever killed your father. They might even know we’re here, and if we step foot out that front door,” she gestured to the apartment door several feet away, “then we’ll be followed. They’ll wait until they know where the laptop is or until we have it and then they’ll take it from us.” She lowered her hand as Dylan turned to face her. “By whatever means possible.”
“She’s right,” Jack said softly, the hint of a smile curling the corners of his mouth. Annabelle turned on him, her brown eyes sparked with a hint of angry amber.
“Yes, I am, Jack. And now that we know the detectives have been to your home, we can safely bet that they know who you are too, and that you’ll be followed just as we would have been. It isn’t safe for you to go either.”
Jack’s eyebrow lifted. He opened his mouth to speak, but Dylan beat him to it.
“I’m not letting some unknown stranger touch my mom’s laptop-”
“Jack knows people that he can trust who can get it for us and bring it to us safe and sound.” Annabelle cut her gaze from Dylan to Jack. She knew she was right.
Jack closed his mouth again and blinked. Then his smile broadened and he shook his head slowly. “Very well. I’ll make a phone call.” He reached back into the pocket of the sports coat and pulled out the same cell phone he’d used before. Then he used his other hand to pull a second cell phone from the opposite inside pocket. The second phone, he tossed to Annabelle, who caught it easily but looked up at him questioningly. “Order a pizza,” he told her as he opened his phone and turned to leave the room. “I have no food in this bloody apartment.”
Chapter Seven
“We’re going to need to get a copy of that suicide note,” Annabelle said, breaking the silence that had enveloped the three of them. They were sitting in the entertainment room of the vast apartment, Dylan on the couch, now wearing a black Rolling Stones t-shirt and tennis shoes with his jeans, Annabelle and Jack in opposite chairs. The furniture set faced a forty-inch screen on which Linda Hamilton, whose body reminded Annabelle of a much skinnier version of Sherry, stabbed a Buck knife into a wooden table and then got up and left. The director’s cut of Terminator Two was a shared love between Dylan and Annabelle. Normally, they would be commenting on editorial mistakes and physical unlikelihoods throughout the entire movie, but at the moment, Dylan stared at the screen as if he couldn’t see it. And Annabelle stared at Jack.