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“No, Faiza. I live here,” Kara asserted. “In Whimstick. And I’ll go back to my own house soon.”
“Oh, Kara, this is your home,” her aunt argued. “You belong here.”
Never. Kara was never going back.
“And soon . . . well, after your birthday, you’ll actually own it.”
“With Jonas,” she said succinctly, and Faiza drew in a quick breath.
“Not if he’s incarcerated again. There’s a distinct clause in the will that forbids any of Samuel’s children from inheriting if they’re using drugs or imprisoned.”
Kara wasn’t surprised that her aunt knew about the estate inside and out and though she hadn’t understood it as a child, she’d later realized Faiza, with the help of Roger Sweeney, was skimming off Kara’s inheritance, as had, according to Jonas, Merritt Margrove. All of it was a bitter pill to swallow.
“I want to see you,” Faiza said suddenly, her voice audibly brightening. “How about I throw you a birthday party?”
“What? No! Are you serious?” The last thing Kara wanted was any more attention drawn to her. “No.”
“You could use a little fun in your life, Kara. And really, so could I, not to mention Roger!”
“Forget it,” Kara said. “Look, I have to go. I just wanted to let you know that I’m okay. My friend needs his phone back.” And before Faiza could argue, Kara ended the connection and decided she needed a drink.
* * *
Thomas scanned the statements again, made a few notes to himself and by the time Johnson arrived with a crowd of coworkers, dawn had broken and Thomas had located Chad Atwater, who was a ski instructor on Mount Hood, and Silas Dean, who, now retired, was a snowbird, living the winter months in Scottsdale, Arizona, a suburb of Phoenix, and the summers in Bend, the largest town in central Oregon. He’d expected that Dean was down south but had called and found out that he was actually in the area, back in Oregon to spend the Christmas holidays with his son and grandchildren, who lived in Hood River. Silas had already been here for a week and though Bend was in central Oregon, it wasn’t that far from Margrove’s trailer, two hours or so depending on traffic and road conditions.
A possibility.
Thomas was ready to roll.
Johnson barely had time to sit down at her desk when he’d approached. “I’m heading back to the hospital,” he said, “then I want to go over to Margrove’s office. After that I want to talk to Silas Dean, Faiza Donner and Chad Atwater. So far, I haven’t been able to scare up Kara McIntyre, but if we locate her, she goes to the top of the list.”
“Whoa . . . hold on a sec. I haven’t even had my coffee yet,” Johnson said around a yawn. She wasn’t a morning person, Thomas knew that, but he also knew she worked extra hours, often late into the night, around her son’s schedule.
“We’ll get it on the way.”
“Fine. Give me ten minutes to check email and catch up.”
“You got it.”
They met in the parking lot, and with Thomas at the wheel and under the gunmetal-gray sky, eased through traffic to a drive-through coffee kiosk five blocks from Whimstick General. By the time he parked in the hospital lot, Johnson was halfway through her latte and in a much better mood.
Until they reached the third floor, where the security guard met them at the entrance to Jonas’s room. “His lawyer is with him,” the guard said.
“His lawyer is dead,” Johnson said.
“Not Margrove. He’s got a new one. Woman.”
“Already?” Johnson said. “He works fast.”
“As I said, she’s in his room.” The guard hitched a thumb in the direction of the open doorway. “A real ballbuster.”
Johnson stiffened. “Is she?”
“Sorry . . . but . . . yeah, she is,” the guard said. “She’s not letting him talk to anyone.”
Thomas didn’t wait, just strode through the open doorway, where he found Jonas McIntyre, beard shadow dark over sallow skin, a few bruises visible on his face, lying on the hospital bed, the head of which was partially raised. An IV stand was still connected by a narrow clear tube to his wrist, a computer display at an angle as it monitored his vital signs.
Standing next to him, deep in conversation, was a slim fortysomething woman in a black power suit, pink blouse and matching heels. With sharp features, rimless glasses and short blond hair, she glanced up when Thomas approached and the smile she’d offered Jonas froze icily in place. “This is a private room.”
