“This is crazy. I bought your brother’s house, and now you’re buying mine.”
They talked about the house for several more minutes, and then Alec asked, “Are you absolutely certain you want to move to Boston?”
“I’d better be,” she said. “I own your brother’s town house.”
Frowning now, he reminded her, “You love your house here, and you love this city.”
“I also love the house I just purchased, and I love Boston.”
“Didn’t you like teaching at St. Matthew’s?”
“Yes, I did, but I’m ready for a change.”
“Maybe you should take some more time to think about it.”
She wanted Alec to stop pressing. Did he know the real reason she was leaving? She thought maybe he did. Regan and Sophie believed Cordie had gotten over her silly infatuation with Aiden a long time ago, but Alec was far more observant and not so easily fooled. She told herself it didn’t matter. If he did know the truth, he would never tell anyone. Her secrets were safe with him.
“If you’re serious about buying my brownstone, it’s yours.”
And the question of her moving was finally put to rest. Alec started talking about the changes he would make, and he became ridiculously enthusiastic when he described, in detail, how he would finish the basement and put in a wall-to-wall flat-screen 3-D television. He also had grand plans for the large backyard, quadrupling the size of the patio, for starters, to accommodate his new grill and smoker. Typical man, she thought. It was all about the barbecue. Hopefully, Regan would rein him in.
Reconnecting with her friends was comforting, and spilling her guts—as Sophie would say—about Simone was cathartic. She didn’t get home until midnight, and, because she’d been so absentminded these days, twice she checked to make sure her doors were locked before she went to bed.
The home appraisal and inspection were put on the schedule the next day, and aside from measuring for new drapes and choosing different paint colors for the walls, Regan and Alec weren’t in any hurry to close on the house, which saved Cordie from having to put her things in storage. The house in Boston wasn’t going to be ready for at least three weeks, maybe as many as four.
Since she didn’t have to stage her house to sell it, she decided to do what her father had done when he sold his home and get rid of some of her furniture. The pretty but uncomfortable chairs were the first to go. Watching them being hauled off gave her a new sense of freedom. She got a little carried away then and donated everything but her books, her bed, a small table, and a couple of chairs. The only painting she kept was an abstract Alec’s sister-in-law, Laurant, had painted for her. It was bold and empowering, and she loved it.
The following week was filled with meetings with bankers and attorneys to work out the financial details of her father’s estate and other less important appointments and errands she needed to get done before she left for Boston. Every day was a whirlwind of activity. She couldn’t pinpoint exactly when she started getting a weird feeling that someone was watching her, but the feeling was there, and it was growing stronger.
The first time she acknowledged her suspicion was after her dentist appointment. As she was walking toward her car in the parking garage, she heard footsteps behind her, keeping pace with her; but when she turned around, there wasn’t anyone there. She didn’t hear the sound again as she ran to her car. Had she just imagined it?
The next incident happened at the art gallery. She had gone there to say good-bye to all her favorite paintings and was alone in a large area she called the blue room. All of a sudden she felt a chill on the back of her neck, an intuitive sense that someone was standing behind her, but when she turned around, all she saw was a shadow crossing the doorway to the next exhibit. Was it just her overactive imagination again?
She got the strongest feeling the day she made a visit to her father’s grave. When she drove into the cemetery, she noticed a dark sedan with tinted windows pull in behind her. It stayed several hundred feet away, and when she stopped her car and climbed the hill to the grave site, the car stopped, too. While she arranged the fresh flowers she’d brought, she glanced over her shoulder several times. No one emerged from the sedan, but she had an intense sensation that she was being watched. She quickly gathered up her things and rushed back to her car. As she drove away, she checked in her rearview mirror. The black car was still sitting there.
She had no idea if her fears were valid, and without any kind of proof, she wasn’t about to bother Alec or Jack. They were busy with their work, and she didn’t want to become a nuisance. She decided to do a little detective work on her own. Walking down Michigan Avenue she stopped to window-shop and watch people coming and going in the reflection of the glass. That didn’t get her anywhere, so she tried another trick. She pulled out her compact and applied blush to her cheeks, all the while looking in the mirror at the people behind her. She swiveled in a couple of directions to get a panoramic view. No one suspicious was ever there. After employing that method four or five times on her stroll, her cheeks were so red she was beginning to look like a clown.
On her way home, she decided she had been overreacting . . . or she was becoming paranoid. She couldn’t blame her craziness on jet lag now. At least she wasn’t obsessing about Aiden. That happened only at night when she was in bed and the memories of the way he had kissed her and caressed her made her melancholy. It was an awful way to go to sleep, but a ritual she kept repeating. The only bright thought she could muster was that everything would be better as soon as she was settled in her new home in Boston. Her imagination would stop running rampant, her instincts would get back to normal, and she could start a new life with a new house, new furniture, new everything.
SEVENTEEN
The phone calls between Sydney and Chicago were short and to the point.
He followed strict instructions. He was to call Sydney at precisely eleven o’clock in the evening, Sydney time, which translated to eight o’clock in the morning in Chicago. Unless of course there was an emergency. Then he was to call at any time, day or night.
He stood by the window of his hotel room, his cell phone gripped in his hand. He’d already entered the phone number but waited until exactly eight o’clock to make the call.
There was no greeting. “What have you found out?”
“She’s meeting with bankers and attorneys.” He heard the indrawn breath, then a blasphemy, and he rushed on. “I followed her to the cemetery the other day. She went to her father’s grave.”
“Andrew Kane is dead?”
“Yes.”
“When did he die?” There was no emotion behind the question.
“Not long ago. There isn’t a headstone yet. I’ll find out.”
“What about the attorneys?”
“They’re estate lawyers. Her father left her money, a lot of money.”
“How much?”
“Millions.”
“That’s not possible. He was a mechanic.”
“Do you want me—”
“I’ll look into her financials. I should have done that already. I had hoped to control her with money. Perhaps I still can.”
“She doesn’t need money.”
“It’s not a matter of need. No one can have enough. You know that. Is she talking to anyone about me, about the family? I want to get ahead of this. I need to know what she’s planning. It’s making me very . . . anxious. There’s a lot to lose here.”