CHAPTER 13

CHAPTER 13

"Is Leah going to be okay?" Neal asked.

"You're asking me?" Brooke shook her head. "Is she ever?"

Frowning, Neal set his laptop on the table and left his jacket over the back of a chair. He glanced to the stairs, then turned back to Brooke and snapped his fingers, as if struck by a sudden thought. "Oh. A couple of things. Gustafson's lawyer called today. He's definitely talking about a lawsuit and damages above and beyond repairing the Porsche."

"Such as?"

"Whiplash, pain and suffering, you know, the usual suspects. He says you're a distracted driver." Neal brandished his hand in the air as if it was of no consequence. "The insurance companies will battle it out."

"Great," she said sarcastically. "You said ‘a couple' of things. What's the other?"

"The adjuster is coming by today." He checked his watch. "In fact, he should be here any minute."

"What? Adjuster?"

"The insurance adjuster. To look at the car. See what the damage is."

"But—" No. This couldn't be happening! She hadn't searched for the tracking device yet. If Gideon had left a bug on her car and the adjuster found it, how would she explain it to Neal? Worse yet, her burner phone—the one she'd used to call Gideon—was in the car, tucked into its hiding spot. What if it was discovered when the adjuster was looking through the SUV? Oh. God. "Maybe it's not a good time," she said, motioning lamely toward the stairs. "With Leah upset and—"

"I'll check on her. Oh—he's here now." Neal was heading out of the room. "I'll meet you in the garage once I see that Leah's okay."

She doubted Neal could do anything to calm Leah down, but then again, maybe she was wrong. Leah always seemed to be looking for a man's opinion or approval. Brooke figured it was because of the lack of men in their lives growing up. Leah was always searching for a father figure because theirs had bailed early, leaving before Leah was five. Neither remembered the tall, blond man who had sired them. He'd flown to Spain, and the last Brooke had heard he was traveling with a woman half his age. That was years ago, when she'd tracked him down to tell him his ex-wife and the mother of his children had died.

Of course at the time she hadn't known he'd been married and divorced several times. When he'd asked, "Which wife?" and "Which children?" Brooke had cut the connection without answering.

Their mother had always said, "Fletch was born with a wandering spirit." As if that absolved him.

Nana had thought differently and sputtered, "Wandering spirit my ass! The man's a narcissistic son of a bitch who can't keep his pecker under control!"

Brooke figured Douglas Fletcher was somewhere between the two women's concepts of her absent father.

The doorbell rang. Shep started barking wildly and raced to the front door.

"Oh great," she said under her breath. There was nothing to do now but accept it and play dumb if the adjuster found the tracking device. Maybe there was no way to trace it. Did they come with serial numbers? Would Neal want to know why someone was following her? What would she say?

The person on the porch turned out to be a woman. In slacks, a sweater, and showing identification identifying her as Blair Johnson, claims adjuster for the insurance company, she smiled, white teeth showing against her dark skin. A satchel was slung over her shoulder, a clipboard in her hand, and she asked to see the SUV. Dreading what was about to happen, Brooke escorted the adjuster through the house to the garage, Shep eagerly leading the way as she flipped on the harsh fluorescent lights, illuminating the wide space where their two vehicles were parked.

Warily, Brooke answered a few of the adjuster's questions about the accident, though Ms. Johnson had a copy of the accident report on the clipboard where she made notes, then took pictures of the Explorer's dented bumper and crumpled hood.

"But it still drives?" Blair asked, her dark eyes sharp behind slim glasses.

"Yes. It pulls a little to the left, but I can drive it."

"And what about your injuries?" she asked, staring pointedly at the cut on Brooke's chin. "I saw you limp a little going down the stairs. You were hurt?"

"Not from the accident, no. I fell while running," she said. The lie, now repeated often enough to seem like the truth, flowed easily over her lips. "It's not been a great week."

"I guess."

Brooke heard Neal on the stairs. As he reached the floor of the garage, he was already grinning. "I told my wife that the next time she rear-ends a car she should pick out a 1986 Dodge or a rattletrap of a Chevy rather than a Porsche." His grin widened at his own joke. "Neal Harmon," he said, extending his hand.

Blair cast him a patient, I've-heard-it-all-before smile as she clasped her fingers around his and introduced herself. Then, all business, she continued surveying the vehicle, opening doors, taking notes of the interior as well as the damage to the exterior while Brooke began to sweat. The burner phone was right there, beneath the cup holder. All Blair Johnson had to do was lift up the false bottom.

Neal whispered to her, "Leah's going to be fine."

Brooke doubted her sister would ever be "fine," but she couldn't worry about it now, not with the adjuster scouring her vehicle.

Blair Johnson closed the driver's door without incident and Brooke let out her breath only to worry again as the adjuster got down on her hands and knees to peer at the undercarriage.

Brooke could barely breathe and hardly noticed as Neal opened the side door to let Shep into the yard. She watched the flashlight's beam move steadily under the SUV. Maybe she was wrong, maybe Gideon hadn't—

"Hey, what's this?" Blair asked, her voice muffled.

Oh. God.

"What's what?" Neal asked.

"Don't know," came the reply, a question in Blair's voice. It looks like—" There was the scrape of metal on metal. "Oh." She straightened up and held out a small black device.

Brooke thought she might be sick.

"Oh that." Neal gave a nervous little laugh. "I forgot all about that."

What?

The tiny black box had a short antenna attached to it.

"It's a tracker," Blair said, her voice clipped, all friendliness having evaporated from her face.

Oh God. Brooke steadied herself against the fender of her vehicle.

"Yeah, I know." Neal was nodding as Blair's gaze swept from husband to wife.

"Did you know?" the adjuster asked Brooke.

Of course not. Why would I track myself? Why would my husband? What the hell was Neal doing?

Her insides were shredding at the thought of what her husband had discovered with his secretive little bug, but she managed a bland expression and shook her head. "No. Had no idea."

Shep, picking up on the tension in the tight space, began to whine.

Brooke caught her husband's eye. Did she see just the hint of guilt in his gaze? Something darker? "Why would you be tracking me?" All too vividly she remembered the places she'd driven and how many times she'd lied about where she really was.

Neal knew!

And he hadn't said a damned word.

What in God's name was going on?

"No—no, not really." Neal held up his hands, as if embarrassed. "Geez, I forgot I even had it."

"You forgot?" Brooke said, disbelieving. Then again, why would Neal be keeping tabs on her unless he suspected she was lying about her whereabouts?

"Yeah, I mean . . ." Neal sighed, his shoulders slumping. "A client sells them and gave me one for free, said he'd hook it up for me. It's some kind of GPS deal, one of the first of his prototypes. At the time, when he was in the office setting up a new company, he asked everyone to give it a whirl and I told him I'd try it."

"What client?" Brooke demanded. This was too far-fetched.

"Bill Clayton. He inherited his dad's tech company a few years back and wanted to expand, get into surveillance."

"So you put a bug on my car and didn't bother to tell me?"

"No!" He shook his head. "I was driving the Explorer at the time," he said. "It was before I got the Range Rover."

"Well, you all," Blair said, waving a hand in the air between them, her eyebrows raised high over the frames of her glasses. "You figure it out. I think I've got everything I need." She zipped the small device into her satchel.

Brooke's palms were beginning to sweat again, just thinking about what information the device could reveal; no doubt it had GPS tracking abilities and probably a memory chip or something.

"You don't need the tracker," Brooke said to the adjuster, trying not to panic.

"I think it might help. If there's any data on this little bug, it could give us information about the accident. It's actually lucky I found it."

No, no, no!"But you have all the information. From the witnesses and the police report." This was a disaster!

Blair smiled. Without an ounce of warmth. "Think of it as evidence, then."

That thought struck Brooke numb.

Blair went on, "When it comes time to access responsibility and what happened just before and during the accident, you know, such as the speed at which you were traveling, from which direction? Who knows?" She shrugged. "It just might corroborate witness testimony if it comes to that and we land in front of a judge, which I hope we don't."

Brooke tried to tamp down her panic. "The accident wasn't that big of a deal."

"Well, we'll see. It might be that Mr. Gustafson will claim all kinds of physical and mental issues as a result of the accident, which he insists is your fault. It could come to big money." Blair offered a cold smile as she patted the side of her satchel. "We might need all the ammunition we can get, so the data on it could come in handy."

Brooke's heart sank. "But that will have personal information on it. You know, where I go with my kid, doctors' appointments, tutors and the like!" Frantic, she looked at Neal for backup.

"I'm only interested in the day of the accident," Blair assured her. "Once this is all settled, unless the police require it, you can have it back."

"The police? Why would they want it?" Oh Jesus.

"I don't think they will." Blair was now looking hard at her as if she were becoming suspicious, and Brooke felt strangled, all her fears knotting in her throat.

"Hey, don't worry," Neal said, though he too seemed serious, maybe a little concerned, the small tic near his eye appearing as it sometimes did when he was nervous.

Brooke's stomach was in knots. Everything was about to fall apart! She would have to confess, tell him the truth, which he might already know.

Neal said, "Maybe it'll help our case." He gave Brooke's shoulder a squeeze, a little harder than normal, just bordering on painful, then said to Blair, "I'll walk you out."

"No need. I'll find my way." She eased past him, then went to the top of the stairs, where she slapped the button that opened the garage door. As the tight space filled with the fresh air of the coming night, she hurried outside, her boots clicking a sharp tattoo on the driveway.

"I can't believe this!" Brooke walked from the side of the garage to the staircase, then stopped and faced her husband. "Why didn't you tell me?"

"Like I said, I didn't think of it." He shrugged, as if it were no big deal.

Should she be relieved? If, as he said, he hadn't been tracking her—and that was a pretty big if—he didn't know about her whereabouts, didn't know she had been lying to him. But, on the other hand, if he was covering up, there was something deeper going on here. And it didn't explain how Gideon had known where she was.

"I just don't understand."

Neal was walking toward the staircase as Shep reappeared and followed. "I've already explained it. It happened when I was still driving the Explorer. You remember. You had the PT Cruiser, right?"

That much was true.

"Anyway, so Bill comes up with the thing, and I thought—well, this is a little nuts, I guess, but I thought it might come in handy because our plan was that the Explorer is going to be the car Marilee drives someday, right?"

"Like in two years—four years from when you got the Rover?" she asked, closing the door to the yard and locking it.

"And that's why I forgot about it."

Shep had climbed the steps ahead of Neal and was scratching at the door to the house.

"Don't let him do that!" Brooke called up to him.

Neal was already saying, "Hey, stop that!" as he let the dog inside and Brooke, worried that the insurance company might come for the car or reassess the damage, took the time to swipe her burner phone from beneath the cup holder and shove it quickly into her purse, still sitting where she'd left it on the passenger seat. She swiped up the bag and cursed herself for not getting rid of the phone earlier.

Hidden burner phones and tracking devices.

What had their marriage come to?

She climbed the steps, hit the garage door button. As the big door rolled noisily down, she caught up with Neal in the laundry room and decided she couldn't hide her phone in its little niche. Not right now.

"How's the ankle?" he asked.

"Better, I think."

"You're still limping."

"Stairs—not exactly my friends these days," she said, then asked the question that had been nagging at her. "So, you never looked at the tracker?" She just couldn't quite buy that he'd installed the device, left it connected beneath the car, then ignored it.

"Nah. Couldn't figure it out. It was before every person on the planet had an iPhone with a billion apps. You had to hook up the camera, or feed, or whatever you call it through Bill's company—Clayton Electronics—and I never bothered."

He seemed sincere, but still, she doubted him. "And his company keeps a log of where the device has been?"

"Maybe. Probably. Or maybe it's within the device itself. I don't know. Why? Do you have something to hide?"

"Oh really, Neal?" she said, though her nerves tightened and her throat suddenly turned to sand. Somewhere, either in Clayton's company's electronic records or the damned tracking device, was a record of everywhere she'd been since she started driving the car. Or that information could have been wirelessly connected to Neal's computer. "Look, if you don't trust me—"

"For the love of God, Brooke, I'm kidding." He was walking into the kitchen. "Really, it was a joke!"

"Not funny."

"That's where you're wrong." His arm slid around her shoulders and he kissed her on the cheek as they reached the hallway. "And you know, come to think of it, you might ask him about a job. They're always looking for good salespeople."

"Not exactly my area of expertise."

"You sold software and you're a quick study. Really, you should look into it," he said, and she figured his enthusiasm was to change the subject. "Didn't someone say you could sell anything?"

"That was you," she said, remembering, but she still wasn't convinced and it must've shown on her face because she was still wondering about the bug in her car.

Neal said, "Come on, honey, lighten up."

Oh sure.

She told herself to take his advice.

She told herself to trust him.

If only I could, she thought.

If only she could.