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She hit the backspace key to erase the message and set the phone back into the Camry’s console. She would handle this herself. Without her parents’ help.
Without Nick’s.
23
Karen LaGarde lived in Haverhill, a suburb an hour east of the city. Nick had hoped to be finished with the errand by lunchtime, but Ronan had had questions about MIS’s existing lines of credit, and they’d spent three hours going over numbers that Nick had already double- and triple-checked only to have Ronan pronounce Nick’s first round of numbers sound.
His brother was driving him crazy. Between the lack of field work that had always kept Ronan occupied and Julia’s impending due date, he was uncharacteristically twitchy, prone to snapping at everyone but Julia, tending to tasks at MIS that weren’t technically under his purview and didn’t need to be tended to besides.
It was after noon by the time Nick left the office. He’d almost felt bad declining Ronan’s invitation to hit up one of the local restaurants for lunch — his brother clearly needed the distraction — but Nick wanted to put the matter of Alexa Nash’s accident behind him.
Putting her behind him — the memory of her body writhing under his, her lips parted in ecstasy, her hands on his body — wouldn’t be so easy.
He left the city behind and made his way north. The drive wasn’t scenic and he passed the time formulating questions for Karen LaGarde. He hadn’t called ahead, but he knew she worked at a local diner on Mondays. He’d take a seat at one of her tables and wait until she had time to talk to him.
His thoughts turned to the Walkers. Nick didn’t know everything about them, but he knew enough. Boston was full of families like theirs, families who thought they were special because their ancestors had come over on the Mayflower or had built a fortune on the backs of immigrants.
It was the worst kind of affluence — the kind born out of habit. Most of the families like the Walkers hadn’t done a single thing to earn their money. They’d been fortunate enough to inherit it and oblivious enough to ignore the details about where it came from.
Nick didn’t begrudge them their money. Hell, he had plenty of money stashed in stocks, bonds, offshore accounts, and beachside houses around the globe.
What he hated was their sense of entitlement. Their belief that they were somehow smarter or more hardworking than the people who worked three jobs to make ends meet when they hadn’t done a thing except get lucky in the genetic lottery.
And what he hated even more were people like that who didn’t think they owed society anything for their good fortune, who rode the wave of that good fortune for generations, eventually ending up even more powerful because they’d gotten a head start and felt like they’d won the race fair and square.
Nick didn’t know Leland Walker, but he’d been able to surmise enough from Clay’s background: Leland was a trust fund baby who’d been to all the best private schools, who’d barely passed at Harvard and had probably only gotten in because he was a legacy candidate. According to the financial workup Clay’s team had done, Leland Walker gave nothing to charity and had never had a meaningful accomplishment. His official title was Director of the Walker Family Foundation, but that didn’t mean shit. He probably didn’t even show up for board meetings. Best-case scenario he was a lazy rich kid who was on the verge of occupying a seat in the Unites States Senate thanks to his father’s money and contacts.
Worst case he was a murderer who’d left the scene of a crime to save his own skin. A murderer who’d left Alexa for dead on the side of the road.
Nick pulled off the highway in Haverhill and followed the GPS to Raff’s Cafe, a tiny diner and self-proclaimed “Friendliest Place in Town!” He parked on the street, stepped inside, and took a look around to get his bearings.
The place had maybe ten tables, plus a counter that hugged one wall. An opening in the wall gave him a glimpse of white paint, stainless steel, and two men working a grill.
“Take a seat anywhere!” a woman called out from behind the counter. “I’ll be right with you.”
Nick chose a table at the back of the room and sat facing the door. He looked at the waitress who’d spoken to him, making a point not to stare, just to confirm that it was Karen LaGarde.
She was a little older now than in the picture Clay had included in the file, but it was definitely her. Her hair was still blond, piled on her head in some kind of knot, and her face was still mostly unlined. She had an easy smile and a big laugh, let loose into the room when one of the guys at the counter said something funny.
Even from a distance Nick could see what someone like Leland Walker would see in Karen LaGarde. Based on what Nick could see of the situation, she wasn’t someone Leland would have taken home to his parents, but she was striking, with fine bone structure and skin that glowed with health and something he was willing to bet was happiness — the real deal, not the kind of bullshit people like Leland Walker settled for when they thought they were happy.
She filled the coffee cups at the counter and came sauntering over to Nick’s table. Leland Walker was forty-eight, but he wouldn’t put Karen LaGarde a day over thirty-five. She had the figure of a pinup, all hips and breasts and a small waist, and there was a wicked twinkle in her eyes when she stopped at his table.
“Hey there.” He wasn’t surprised by her accent. Her file said she’d come to Boston from Colorado to attend BU. Apparently she’d loved the East Coast enough to stay, but her speech still marked her as what locals would probably call “not from here.”
“Hey,” Nick said.
“Can I pour you some coffee?” she asked.
“Sure.” Nick turned over the cup sitting upside down on the table and she lifted her arm to pour. “I was actually hoping I could talk to you about Leland Walker.”
Her hand froze, her face turning pale right before two bright spots of color appeared on her cheeks. “Get out of here.”
“I don’t want any trouble,” he said. “I just have a couple of — ”
“Are you crazy?” she hissed, looking around. She drew in a breath. “Not here.”
Nick’s eyes combed the restaurant, but all he saw were people minding their own business, reading the paper or looking at their phones, staring at the pancakes. “Okay, where?”
