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It made her feel bad to talk to her father that way, but he had wallowed in his own grief for too long, as far as she was concerned. There was a point when a father had to kick himself in the ass and move on. She’d told him that he needed to spend more time with his son—quality time. At the very least, he should be taking Justin to the shop with him, teaching him to work on and restore the bikes. It would give the boy an outlet for his grief and anger. Her father took her words to heart and gave Justin a job at the shop.
Justin seemed to blossom after that… for a while. When Naomi talked to him on the phone, he was happy and would talk to her for hours about the bikes he was working on, or send her pictures of the ones he had helped their dad restore. He was making friends too. He told Naomi the guys at the shop, Dad’s partner’s friends, were “really cool.” She was happy for him, and happy that her dad had taken her advice.
She stayed loosely in touch with her father and brother over the next two years. She had gotten a job in Boston working with the campaign manager of a congressman who had White House aspirations. At the same time, she was working on her master’s degree. She had been so caught up in her own life that whenever she called and Justin told her he was doing well and that Dad’s partner, Christopher, was “teaching him so much,” she hadn’t asked enough questions.
She didn’t go home again until her dad died. Justin was seventeen and Naomi twenty-three. He was too young to be alone, and she too young and naïve to understand that an offer she’d thought was heaven sent would turn out to be akin to a deal with the devil.
A knock on Naomi’s front door pulled her up out of her memories. She was happy for the distraction. She put down her wine and the scrapbook and went over to the door. Without asking who it was, she pulled it open and, seeing who stood there, exclaimed, “Oh my God! What do you want?”
“I just need five more minutes… please.”
It was Corbett Lindstrom. The man was beginning to feel like a stalker.
Stockdale, Texas
Tuesday Morning
Hank woke up,sore and disoriented. It was still dark, and he couldn’t remember where he was at first. He started to sit up, and that was when he realized he couldn’t move. He was tied to a bed. Reality was like a slap in the face when he suddenly recalled where he was. He was in a small hotel room, probably six miles from where his sister worked and maybe twelve miles from where she lived. She would never know that, however. Last night, after Vincent told Hank that he was going to make Raven his “queen,” he had his goon Armando hold a gun to Hank’s head while he wrote her a letter.
Vincent told him what to write, and as Hank penned it, he hoped that it would be what Ridge and Raven needed to put them back on high alert. The day he had left their house and got on that bus to Chicago, no one knew where he was going. However, Vincent didn’t know that. When he asked Hank if his sister knew he had left town, and where he was headed, he had told him, “Yes.” He told him that Raven had helped him make the arrangements for the bus and the motel he’d been headed to. As he wrote the letter, exactly as Vincent told him to, he said a silent prayer that the words would sound an alert in Raven’s and Ridge’s minds. The letter said:
Raven,
I got off the bus in Chicago. I was headed to the motel that you and I had talked about, but I think someone was following me. I took a cab all over town, trying to lose them. I finally got back out at the bus station and realized that two of the men who had been looking for me were there. I got back on the first bus I came to. It took me back to Texas—Brownsville, to be exact. That was when I had an idea. Who would look for this white boy in Mexico? I don’t want to walk around looking over my shoulder all the time. I crossed the border into Matamoros, and I plan to make my new life here. I hope you understand.
I love you, Raven.
Hank
Vincent read it, and then, as if talking about an animal, he handed the letter to Armando and said, “Feed and water him, and tie him up next door. Then mail this from Matamoros.”
Armando had given Hank a bottle of water and bought him a Happy Meal, which barely scratched the surface of his hunger. Then he had told him to pee because it would be awhile before he came back. Hank lay there now, his body a mixture of pain and numbness, and he wondered how long it would take them to find his body if he died here.
Vincent made a phone call to Marcella, whom he’d sent home for a few days to visit her mother. “Tell your mother I’ll be sending another her way in a day or two,” he said.
“Is it another woman?” Marcella asked.
“No, this one’s a man,” he told her.
“Should mother put him to work as well?” She sounded relieved.
“Yes, my mother’s lawn needs to be taken care of, doesn’t it? Tell your mother to fire the lawn boy; this one will do it for free… for now, anyway. Make sure the same security measures are followed.”
“Si, Señor Heston,” Marcella said. “Do I get to come back to you soon?”
“Not yet. When I get settled into a place of my own, I’ll send for you.”
“Si, Señor.” She was clearly disappointed. Vincent had noticed how tense she became every time she saw him look at the redhead at the bakery. She probably thought he was fucking her right now. But Marcella wouldn’t pout. He had trained her well. And he knew that it wasn’t that she minded him fucking other women; it was that she liked to be there with him while he did.
San Antonio, Texas
Tuesday Afternoon
Corbett puton his jeans and boots and leather gear. As he waited for his coffee to brew, he thought about his visit to Naomi the night before. As usual, she hadn’t been happy to see him. He didn’t understand it. He was such a nice guy.
Reluctantly, she had let him in the house and said, “I got you out on bail today, wasn’t that enough?”
“No,” he said. “I still need to know what your connection is to Ayden Styles.”
