The Pretender Read online

  She slipped her fingers through his and stood up next to him. “Be warned. If you try to crawl in with me, I’ll kick you.”

  “You’d be surprised how often I hear that.”

  “That’s sort of the point, Harris.” She squeezed his fingers before letting go of his hand. “I bet you never do, so hear it now.”

  All the touching earlier made her jumpy. An hour had passed since she climbed into the bed at the guesthouse—alone. She’d stared at the ceiling for almost every minute of that time.

  The guesthouse consisted of a large open space for the living room and kitchen and separate rooms for the bedroom and bathroom. She took the bed without arguing and settled in, wearing sweatpants and a long-sleeve T-shirt under the covers. Her sweater hung on the back of the chair by the bed. She looked at it, debating if this was the right time to put it on and step outside.

  The investigator would arrive tomorrow but Harris was right there. Not even a door separated them. She’d left that open and could see his head on the pillow on the floor. He hadn’t moved for a half hour. Even now the sound of his deep breathing floated through the house. Not snoring. No, this was an oddly comforting in and out. Almost like white noise.

  Careful not to bang the headboard against the wall or step on the wrong loose floorboard, she shifted and put her feet on the thick area rug. Pointing her toe, she stretched out, snagged her sneaker from a few feet away and dragged it closer. Without taking her gaze off Harris, she slipped on her shoes, one after the other.

  The mattress coils creaked as she grabbed for her sweater. A few tugs and it was on. Her outfit wouldn’t protect her against the cool night air, but if she was very quick—did a fast in and out—she might be able to resolve at least this one task she came to the island to do.

  Up on tiptoes, she crept through the bedroom to the patio doors. The move put her out of the sight line from the living room area. Before she pressed on the handle, she slipped into the bathroom and turned on the light. Came back out but left the light on. In terms of subterfuge it wasn’t perfect but at least seeing the light on might make Harris think she was in there, if he woke up too early.

  She opened the outside door just far enough to sneak out. The wind smacked into her the second she stepped onto the patio. She fought to catch her breath and pushed through.

  Her uncle had taken the shovel she’d brought to the island. As if she couldn’t grab another one. A quick visit with Kramer today provided the solution. The man had a tool for every project and a few she’d never seen before.

  She turned the corner of the guesthouse and dropped down to balance on the balls of her feet. Digging through the bushes, she spotted Kramer’s rusty shovel just where she dropped it earlier. Only the constant worry of being seen this afternoon prolonged this errand. Now she had the quiet and the shovel. She’d hit the switch that turned off the motion sensor lights out here, which let her move around in the dark, hopefully unnoticed.

  A glance back at the guesthouse confirmed that everything remained quiet there. No lights. No movements. No Harris.

  Moving faster now, she walked over to the rock retaining wall that separated this part of the property from the small hill that led up to the gazebo then over to the boathouse. Plants and flowers lined the area. Bursts of purple and white dotted the carpet of green.

  She didn’t need to dig it all up, didn’t even have to disturb the plants. The middle section of the retaining wall was her target. Slipping in between the branches of the low-lying bushes, she stepped around the flowers and slid her palm over the uneven rock wall.

  She’d skipped the flashlight, which now seemed like a terrible idea. Straining to see by the faint nightlight from the boathouse in the distance, she squinted and felt her way around, searching for loose grout.

  She was half sitting in the bush now with one knee in the dirt. She clawed against the stone and jammed the edge of the shovel into one of the cracks. The clunking sounded so loud in her ears, but she knew it barely amounted to scraping.

  When the wall didn’t give under the pressure, she pushed harder. Whacked the stone as hard as she could. A chunk of stone plopped into the dirt. She slipped her fingers into the opening. This was the space she remembered, a malformed square of about three-by-three inches.

  She patted her hand on the cold stone. Touched every surface. When she didn’t feel anything, she figured she needed to go deeper into the stone. She shoved the sharp end of the shovel in the hole and moved it around. Still nothing.

  She fell back on her butt. The cold ground seeped through her thin sweats but she didn’t move. She couldn’t feel anything.

  The papers were gone. The map. Everything.

  Explanations whirled in her mind. Maybe she was at the wrong place. Maybe someone else found them . . . but why? If the investigators had found something, she’d know by now. There was no reason for anyone to dig in a random spot behind a bush on an isolated island.

  Thoughts tumbled through her until she hit on the most obvious one—someone had the documents she’d tried so hard to hide.

  She scrambled to her knees. The gagging started a second later. She fought it back. Inhaled deeply as she tried to trick her body into calming down.

  She didn’t know how long she stayed like that. The shivering snapped her out of her lethargy. The cold had soaked into her, from the air and the ground.

  Forcing her muscles to work, she pushed up. She stood there, half swaying as her brain misfired. She needed to come up with a next step, a new place to search, but nothing came to her. Strategy, plans . . . She’d gone completely blank.

  Somehow she stumbled back to the patio and stepped inside the guesthouse again. Stripping as she walked across the bedroom, she fell across the bed, turning her head just in time so she could stare at the pale gray wall. Her focus blurred but her heart rate refused to slow down. The beat pounded in her chest.

  She had no idea what to do next.

  Harris opened his eyes the second he heard the near soundless thump of the door closing behind Gabby twenty minutes ago. He’d been sneaking in and out of houses long enough to recognize the signs. He could analyze every noise without opening his eyes.

  Watching her move around out there hadn’t provided any insight. She dug and grew more frantic as her hands moved faster in the dirt and rocks. Finally, she’d slumped over. At one point he thought she’d throw up, but she pulled herself together.

  Now she lay on the bed fifteen feet away. Her heavy breaths—almost pants—filled the guesthouse. He doubted she even knew she’d made a sound. But all that scrambling . . . He had no idea what that was about. She’d clearly expected to find something out there and didn’t.

  For the first time since he heard her cries fourteen months ago, he doubted her. Her anxiety hadn’t died down. It nearly choked the air out of the room. But this woman carried deep secrets.

  He lifted his head and stared into the dark bedroom. His eyes had adjusted to the lack of light while he slunk around the house spying on her wanderings outside. Even with his back plastered against the wall, he’d been able to peek out the window and follow her movements. She was still now. She hadn’t moved since she’d flopped down.

  He should drift off to sleep and worry about this tomorrow. She thought she’d pulled off her big covert mission. It was tempting to let her believe that.

  That was the right answer . . . “Gabby?”

  He saw her body stiffen. She didn’t lift her head or make a sound.

  He said the only words in his mind. “You don’t need to hide from me.”

  Almost two minutes passed without a response. He lay back down and put a hand underneath his pillow. Regret punched into him. He should have shut up and kept up the ruse that she’d conned him. He’d pushed this one too far.

  Just as he was drifting off five minutes later, he heard her voice.

  “It’s not what you think,” she said in a voice barely above a whisper.

  He opened his eyes but staye
d still. “Okay.”

  “I didn’t kill my sister.”

  “I know.” He was absolutely certain of that.

  “Remember that feeling.” She let out a loud sigh. “Because the evidence is going to say I did.”

  Chapter 6

  Gabby didn’t say anything to him the next morning. She was showered, dressed, up and out before he even got off the floor. The woman could move when she had a goal. The goal clearly being to avoid him.

  Since she didn’t want to go into the main house and they were stuck on an island, he doubted she’d get far. But he walked over to the boathouse just in case. The sound of a motor got him moving. He heard a boat pull up to the dock. While he didn’t think she’d run, he wasn’t taking the chance.

  Cool, overcast weather had moved in. Gray clouds filled the sky and the air carried a touch of dampness. He zipped up his sweater and walked faster.

  The boat beat him there. Two men moved around on board. One faced away from him, sitting and shifting and collecting what looked like a bag under his seat. This had to be the mysterious investigator.

  Harris wasn’t exactly looking forward to putting his body between Gabby and some by-the-book guy Stephen hired, even if Wren had interfered in some way. But that was what Harris was there for. Gather intel and keep Gabby out of the investigator’s sight. An unspoken—unknown to her—debt weighed heavily between them and Harris vowed to repay it.

  “Hello!” The other guy, the one driving the boat, jumped off and secured the lines.

  Harris recognized him from the photos Wren provided in his briefing file. Craig Pak. He was in his midtwenties and very sharp. First-generation with Korean parents. A hard worker who left an entry-level lobbyist position to start his own business. He’d taken over a failed boating service and in just two years started making decent money ferrying tourists and homeowners around the area and to the private islands off the coast. Sometimes he led tours, so both locals and tourists knew him.

  The guy found a niche and filled it. He already was considered an expert and reliable. Wren also cited Craig as a potential good source of information because he traveled back and forth to the island with supplies and knew Tabitha. She was twenty-two when she died and Craig was only two years older.

  Harris was about to break into small talk when the boat’s passenger stood up and turned around. One look and Harris knew he was in deep shit. Wren’s words came back to him. Something about having arranged for Harris to have help. Knowing Wren’s twisted sense of humor, this was the help.

  Damon Knox. One of the Quint Five. A friend from way back and a total smart-ass. He pretended to be an investigator and worked back channels. He stepped in when Wren needed assistance or someone to play a role.

  Damon was good at pretending to be someone he wasn’t. And now he was here, on Tabitha Island, pretending to be Stephen’s hired hack.

  Harris waited until Damon and Craig exchanged some boring chitchat and talked about the weather. After a quick handshake between Craig and Harris, Craig headed off in the direction of Kramer’s cottage.

  Once out of earshot, Harris glared at Damon. “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.”

  Damon slapped Harris on the shoulder then handed him a duffle bag. “And good morning to you, too, Harris.”

  Harris dropped the bag by his feet. He had no intention of playing Damon’s assistant for the next few days.

  “What are you . . .” Harris didn’t bother to finish the question. They both knew the answer. “Wren sent you.”

  Damon winked. “Consider me your savior.”

  “Not really a word I’d use.”

  Damon never did anything easy. He tended to pull things apart just to see if he could put them back together again. Not computers or phones—people’s lives. Damon liked to read people. Assess, compile intel and make educated guesses. He’d be a star in FBI forensics if he worked there, but his background prevented that type of work. The only way he’d qualify for a security clearance was if Wren faked Damon’s background, which he likely did to convince Stephen to hire Damon.

  Harris couldn’t imagine all the hoop-jumping and loop-closing Wren had maneuvered through to make this—Damon here on the island and in charge—happen. The man really was damn good at fixing things.

  “I’m pretty sure my role here has something to do with saving humanity and restoring your tainted dignity.” Damon shrugged. “You know. The usual.”

  “I see your ego is healthy, as always.” Harris always admired that about Damon. To most of the world he seemed understated. The kind of man who stood back and watched, waiting for the right time to move in. Only the few who knew him got to see the real man behind the quiet exterior. “And that’s quite a job description.”

  “Actually, Wren said my job is to babysit you—”

  “No.”

  “—and make sure you don’t steal anything. When are you going to get over that nasty little habit?”

  “It’s my job.” They could joke, but Harris was not in the mood to be handled. He knew he’d created this problem by trying to liberate the Max Beckmann painting that hung over the fireplace in the main house. The same one looted from a museum in Germany and passed around to everyone but the heirs of the rightful Jewish owners who’d perished, leaving the provenance difficult to prove.

  That was what had brought Harris to the island more than a year ago. The family had tried to recover the painting through legal channels. They’d been ignored, spun around and covered with paperwork and demands for more evidence of ownership by government agencies and committees in Germany. Harris had seen it before. He understood being careful, but this type of restitution was long overdue . . . so he leveled the playing field.

  This time being there meant Gabby might have a chance of escaping the murder charges that seemed somewhat inevitable. She had a witness and he’d step up if needed. Harris had no intention of going to prison, but he wouldn’t let her serve one second either. How he was going to accomplish that balancing act depended, at least in part, on the good friend standing in front of him.

  “I thought you had a real job these days.” Damon picked up his bag and slung the strap over his shoulder. “Something about insurance.”

  Leave it to Damon to come up with the dullest career description ever. “I get bored.”

  “The last time you got bored you walked in on a murder and Wren had to send a boat and a cleanup crew to save your sorry ass.”

  That explanation shortcut the waiting and hiding. “That’s not how I’d describe it.”

  Helicopters had descended and police combed the waters near Tabitha Island. One of those police boats had scooped him up off the neighboring island—either a fake one or one manned by officers Wren paid off, Harris never asked. But all the mental backtracking he had to do to make sure his equipment had been picked up and all traces of his presence erased had taken some time back then.

  Then there was the problem of Tabitha’s computer, the one Harris hacked to spy on her. When Wren stepped in to fix a situation he didn’t half-ass it. He also didn’t leave a trail. To cover Harris’s tracks, Wren had spiked the laptop with a virus. More than one, actually. The move protected Harris but potentially buried evidence that could lead to the real killer.

  “That’s how I heard it.” Damon snorted. “Though, when I retell it to the rest of the guys I add a part about you curling into a ball and crying.”

  “Thanks for that.”

  Damon’s finger tightened around the bag’s strap. “I’m an investigator.”

  “You’re actually not.” It was a sore subject, but Harris felt obliged to point out the facts. Damon did conduct investigations, but that was different from actually being an investigator.

  Damon talked right over him. “It makes sense Wren called me in.”

  “His fixer skills are working overtime.”

  Damon scanned the area before his gaze settled on Harris again. “He wants this solved and both you and Gabby cleared.”
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  “Not to point out the obvious, but no one has been able to do that for fourteen months.” Stephen had poured a lot of money into getting the answer he wanted and it hadn’t worked. Because of the players on the ground, Harris knew this time wouldn’t work either, but the goal was to convince him not to try again. To finally free Gabby.

  “Lucky for you I’m good at what I do,” Damon said.

  “And so modest.”

  Damon started walking. He headed straight for the main house. “The uncle thinks you’re working for me. Undercover.”

  They’d only gone a few steps before Harris stopped them again. “What are you talking about?”

  “You’re supposed to be here doing appraisals, right? Even the uncle questioned that cover story. What he didn’t doubt was my cover story about you being my assistant.” Damon whistled. “Man, he hates his niece.”

  “No kidding.”

  “The good news is that I get to order you around.”

  Harris could see it now. Damon would turn that into a sport. “Go fuck yourself.”

  “I missed you, too.”

  Harris couldn’t ignore those words. He and Damon had joined the group at about the same time. He was thirty-four and Damon only a few years older. For more than a decade they’d been close friends. Lived together for part of that time. Traveled throughout Europe with Damon playing the role of conscience. The guy was antitheft, which made their relationship rocky at times.

  When Harris shut down and closed himself off after Tabitha’s murder, he pushed Damon away, too. Harris had been trying to figure out how to repair that damage. Leave it to Wren to shortcut the process.

  “I am sorry about going radio silent.” That didn’t cover it, but it cost Harris something to even say that much. He wasn’t a man accustomed to apologizing or accepting blame.

  “You mean for skipping town? For not taking my calls? For being a complete dick?”

  “All of it.” Harris blew out a long breath as he searched for a way to explain it. Gabby was right. The words weren’t big enough. They didn’t telegraph the shock and despair of watching someone die right in front of him. “I needed to leave after what happened here. Go away and think things through.”