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“You might not have twenty-four hours, but I won’t be the one to say anything.”
“Thank you.”
Mary shrugged. “She’d better not be hiding a whole gang of fugitives in her basement, because I’ll throw you under the bus and take your job. Now, tell me what we’re planning once we get to Moran.”
He told her. And he hoped to God that Gates had given up on White Ridge Road.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
SHE’D PAINTED ALL NIGHT. Not because she’d been inspired, but because she was worried she’d need money for lawyers soon, and she wanted to get this commission done before she was taken to jail. Of course, the FBI might not even let her have the money when they found out she’d been working under a false social security number. But she’d made sure to pay her taxes. She’d overpaid, really, just to be sure she’d never be audited.
Her entire career was courtesy of a sympathetic art professor who’d had no reason to help her. Professor Cervaz had spent two of Isabelle’s college years trying to steer her away from premed and into medical illustration. She’d loved the work, but she’d resisted him out of fear of what others would think. Her father, because he’d
been so exuberantly proud of his daughter being on the path to becoming a doctor. And her fiancé, who’d said so many times what a dynamic team their marriage would be. A district attorney and a doctor, both of them children of Chicago cops. They would have been a dream couple in the political circles he’d been so fond of.
But a medical illustrator? What the hell was that? Nothing to be proud of. It was something weird and obscure and a little creepy.
So she’d resisted. But when she’d been thinking of running away from everything, she’d gone to her professor and asked if he might have any work. Anything he could farm out to her, even if he wanted to claim it as his own. She needed money, she’d confessed, and he’d understood right away. It wasn’t as if her family’s situation was a secret. Everyone knew.
It had been risky, but the only alternative would have been working at low-paying jobs her whole life. She didn’t have any other skills, and her fake identity wouldn’t have withstood a background check.
Her professor had sent her anonymous work for a year. And when she’d finally given him a new name—Isabelle West—and asked him for some introductions, he’d obliged.
He’d been the only connection to her old life. She might have suspected he’d been the one to turn her in this week, but he’d died three years before.
She still felt guilty about the relief she’d felt when she’d seen the news on one of the tight-knit artist forums. The man had been so good to her. So absolutely kind. It had been so wrong to feel relief, but she hadn’t been able to lie to herself about that. He’d made her life what it was, and she’d been relieved when he died.
Maybe that made her too much like her father, happy that someone else’s death could make her life easier. She looked at the picture of the flayed thigh attached to her easel. Hell, maybe that philosophy was her entire career.
Isabelle set down her paintbrush and stretched hard. It was 7:00 p.m., and she still hadn’t heard from Tom. She’d napped from noon to three, but she was still exhausted, and she hoped he wouldn’t be too much longer.
Lauren had called, hoping they could have dinner in the next two days before Sophie left, but Isabelle hadn’t known what to say. She didn’t know if she’d still be in Jackson herself.
She checked her phone one more time, feeling like a desperate teenage girl, but it was more than just wanting to hear from the boy she liked. The torture of wondering if she’d be found out was so acute that she was half inclined to confess.
What if he already knew? What if he’d just found out who she was from the FBI agent and that was the reason for his lateness? What if he came over and got a call from the feds while he was here, and she had to look at his face while he learned the truth?
What if this was all just paranoia?
She took a deep breath, trying to calm her fear, but it wasn’t just fear now. It hadn’t occurred to her to worry about Tom, but if it came out and he hadn’t known, he was going to look like a fool. He could even be in trouble. She should have thought of that before she’d gotten involved with him. She should have thought of a million things.
Her deep breath had turned into another and another, and now she was close to panting. She closed her eyes and told herself to calm down.
The FBI agent had asked about an old man and a woman. That was all. He could be searching for anyone. And the simplest explanation was that it had something to do with the ongoing Stevenson case. Of course it did.
But Isabelle jumped at every sound. She cringed when her phone buzzed. She watched from darkened rooms whenever a truck drove slowly past, searching for fugitives or for her.
The FBI guy hadn’t come back, and wasn’t that a good sign? He’d only been canvassing the neighborhood, doing a boring job, and now he was done.
But just in case, she put the last touches on the last painting and went to get her packing supplies. The final two paintings would need to dry overnight, but she could box up the others, get them labeled and get them into her truck for the morning.
Her good intentions flew out the window when her phone rang. She dived for it then tried not to weep with disappointment when she saw Jill’s name. Still, if Jill was calling with gossip about her ill-advised night, Isabelle would listen. She wasn’t that far gone.
“They got him!” Jill yelled.
“Who? What?”
“They caught Saul Stevenson! I just saw it online!”
