As Alexander made a mental note to make sure his driveway would be plowed, the line picked up without ringing, a recording announcing that the phone number was no longer in service.
“Shit,” he mumbled before turning to his laptop. It could have just been a coincidence that a woman he believed to be Rayne stood outside his building this morning, but something about today being the anniversary of Landon’s death, coupled with Mischa’s suspicious murder, made him think that wasn’t the case. In less than twenty-four hours, he’d crossed paths with two of the most important people in Landon’s life — his sister and his fiancée. Alexander refused to believe it was simply a coincidence.
He navigated toward his search engine of choice to see what hits came up on Landon’s fiancée, then paused, fumbling for her last name. He stared at the white screen, the bright letters of the search engine’s logo mocking him. He should have remembered. He had been trained to recall random combinations of letters and numbers, security codes, bank account numbers, license plates. Why, when it came to someone who was once a close personal friend, was he drawing a blank?
His fingers hovering over the keyboard, he stared at the twenty-six letters of the alphabet, hoping something would come to him. “Rayne, Rayne, Rayne.” He repeated her name over and over, wishing he had used her real last name in his phone contacts instead of Landon’s. “Kilpatrick!” he shouted, as if Landon were in the room, introducing him to his girlfriend for the first time.
He hastily typed her name and the search engine came back with a few hits, mostly articles about the bakery that had made her a rising star in the Boston culinary scene. There were a few photos of her from Landon’s funeral, wearing all black, the bump beneath her dress visible. A renewed sorrow formed in his heart when he recalled the weeks following Landon’s death.
He had tried to check on Rayne repeatedly to see how she was doing, but she never answered the door. Soon, his visits grew more and more infrequent, stopping altogether when she hadn’t answered her phone or door in over a month. He assumed she was simply busy with the bakery again.
It wasn’t until several weeks later that he learned the bakery was in trouble and about to go under. He had tried to get in touch with her once more, but she never returned his phone calls. When he went to her house, a complete stranger answered the door, saying she no longer lived there. Wanting to help, not knowing how, he had one of his subsidiary companies purchase the bakery from her at a price far over market value to give her some sort of financial security. As far as he knew, his subsidiary still owned it.
Staring at the search results, he realized he had hit a dead end and would need someone with skills far more advanced than those he possessed to track her down. He grabbed the receiver of his office phone and punched in a few numbers.
“Simpson,” Alexander said when he picked up, surprised he was still at the office at this late hour. “Stop what you’re doing. I need you to hunt down an address for a Rayne Kilpatrick. Text me the minute you have it. I’m heading out.”
He hurriedly grabbed his coat and left his office in a complete state of disarray. He had come in today, neglecting his family, to try to look for proof that Mischa wasn’t just another victim of the Castle Island Killer. Instead, he now found himself trying to track down yet another ghost from his past. He didn’t know why he needed to get in touch with Rayne so badly. Maybe he felt as if he could have prevented Mischa’s death and hoped to atone for his guilt by making sure Rayne was okay. Maybe their paths had crossed again for a reason. Maybe he simply needed reassurance that none of this was his fault, hoping he could get that from Rayne. The reason no longer mattered. He just knew he needed to find her.
“Where to, Mr. Burnham?” a voice bellowed behind him as he strode down the hallway. Alexander turned around to see Martin running to catch up.
“There’s something I have to do, Martin. Take the rest of the night off. I’ll let you know if I need anything.”
Martin immediately slowed his steps, a look of confusion and disappointment falling over his serious face. He typically always accompanied Alexander wherever he went, partly out of safety and partly out of convenience. But this was something Alexander felt he needed to do on his own. He could sense Martin was on the edge of insisting he come along, as he had in the past, but something about the personal events of the past twenty-four hours must have given him pause.
“Yes, sir.”
Alexander opened his mouth to explain what was going on, but stopped himself. Spinning around, he continued down the hall, about to walk through the security door that blocked the public’s access to most of the offices.
“And Alex?” Martin called out.
Alexander whirled around, surprised at his sudden familiarity. It didn’t matter that Martin had watched him grow up from the little boy who played with G.I. Joes, to a pimply adolescent, then a know-it-all teenager. When Alexander had become his boss, all informality ceased and Martin insisted on calling him Mr. Burnham.
“Yes?” Alexander looked into his eyes.
“Be careful,” he admonished, his tone soft and sincere, at complete odds with the serious and business-like expression he normally wore. “I respect your desire to keep what you’re up to a secret, but remember that secrets took your father from you.” He narrowed his gaze.
“My father died protecting the identity of someone,” Alexander argued, his ears reddening from Martin’s comparison between the two men. Alexander refused to believe he was anything like his father.
“No.” He took a step toward him. “Your father died because, just like you, he thought he didn’t need any help. Don’t go down the same path he did.” Martin turned and walked back into his office. Alexander simply stared at the vacant space, wondering if he was, in fact, making the same mistakes that led to his father’s untimely death.
Chapter Nine
December 19
6:00 AM