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“Would it be a problem if I crashed at your place?” Marc asked. “The team and I will need a home base for tonight and for any return trips we might have to make to the Hamptons.”
“Of course. Stay here whenever you need to. I’ll give you my extra key. I won’t be living here until Justin’s with me—healthy and well.” She glanced at her watch for the hundredth time. “It is getting late. And Claire’s right. I’m getting too antsy to concentrate. I want to call Dr. Braeburn and check in. And I want to get back to Justin.” She paused. “If you do need to come back, maybe you can do it without me. It’s just too long a day. I can’t be away from my baby.” Tears glistened on her lashes. “Unless…until we find a donor, I don’t know how much time I have with him. I can’t waste a moment of it.”
“Agreed.” Casey met Claire’s gaze. “Could you go out to the van with Amanda?” she asked. “She can get settled and you can give Hero a quick walk before we head back to the city.”
A hint of a smile touched Amanda’s lips. “In other words, she can babysit me. I’m really okay.”
“I know you are. But someone has to unlock the van for you. As for Hero, I’m sure nature calls. He’s been on duty all day. He needs a walk, some food and some water. Claire can do that while you call the doctor. Marc and I will lock up. I just want to get his and my schedules in sync before we leave.”
* * *
The drive back to the city was quiet but tense. Amanda insisted on sitting alone in the backseat where she stared out the window, lost in her own thoughts. Casey just drove, alternately glancing in the rearview mirror to see how Amanda was doing and slanting a sideways look at Claire, who was still showing distinct signs of uneasiness.
The silence in the van was deafening.
Trying to appear casual, Claire shifted in her seat, turning to peer past Amanda and—ostensibly—into the hatch area of the van. “Hero’s exhausted,” she noted. “He’s out for the count.”
She turned back, feeling Casey’s stare, knowing she was well aware that Claire hadn’t just been checking on Hero. She was checking to see if they were being followed.
Casey herself had kept a watchful eye the whole time they’d been driving on the Long Island Expressway. She’d seen nothing and no one suspicious. Obviously, neither had Claire, or she’d be conveying that to Casey right now.
But that didn’t mean Claire was happy. True, she hadn’t spotted any car that stood out as being on their tail. But that didn’t ease the knot in her gut. The LIE was jammed with traffic, as always. And someone was out there. Whether they were near or far, she couldn’t say. Nor could she determine if they were following the FI team or Amanda, and what their intentions were. But, whatever they were, they weren’t good.
The van reached Manhattan, and Casey dropped Amanda off right in front of Sloane Kettering.
“I hope all is well,” she said as Amanda got out of the car. “Keep us posted.”
“I will. We’ll talk later.” Amanda shut the door as she spoke. Her mind was already in the Pediatric Bone Marrow Transplant Unit with Justin.
Casey eased the van away from the curb and back into traffic. “They’re still following us?” she asked Claire as she headed up East Sixty-seventh Street toward Park Avenue, en route to Tribeca and the FI brownstone.
“I don’t know.” Claire spread her hands wide, palms up, in a gesture of sheer uncertainty. “Maybe. Their presence isn’t as strong as it was on the expressway. But they’re out there. I just don’t know where. Or why. Or who. I’m not getting any flashes. Only vibes. Which makes this all the creepier.”
* * *
One block behind Casey and Claire, a black sedan cruised slowly by Sloane Kettering. The driver paused, watching intently as Amanda disappeared into the hospital. From the passenger seat, his colleague peered through his binoculars, focusing on the FI van until it disappeared from view.
“They’re gone,” he announced.
The driver nodded. Then he punched a number into his cell phone to make his report.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Despite the brisk weather, Marc took a five-mile, predawn run through Westhampton Beach—down Main Street to Dune Road and around the beautiful beaches of Moneyboque Bay. He couldn’t help but wonder if he was overlapping any part of the loop Paul Everett had taken during his own morning runs—the ones that had followed those nights he’d stayed over at Amanda’s place. Had anyone seen him? Talked to him? Or had he made sure to limit himself to private areas where he could ensure himself the solitude he needed for his private phone calls?
There was no way to know. Not unless Marc had the time to locate and interview every Westhampton Beach resident. Which, clearly, he didn’t.
He’d spent the night at Amanda’s vacant Main Street apartment, rather than a motel, out of sheer convenience. At least that was the part of his decision he’d conveyed to Amanda. The truth was, he also wanted to take a private look around their client’s residence. He didn’t plan on violating Amanda’s privacy. He just planned on focusing on the areas of her apartment that he hadn’t had the opportunity to scrutinize in her presence. He wouldn’t open drawers, closets or cabinets—not unless something he saw compelled him to do so.
He didn’t get very far in his endeavors. He’d barely had time to shower, pull on the standard pair of jeans and a T-shirt he brought along as his emergency change of clothes, and guzzle down two bottles of water while sifting through Amanda’s unopened mail in the kitchen, when the doorbell rang. He stayed very still, not moving as he heard the thump at the front door, the retreating footsteps and the roar of a truck as it pulled away from the curb.
A delivery. He didn’t need to look to know that. Nor did he need to guess who the package was from.
With a hint of a grin, Marc crossed over and opened the front door. Bending down, he retrieved the large box from the stoop. He couldn’t wait to see what Ryan had come up with this time.
Taking another belt of water, he carried the box inside and opened it.
A suit, tie and shirt were folded neatly inside. In an envelope was a driver’s license issued to Robert Curtis but bearing Marc’s photo, along with falsified press credentials from Crain’s business magazine in the name of Robert Curtis. Last, there was a note telling Marc to check his email ASAP.
