Ryan moves to the unit under the window to adjust the temperature.
He rummages around the room a few minutes then heads to the bathroom. It’s not long before he’s crawling into bed next to me. I let him pull me close. He doesn’t speak and doesn’t push for anything more. We’re connected from our head to our feet, and I can feel the steady beat of his heart where it’s pressed against my back. There are a few moments where I think he’s gearing up to say something, but words never surface.
I replay the conversation between Ryan and George over and over and over.
“You seem distracted. Want to talk about what’s on your mind?” The whispered question so close to my ear feels intimate. Like we’re really in this together.
“I’m just tired.”
He doesn’t push for an answer, but instead runs his fingers through my hair just the way he knows I like. It’s a while before either of us fall asleep.
Chapter 22
Present Day
I’m up before the sun.
It took me forever to fall asleep last night, and when I finally did, I was restless. Ryan always sleeps hardest in that last hour before he wakes for the day, so this is the best opportunity to look for the papers he had when he came back from meeting George.
Ryan’s grip on me has lessened during the night so it’s easy to slip out of the bed without waking him. Crawling across the floor, I make my way to his bags. He’s got the duffel with all his clothes, shoes, and toiletries, and a laptop bag for his work stuff. I’ve been through this bag a number of times, dug through the files on his computer, and checked his internet history, but other than the things I’ve already found for Mr. Smith, he’s careful about what he leaves lying around.
Now I’m realizing it’s because he knew I’d be looking. I only found what he wanted me to. So stupid.
But those papers George gave him should be here somewhere unless he read them and then threw them out with the pizza boxes.
The air unit under the window kicks back on and drowns out the sounds of his bag being unzipped. The laptop comes out first since it takes up the most room. There’s a yellow legal pad he takes notes on while he talks to clients and a spiral-bound prospectus on some mutual fund I’ve heard him push on a few of the calls he’s taken since we hit the road.
A stack of papers are tucked away in the inside pocket. I go through them, sheet by sheet, most of them relating to the financial services business, and I’m preparing myself for the possibility that they aren’t here, until the edges curl up on the last few sheets in the pile as if its muscle memory has kicked in.
These were the ones that were rolled up.
Spreading them back open, it doesn’t take me long to recognize what this is.
Alarm bells slam through my head.
This is the last batch of information I left for Mr. Smith. Devon had slipped it to me in that People magazine, and I had gone through it to decide what I wanted to turn over. The small handwritten note in blue ink in the bottom corner of the last page, where I tell him I will check the box again the next day, lets me know this is the original, not a copy, since all I had in my purse was a blue ink pen.
This shouldn’t be here.
I turn around and take in Ryan’s sleeping form and the puzzle in my head starts to rearrange. Even if I consider that Ryan is higher up the ladder than I am, he shouldn’t have this. Not the originals like this. Not delivered to him by George. Not when it sounds like George picked them up from the mailbox and brought them directly here, to him.
The idea that Mr. Smith wanted this business for himself seemed like the most likely scenario, but what if it’s more than that? There is no danger of me screwing up the hostile takeover of a business he already owns. No reason to keep me on a job that’s not a job at all.
My mind races, tripping over theories and speculations and suspicions, while the air conditioner purrs and Ryan sleeps.
The meeting between Ryan and George yesterday confirmed a couple of things. George knows where we are because Ryan told him. And the way they interacted with each other spoke to a closeness that only forms over time.
I have been trying to put a face to Mr. Smith for years. Turning to look at Ryan three feet away, it’s hard to believe he could be the boss I’ve grown to despise.
No. No, that’s not right. He’s too young. Timeline doesn’t match up.
As I shove everything back in the bag the exact way I found it, I mentally scroll through every conversation with Mr. Smith.
The first time I talked to him was eight years ago. Ryan was still at LSU and has no connection to North Carolina.
Mr. Smith handed me off to Matt, who I dealt with solely over the next two years. I didn’t speak to Mr. Smith again until after the Andrew Marshall job six years ago.
Six years ago.
Ryan’s grandmother fell ill with cancer six years ago. Ryan stepped in to handle the trucking business—both the legal and illegal side—for his grandfather, so he could stay home to care for his wife, and eventually took over the business fully after he died not long after.
Was that all he took over?
No.
No.
Ryan is going to Atlanta with me where I’ll talk to a bunch of cops. Would he open himself up like that?
And then I’m back at the Bernards’ house in my mind. Seeing that small room where we answered every question asked of us. Where that detective learned Evie Porter was from Brookwood, Alabama. Because Ryan told them. “Evie moved here from Brookwood, Alabama, a few months ago. She didn’t know James.”
No, no, no.
And then Monday morning in the garage. Where Ryan lingered. And I ignored the 911 message from Devon. Because Ryan wasn’t ready to let me go. I remember thinking, Had I not lingered with Ryan in the garage, I would have seen Devon’s text as soon as I received it. Those few minutes may have cost me a clean getaway.
But wait. No. Mr. Smith responded to Mitch on that forum after we left Oxford. Ryan was driving. I think back on the moment I saw the message come across. I was in the passenger seat of my car. Ryan had just filled it up with gas and gone inside for more snacks. He was in the store while I was watching the conversation between Mr. Smith and Mitch.
The memory of the moment between Ryan and George boots up and I watch it again through a different lens. The familiarity is still there, same as I would have with George. But it’s Ryan making the decisions. George deferring to him. George delivering the papers to him.
This job was a test. Testing my loyalty.
And shit, Ryan would have known immediately that I’d altered the information on his business before I turned it over. He has direct proof I wasn’t doing the job I was sent to do. And I was worried about him losing his business to Mr. Smith.
I knew I would be watched closely.
What better way to watch me than when I’m sharing the same space?
No.
Not going there. Not yet.
While it’s easy to jump to conclusions, it’s also very dangerous to make assumptions.
I crawl back to my side of the bed and snatch my phone off the nightstand and pull up Instagram.
Scrolling through my feed, I stop on the Skimm’s post recapping the five biggest news stories of the day and comment: That is breaking news! Too hot for me to handle! #OnTheRoadAgain #PartyOfOne
It’s a good chance Devon won’t see this for a couple of hours, but I need him to know I’m out of here and leaving Ryan behind.