Tony looked toward the pictures and flowers. “I see.”
Moving to the edge of her chair, she explained, “Not just appearances Anton,” Catherine went on to say how she hadn’t been sure if he’d return. Even if he were alive, she figured as long as he was suspected in Claire’s disappearance, he’d need to stay hidden; therefore, there were matters she decided to deal with herself—the first was Sophia.
Catherine’s eyes brightened. “Anton, you were right—when you told me my daughter would need me! She’s so beautiful, and I’ve wasted too many years not knowing her. I should’ve listened to Nathaniel—and to you.” Before breaking their gaze, she added, “It’s a shame you’ll never have this experience with your child.”
The pencil he’d been holding splintered in his grasp. The loud crack caused Catherine to jump back in her chair. He didn’t respond to her last comment; instead he confirmed, “So your guest is Sophia? She’s here and knows you’re her mother?”
Catherine shook her head. “She’s here. I haven’t told her of our relationship. The time hasn’t been right. In time, she’ll understand how much she needs me.”
Tony contemplated; if he pressed about additional guests, then she may become suspicious. “You don’t want her to know I’m here—in my house?”
“Anton, you can’t tell anyone you’re here. The FBI will arrest you.” Furrowing her brow, she asked, “Why are you here?”
“As I just stated—it’s my house.”
“Yes, of course it is. Do you plan on staying?”
“I plan on ending the Rawls—Nichols—Burke vendetta once and for all.”
Catherine’s serious expression morphed—her whole guise brightened, from her gray eyes to her round cheeks, as her smile extended from ear to ear. Tony suddenly wondered how Nathaniel had loved her—the smile combined with the coldness behind her expression made the bile in his stomach rise, leaving a foul taste as he worked to swallow.
“I want that too—I want to be done!”—she leaned closer—“and we can—Anton, we can! Our goals are in sight. The end is so close! We must hurry, before there are more. I know we don’t know where Claire and the child are, but we can find them. We can finish this once and for all!”
Claire and the child?! Tony sprang to his feet; the poor chair sailed helplessly backwards until it crashed against the cherry bookcase. “No, Catherine!”—He towered over her—“No, I’m stopping it from going any farther. It’s over—now!”
“Anton, we can’t stop—not now.” Her voice mellowed as she reached up and caressed his cheek. “You look so much like your grandfather. He had eyes—”
A cold chill ran down his spine as he recoiled and every muscle in his body tensed. It was as if her touch were from the devil himself. Tony seized Catherine’s hand, and by the pained look on her face, he was squeezing too tight—Tony didn’t care. His words came slowly, through clenched teeth, “Do—not—touch—me—ever!”
It was then he noticed the white gold cross with the large pearl hanging from a fine chain around Catherine’s neck—Claire’s grandmother’s necklace—Emily’s grandmother’s necklace! Releasing her hand, he grabbed the pearl and tugged the delicate chain. He’d broken the damn thing before—he could do it again. Once it was free, he shoved the necklace deep into the pocket of his slacks.
Catherine gasped and reflexively touched her neck. “How dare you! It isn’t like Claire will ever see it again.” Again, her features morphed. Standing defiantly, Catherine brushed invisible debris from her expensive clothes, and walked toward the open room. When she turned, her eyes displayed both hatred and vengeance. Tony remembered that look when she used to talk about his parents. As their proximity decreased the distain in her voice increased. “Are you so love sick over the woman who played you for a fool that you want the necklace as a memento?”—She’d never spoken to him in this tone—“That’s fine. Who knows, they may even let you keep it in prison. If not”—she sneered—“I could always send it to you. I hear they deliver boxes all the time. ”
All coherent thought forgot to register—the grand office was a hue of crimson. Though Tony didn’t know what he was about to do, he knew, without a doubt, it was about to happen. He took two steps toward her, and Catherine’s gaze didn’t waver. He took one more step—when suddenly, the phone on the desk rang breaking the deafening silence. They both turned and stared at the source of the ring, as if it were an alien life form infiltrating their private storm. Finally, their eyes met. The phone which was ringing was the estate’s private number, known only by a few people. On the fourth ring, Catherine asked condescendingly, “Mr. Rawlings, would you like to answer that?”