And then another thought makes my hands wrap tighter around the wheel. Could the blocked number and the 678 number be owned by the same person?
I roll that one around in my mind, poking and prodding for holes. The Best Buy geek said the Seattle texts, the ones that showed up as a blocked number on my phone, were sent from a messaging app and therefore couldn’t be traced. What if the 678 phone has the messaging app on it? It’s entirely possible they originated from the same cell phone.
I take a right on North Highland and follow the two-lane road through the heart of Virginia Highlands. By now it’s close to six, and the streets and sidewalks are crammed with rush-hour and dinner traffic. I creep along, trying to convince myself the senders are the same, but I can’t. The tone of the texts was too different, the messages too contrasting.
I swerve into a parking lot and dig my phone off the floor, pulling up the text string from the blocked number. Compared to the threat from the 678 number, these texts seem almost innocuous. Urging me to go home, to not believe what I was hearing about Will from the folks in Rainier Vista. Like whoever it was didn’t want me to find out the truth about Will.
I think about who would want to keep me in the dark about Will’s past, who would have something to lose or gain if I found out, and the only person I can come up with is...Will. Will didn’t want me to know, enough so that he lied about his parents, his background, his ties to Rainier Vista and Seattle. Will is the most likely person to have sent those texts.
Which is, of course, impossible. A dead man can’t send a text.
And then Corban’s words filter through my brain, the ones Will made him swear on his mother’s grave: I promised that if anything ever happened to him, I’d look out for you. Is Corban the person behind the blocked number, an anonymous protector fulfilling his promise to a dead friend? I let the possibility sink into my brain, but something about it doesn’t feel right, something doesn’t quite pass the smell test.
And then it hits me. Corban didn’t know about Will’s past in Seattle, either. He was just as stunned as I’d been when I found out. Either that, or the man is a world-class actor.
Frustration burns across my chest, and I shove my car into Reverse, swinging it around and punching the gas for the road home. Do I get help? Contact the police and have them trace the 678 number? Maybe I should tell them about Nick threatening to take me down in order to get back the money. Maybe Nick is the one behind the text?
But what if Dave is right? I could be held accountable. And they might try to take the ring. I splay my fingers on the wheel, and the diamonds flash in the sunlight coming through the front windshield. I picture myself rolling it off my finger and dropping it into an evidence bag, and a panicky feeling rises in my throat. I remember Will’s soft smile when he put it there, on the morning of the day he died, and my hand tightens into a fist.
They’ll have to cut my finger off to get it.
*
I have an antiquated system. This is what the alarm guy—a potbellied man who tells me to call him Big Jim—says as soon as I walk through the front door. Something about my panels and motion sensors being far too basic for the newer technology, which nowadays works via GSM rather than hardwired telephone lines. He tells me all this in a rambling, roundabout way, using far too many words for the message he’s trying to convey.
I interrupt him halfway to nowhere, softening my words with a smile. “Is there a price in there somewhere?”
The grin Big Jim gives me in return is big and wide, revealing teeth as crooked as they are yellow. “There’s a price in there, but I was just working up to it gentle-like, so as not to scare you off.”
“It’s like pulling off a Band-Aid. Just say it really fast and get it over with. It’s less painful that way.”
“Six hundred bucks.” He hands me a handwritten proposal, tapping his mouth with a pen. “That’s to install all new equipment, add glass breaks to the rooms on the ground floor, replace your old panels and add another one to your bedroom wall, all of which will qualify your system for our basic package.”
My cell phone feels hot in my pocket, the threatening words flashing across my mind. Tell me where Will hid the money or you’ll be joining him.
“How much for your mac-daddy system?” I say.
One of Big Jim’s bushy brows rises up his forehead. “You talking cameras and two-way voice intercoms and panic buttons?”
“Is that the best you’ve got?”
“Yes, ma’am, top-of-the-line. Also comes with a video monitoring system you can control from your phone or computer.”
“Sold.”
“But I haven’t told you the price.”
“Whatever it is, I’ll pay it. And if you install everything today, it comes with the added bonus of a home-cooked meal and a hefty tip. From the smell of things, my money’s on spaghetti.” I give him a this is your lucky day smile. “Mom’s meatballs are world-class.”
He leans back on his heels and cackles. “It’s a deal.”
I leave him to his work and head down the hallway into the kitchen, where Mom is at the stove, stirring a pot large enough to feed the whole block. She hears me dump my bag on the counter and tosses me a smile over her shoulder.
“Hi, sweetheart. You’re just in time. Dinner will be ready in fifteen.”
“Perfect.” I drop a kiss on her cheek, getting a good whiff of tomatoes and garlic and spices, and my stomach growls at the same time nausea twists it in a knot. “Hope you don’t mind, but I just offered to feed the alarm guy.”
Mom’s face brightens. There’s nothing she loves more than sharing her cooking with appreciative strangers, and everything about Big Jim says he appreciates a lot of food. She wipes her hands on her apron and moves to a cutting board on the island, setting to work on a cucumber for the salad. “Where have you been all afternoon? I thought you were just running out for an hour or so.”
“Oh, I went to run a few quick errands, but you know how Atlanta traffic is. Rush hour starts at four o’clock some days. It took me forever to make it back.” I flip on the water and wash my hands. “What can I do to help?”
She points the end of the knife at a bowl full of shallots. “Slice up one of those, will you?”