Chapter 16

CHAPTER 16

Skye

M y first official day in the Witness Protection Program. My first official job since my horrific accident. For all intents and purposes, investigative reporter Skye Collins is dead. I've googled myself and even read my obituary. I have no clue about what really happened to me. And no clue about who would want to kill me. Buried six feet under and forgotten. Private tutor and schoolteacher Scarlet Callahan is, however, alive and well. She even has a Facebook page and a LinkedIn account.

The fact that I had a teaching degree in addition to my journalism degree as a backup made the choice of my new occupation easy. During my last few months in rehab, I took a few online courses in early childhood education to refresh my skills. Focusing mainly on the progressive Montessori method, which is how my parents educated me. In the meantime, the law enforcement agency readied my new birth certificate, social security number, driver's license, passport, and résumé. The photo on the latter three documents stuns and saddens me as much as my reflection still does in any mirror. As exquisite as my new face may be, I miss my old self. The life I lived as a reporter, wife, and mother. Going back to my old job or getting one similar was not an option. Nor was going back to Finn and my daughter, who's now going on five.

I was an unlikely candidate for California's program as most witnesses are protected in exchange for testifying in a trial against a criminal involved with organized crime or other serious offenses. Detective Pete Billings of the LAPD, who's relentlessly worked my case, worked with the attorney general to get me in. He convinced him that as a high profile newscaster, my life was endangered with my likely contract killer still at large.

My only stipulation was that I wanted to remain in Southern California and not relocate. With my possible killer still out there, I knew that was risky. But my longing to somehow be reunited with Finn and Maddie took precedence. It's a dream I've never let go of.

The high-end tutoring agency that the program set me up with has placed me in a live-in job in Malibu. All I know is that the family will be traveling a lot and has a kindergarten-age daughter. They obviously have the means to be able to privately homeschool their child. As I drive to my destination, I think about Finn and Maddie. I think about them all the time. It's like they've fallen off the face of the earth. Driving down the 101 from Santa Barbara to the Pacific Coast Highway, I impulsively pass my exit and make a detour to drive by our house with the hope of seeing them. It's over an hour out of my way but worth it. Even to get a glimpse of them.

Parking in front of the Craftsman-style house, which hasn't changed a bit, I turn the ignition off and wait. A forest green mini-van is parked in the driveway—maybe Finn traded in his pickup or got a second car. My pulse drums in my ears at the prospect of seeing him and Maddie. How will I react? Jump out of the car and grab my daughter. Hi, remember me? I'm your mommy! Please. Who am I kidding? They'll think I'm some kind of crazy person! A stalker! And call the police! After a long fidgety hour, second thoughts assault me. This is all wrong. Ready to drive off, the front door suddenly bursts open and a cute little ginger-haired girl who looks to be Maddie's age comes skipping out. My heart does a cartwheel, then almost stops. Right behind her is an attractive brunette about my age carrying a baby. I feel sick to my stomach. Finn's new wife? I don't know whether to laugh or cry when a short balding man in a suit and horn-rimmed glasses follows them out the door. The latter wins. My vision blurs with tears as they clamber into the mini-van and pull out of the driveway. A devastating thought settles in the pit of my stomach. My family is gone. And as much as I've googled him and used every investigative tactic I know, Finn Hooker is nowhere to be found. Even Detective Billings doesn't know how to reach him. All his social media sites are shut down and his cell phone is out of service. Maybe he moved to Europe. He always told me he wanted to live in Paris. Has he relocated to the City of Light? Found another woman?

With a heart so heavy it can weigh down the world, I get back on the 10 and cruise up the Coast Highway heading toward Point Dume, the northern end of Malibu. Having no recollection of the accident, I'm not afraid of driving. After a few lessons to get me back behind the wheel, it came back easily to me. It's like riding a bike. Or a lover. You never forget.

The exhilarating drive along the Pacific Ocean with its majestic white-crested waves lifts my spirits. My window is down and the fresh salty scent of the sea mixes with the warm ocean breeze. A picture-perfect mid-August day, surfers dot the water, trying to catch the next big wave while beachgoers of all ages frolic in the sea, stroll along the shoreline, and sunbathe on the beach. The oceanfront houses, one after another, vary greatly—ranging from unpretentious cottages to mini-mansions. As I pass by Pepperdine University in my new Jeep Cherokee, the scenery changes, going from residential to rustic. Soon, there are no more houses visible along the coast. Just trees. Following my GPS, I turn left onto a private road and pull up to a massive iron gate. Stopping, I hit the call button on the intercom and announce myself. In a few anxious breaths, the gate swings open. Winding down a cypress-lined road, I come to a two- story contemporary house—an architectural masterpiece that's all sand-colored stucco and tinted glass. A vast cactus-garden surrounds it, full of exotic succulents and colorful shrubs. Sitting on a bluff overlooking the blue-green ocean, the secluded property is in a word: Magnificent.

My body tenses as I contemplate my new job. My new life. I wonder who lives here. The analytic, investigative reporter in me tells me that they must be very private and protective. And likely creative. Unsure where to park, I pull my Jeep into the semi-circular driveway. My heart thudding in my chest, I hop out of the car and retrieve my two large suitcases from the trunk before trekking to the front door. Inhaling a fortifying breath that draws in the ocean-scented air, I set my luggage down and ring the doorbell. It buzzes. On my next breath, the fiberglass door swings open. A casually dressed Latino woman in her mid-fifties greets me. Her toffee-colored face is warm and inviting.

"Bienvenido , Se?orita Callahan. We have been expecting you. I am Rosita, the housekeeper." Her English is heavily accented, but otherwise impressive.

I respond in Spanish. "Sorry I'm a little late. Hope that's not a problem."

The housekeeper smiles at my fluent Spanish, a language I learned when I lived in Costa Rica for two years while my parents shot a documentary about rainforests. "Come inside. Por favor. "

A bit on edge, I reach down for my bags and step over the threshold, finding myself in a vaulted two-story entryway lit by a skylight. From a sweeping staircase that curls like a wave, a tall, commanding masculine figure descends. Barefoot, he's wearing gray sweats and a simple white tee. My eyes stay locked on his perfectly mussed dark hair, intense gem-blue eyes, and chiseled features.

A face more familiar than my own.

Oh. My. God. Can it be . . . ?