From the center of the bed, Isla watched her elderly neighbor pop out from her front door wearing only a purple robe too short for her age and white slippers, her hair covered under a shower cap. The woman looked around, snatched up her morning paper, and ducked back inside. She probably thought no one saw her and she’d gotten away with her sneak and grab.
Wrong.
Someone was always watching, even if casually passing by the window or waiting for confidential information to upload about an unhinged, white-collar criminal.
It was human nature. We were encoded to observe and pick at one another’s flaws or limitations. Words and actions can trigger a person’s vulnerabilities or secrets. Isla was proficient at hiding both.
It disturbed her.
Before her parent’s death, Isla was like any other teenage girl. Braces, roller coaster hormones, and her friends were the center of her universe. Isla’s dad worked a traditional nine-to-five job while her mom was Queen PTA and a freelance writer. They never spoke of her grandmother, and they never attended Walker family functions. Isla was busy with volleyball and hacking the school system’s computers to bump her final grade in Spanish from a C to a B+. Isla did the same for a few classmates at twenty dollars a pop, which kept her too busy to question her family makeup.
And then life changed.
Years after her parents died, Isla wanted to know more about her mother’s paternal side, but her grandmother blocked her at every turn. Isla didn’t even know if he was still alive. She never found a death record or a second marriage certificate. Once she located a 1950s census in Detroit, Michigan, but nothing else. Isla was always left with more questions.
Her laptop chimed and brought her back to the present.
A window popped open.
All data downloaded.
Isla moved the cursor over to the folder and clicked. Audio files. She marked the program to highlight sections of the audio with keywords. She clicked on a sizable highlighted part.
“How unfortunate for Dawes.” Martin paused. “Does Ellis know?”
Isla assumed he was on the phone, perhaps a secured landline for private conversations. She slid the volume higher.
“First quarter numbers won’t be in Dawes’s favor. The board will remove him. This news will further push Amaranthine my direction.” Silence. “Let Reed watch the good news over eggs and coffee. He can thank his wife for this.”
She paused the recording.
Lucas Dawes was CFO of Raeford Financial Inc., President of Open Arms Halfway House, and a former cocaine addict. Martin’s steady tone worried her. His reference to Reed bit in her gut.
Isla opened a new screen and typed in a numeric code. Symbols and jumbled words scrolled across the window. As fast as her fingers could tap the keys, Isla’s frustration grew. Martin’s accounts were cloaked. She couldn’t bypass the barrier.
On the outside, all his financials were dormant, personal and business, and she knew that wasn’t possible. Isla slammed down on the keys. Her computer sounded off, not appreciating her tantrum. What was he up to? Did he find the device? Did he know she was listening and screwing with her? Maybe a call to Detroit was in order.
Her cell phone chimed. Ironic. She tapped the speaker.
“Crosby’s dad was arrested,” a panicked Carys said.
“Shit. What happened?”
“He was pulled over last night. Cops found drugs under his seat. It’s bad. We’re talking felony bad.”
“Was Crosby with him?” Isla said.
“No, thank goodness. She would’ve punched the cops out.”
“Or killed them. That explains Martin.”
“Martin?”
Isla picked at the ends of her hair. “I listened to a piece of the recording, and Martin was on the phone talking about him. He set this up.”
“Because of Mia?”
“I don’t know. Maybe.”
“Does my dad know?”
“I just listened to it right before you called. I assume, since the recording is delayed. Martin mentioned Ellis.” The house’s security alerted Isla of a visitor. “Damn. Someone is here, I’ll call you back.”
“Wait, what about Crosby? I’m worried about her. You know how she gets.”
“Track her down and make sure she doesn’t do anything rash. If anyone can talk her down, it’s you, Carys.” She ended the call.
The security system announced, “Isla, you have a guest at the front door.”
“Identify, Mabel.”
“One moment, please . . . Joseph Abbott,” the electronic voice responded.
Isla tipped her head back. “Really?”
She closed her laptop and slid it under the bed. In crumpled jeans and a T-shirt, her mess of tangled hair bounced around her while Isla darted down the stairs to the front door. Her lips stiffened when she saw a side-part of black hair and dark eyes searching through the strip of lattice glass. Isla inputted the code and flung the door open.
“Joe Snake, I mean, Abbott.”
He gave her a slight nod. “Always a pleasure, Mrs. Pierce. May I come in for a moment?”
Isla sidestepped from the doorway, and he brushed past her. Their conversation wasn’t going to end well.