CHAPTER 3

Cassie swung the dooropen and strode into the reception area of Priority Courier Service. She removed her ponytail holder and pulled off her company-required blue baseball cap, combing her fingers through her sweat-dampened hair. “It’s a hot one today,” Cassie said, fanning herself with the cap.

Tami Hall, one of the co-owners of PCS, glanced up from her computer. “Yeah, it is. I think we hit ninety today, and the humidity is crazy,” she said, then added, “You’ve got something on your shirt.”

Cassie looked down and noticed a dark yellow splotch next to the “Your Package. Our Priority.” tagline under the PCS logo on her blue uniform polo shirt. She made an exasperated sound. “I swear this happens every single time I get mustard on my sub for lunch!”

“Hang on.” Tami bent down and rummaged inside her purse. She pulled out a stain remover pen and handed it to Cassie.

“Thanks!” Cassie rubbed at the mark until it was no longer yellow, just a big wet spot on her shirt.

“Don’t worry, it’ll dry fast,” Tami said, taking the pen back and shoving it into her bag. “You’re done with the first part of your route already?”

“Yup! If I keep up this pace, it looks like I may get to escape early today.” Cassie grinned, handing over her clipboard with the route paperwork. She rested her chin in her hands as she surveyed Tami’s desk over the countertop. It was cluttered with papers and sticky notes, but Tami always seemed to know exactly where everything was.

“You didn’t speed, did you?” Tami arched a brow.

“Of course not!” Cassie blinked her wide-set green eyes, her features the picture of innocence. “I would never do that!”

“Hmmmm.”

“Have you ever gotten a call complaining about my driving?” Cassie asked, already knowing the answer. In her three and a half years working for PCS, she’d been employee of the month five times and had never been involved in an accident. Plus, she held the record for the most successful deliveries of any courier at the company.

“I know, I know,” Tami laughed, holding up her hands in mock surrender. “You’re a rock star. The queen of our couriers.”

“Ha! More like a princess of pain in the—”

“You better not finish that sentence, Brett!” Tami said sharply, cutting him off as he approached the counter to stand beside Cassie. Brett handed Tami his own clipboard. He was tall and lean, his build almost scrawny, and he wore his straight, brown hair long, but it lacked any visible style. He still had his sunglasses on. Cassie knew it was because he thought they made him look cool.

“Something bothering you, Brett?” Cassie turned to face him, hand on one hip.

Brett sneered at her. The silver ball on his pierced lower lip bobbed upwards as he tightened his lips. But he didn’t respond, just turned on his heel and stalked across the room, heading toward the door that led to the back offices and garage.

“What was that about?” Tami asked.

“Nothing,” Cassie said, turning her attention back to Tami.

“If you say so.” Tami looked back at her computer screen. She made a few quick taps on the keyboard. “So...it looks like I need you to pick up some boxes in town from Velocity Printing for delivery to Creative Solutions Marketing. And then you’ve also got a high-priority pick-up from your favorite client.”

“Olga?”

“Yes, apparently, she has a very important package she needs you to take to the airport.”

“I can do that,” Brett said from across the room. He’d paused and turned, pulling his hand back from the doorknob. “I handle Olga’s deliveries, too.”

“Sorry, Brett, it makes more sense for Cassie to do it. Besides, she finished up her initial route first.”

“First...first...” Cassie lingered over the word. “That has such a lovely ring to it, doesn’t it, Brett?” She smirked at him, enjoying the rainbow of reds and purples mottling his normally sallow complexion.

“Shut up, Cassie,” he said, and shoved the door open so hard that it hit the doorstop with a violent bang.

“Careful!” Tami shouted at his retreating backside. Then she turned to Cassie. “He has such a bad attitude sometimes—especially toward you.”

Cassie shrugged. “We went to high school together, used to hang out with the same crowd. But we never really got along, mostly because of the reason you just said. He has a perpetually bad attitude. Not worth wasting my time over.”

Tami printed out the necessary paperwork and handed it to Cassie, who scanned the pages. “Looks like I’ll have to take one of the vans for this one.” Cassie pulled her cell phone out of her back pocket and checked the time. It was nearly four o’clock. “I’m glad Olga lives outside of town. At least I’ll be able to avoid some of the rush-hour traffic. Driving to the airport won’t be fun at this time of day, though.”

“Just be careful out there,” Tami said, as she always did.

Cassie went through the same door Brett had disappeared through, greeting people as she passed offices and the packaging area. She entered the small garage and walked to the far side of it, approaching a man working on a laptop at a standup desk. “Hey, Howard,” she said.

Tami’s husband, the other owner of PCS, looked up. “Hi, Cassie, how’s it going?

“Good! Is the standup desk helping with your back?”

He grimaced and rubbed subconsciously at his lower back. “I don’t know, maybe. Tami claims it will help. But I suspect she’s just secretly hoping it will make me move more so that I lose a little of this.” He patted his rounded belly, and Cassie laughed. “I suppose it’s better than me just sitting on my butt all day though, right? Anyway, back to business here. I got Tami’s van request for you. Brett just turned his in and says he’s done with it for the day, so you can use it. He offered to go fill up the tank, then it should be ready to go.”

“Really?” Cassie was surprised. “He offered to fill it up?”

“Yeah, well,” Howard said, “maybe he’s taking his last review to heart and trying to step it up a bit.”

“Hmmm,” she mused with suspicion. She wandered outside the garage and could see Brett pulling away from the gas station next door. He swung into the PCS drive, parked the van in front of Cassie, got out, and dangled the keys in front of her face. She made a grab for them and he jerked them back, then dangled them in front of her again.

Cassie rolled her eyes. “Grow up, Brett.”

“You first,” he said, then tossed the keys past her into the open window of the van. As he walked away, he called over his shoulder, “Watch your driving. You don’t want to destroy your precious record.”

She climbed into the van and adjusted the mirrors. Truly, the only negative of this entire job was working with Brett. He’d been hired about six months after her, and she still remembered how annoyed she’d been to see this reminder of her past come walking through the PCS door on his first day.

Back in high school, she’d hung out with a rough crowd that had included Brett. She’d made a lot of choices back then that she wasn’t proud of. Of course, she hadn’t had the best influences growing up, either. With a drug addict mother and no father in the picture, Cassie had become a product of the foster system at a very young age, and she’d already lived in multiple homes by the time she ended up in the same family as Ani Bolivar. She recalled her first impression of four-year-old Ani. She’d been a skinny little kid, and she was terrified. The love-starved child had latched on to Cassie, who’d seemed so much older and wiser. And Cassie had been keen to take on the role of her protector.

Their foster parents had been Devlin and Cora Myers. And in their home, love was a foreign concept. The Myers were verbally abusive alcoholics who fought all the time. They blew their monthly stipend for foster care to keep their supply of alcohol flowing. And while they were stingy with the basic necessities of life, like food and clothing, they had been generous with beatings.

Cassie did everything she could to protect Ani from the abuse of the Myers’. And Ani grew to adore Cassie. She imitated her and followed her everywhere. And Cassie came to view Ani as a true younger sister.

At that time, though, Cassie was far from a perfect role model herself. She acted out a lot. And she was always getting into trouble at school for fights and not showing up for classes. The one positive choice she made was that when many of her friends got into drugs, she refused. Because of her mother, Cassie vowed to herself never to touch the stuff.

But near the end of her freshman year, she discovered a high that was much more exciting than any drug.

Speed.

Cassie’s first boyfriend had been a junior, two years older than her. And he was a street racer. She helped him trick out his cars and discovered she had a knack for it. Through him, she learned to drive and then began racing. And she was good at it. She got a part-time job and bought a 1993 Mustang with a Fox platform. She gutted it and then used all her money for car parts.

Brett had been friends with her boyfriend and was part of the same local street racing crowd. It had always galled Brett that from her first pre-license race against him at the age of fourteen, she always beat him. In fact, it was clear he hated her for it. Trouble was, Brett never understood that it wasn’t just about the speed or the mods. There was a mental element to racing that he just never mastered.

Cassie snapped out of her reverie and checked the paperwork before plotting her route. She would drive to Olga’s first, then pick up the boxes from the print shop and drop them off at the marketing agency before completing Olga’s delivery. She drove through Whispering Pines’ small downtown and turned onto a side road that led out of the village. She passed a couple strip malls and then her favorite little coffee shop, Lakeside Latté. Glancing over, she noticed that its small parking lot was as full as ever. She turned the corner onto a dirt road that wound in sweeping curves for a few miles. Instead of the strip malls and small businesses that lined the roads closer to town, she now sped past thick, leafy oaks and maples that arched over the road, creating filtered patches of sunlight and shade.

Within a few moments, she was pulling into the circular gravel driveway of Olga Kozlovsky. Olga was a freelance art restoration specialist who’d moved to the area at about the same time Cassie began working for PCS. Olga’s home was situated on a multi-acre site near the edge of Whispering Pines State Park. Her home also served as her art studio, where she cleaned and restored damaged historic paintings. Olga relied on PCS to handle the delivery of and shipments to her many clients, including museums and private collectors around the world.

Cassie jumped out of the van and bounded up the front steps of the two-story Craftsmen-style home. Although she knew the door would likely be unlocked in anticipation of her arrival, she knocked and waited until she heard a male voice call out, “Come on in, Cassie!”

She stepped inside and was struck afresh at how distinctive the interior was. A staircase with a polished wooden banister sloped down to what would normally be the foyer. This, however, was transformed into a sort of reception office. Creamy travertine flooring ran beneath a large, dark wood desk scattered with papers and photos of artwork. Exposed wooden beams and window trim gleamed in the open floor plan beyond, and the eye was automatically drawn to the large stone fireplace at the opposite end of the room. She knew that Olga was likely working in the spacious, light-filled room off to the right of the great room. Hidden from sight right now by a half wall.

Cassie’s eyes moved back to the desk which faced the entrance. A tall man with close-cropped dark hair stood behind it. His back was toward Cassie, though, as he faced a painting on an easel behind the desk. He was holding up a camera and snapping photographs of the artwork from different angles, a strategically placed light bouncer aimed at one side of the piece.

“I’ll be with you in juuusst a sec,” he murmured, and took a few more shots before turning to face Cassie.

Zack Barrett was Olga’s assistant. He was a capable young man who handled all the administrative tasks involved with her work, including the important job of prepping packages for shipment. “She’s ready to start work on this one,” he said, sliding his glasses back up his nose and indicating the painting on the easel behind him.

Cassie knew from previous chats with Olga how important it was to document the quality of the artwork before, during, and after she completed her restoration work.

“Is your package ready?” Cassie asked.

“Almost,” Zack replied with a smile. “I got distracted when she started giving me in-depth explanations about different ways to correct bloom.”

“Bloom?”

“Yeah, it’s a foggy white haze that you might see on a painting that’s been stored in damp conditions. Moisture penetrates the paint layers to create the effect. I can show you some pictures if you want?” he said, shuffling through papers on his desk.

“Uh, no. That’s okay, Zack,” Cassie said hastily. She knew he was just as passionate about ancient art as Olga was, and once either one of them got going, it was hard to get them to stop.

“Cassandra, is that you?” Olga’s lilting voice drifted from around the edge of the three-quarter-height half-wall that was topped with distinguishing tapered posts. Cassie smiled at the way Olga always used her full name.

“Yes, Olga,” she responded, walking through the main room and stepping around the wall to greet her. Just as the foyer served as an office, the space that would have been a dining room served as Olga’s studio. Light poured through large windows as well as the sliding glass door in a small bump-out that held a circular table and four chairs. Cassie gazed through the glass at the gorgeous countryside views they offered. Once farmland, the property now comprised gently undulating hills carpeted in verdant green and peppered with a profusion of colorful wildflowers.

Along one wall of the room were shelves filled with reference books. Paintings of varying sizes leaned against them, interspersed with easels and lamps. Additional glass-fronted cabinets were topped with containers of paintbrushes, and lined inside with colorful paint pots, aging pigment boxes, and jars of gelatinous liquids that wouldn’t have looked out of place in an old-time apothecary shop.

“Come here, beautiful!” she said in her heavy Russian accent. “Come see what I’m working on!”

Cassie obeyed, drawn by the vibrant energy that always emanated from Olga. Cassie wasn’t sure how old Olga was but placed her somewhere in her late sixties. Olga’s pale white-blonde hair swooped neatly back from her face into a traditional French twist. As always, her makeup was impeccable. Her walker stood parked beside where she sat in a chair before an easel that held a massive painting.

“Do you know who painted this?” Olga asked, blue eyes dancing.

“Ummmmm...” Cassie studied the abstract shapes and bright colors of the canvas.

“It’s a Kandinsky!” Olga said, not waiting for Cassie to figure it out. “I don’t normally handle the work of modern artists, but how could I resist?” Olga shrugged. “He’s Russian, like me!” Then she laughed, a melodic tittering as musical as her voice.

“That’s great, Olga,” Cassie said, finding herself smiling at the older woman’s obvious joy.

Olga then launched into a detailed explanation of the piece and Cassie listened attentively. While she didn’t know much about art, she couldn’t help but get caught up in Olga’s passion for it.

“Do you have time for a cup of tea?” Olga asked, as she nearly always did.

“Sorry, not today,” Cassie said. “I have another client pick-up and drop-off to squeeze in.”

“Ahhh, da, da!” Olga nodded. “Next time then.” Olga loved to make her package pick-ups a social affair. “Zack, do you have the crate ready for Cassie?”

“It’s all set,” he said, peeking around the edge of the wall.

Within minutes, Cassie was backing out of Olga’s driveway. She checked the van clock. Plenty of time to take care of Creative Solutions before heading to Grand Rapids’ international airport to ship Olga’s crate on the next flight.

She turned off Olga’s dirt road and back onto the paved road leading toward town. She was approaching Lakeside Latté again when suddenly the engine began rattling loudly.

“What the heck?” Cassie’s eyes flicked over the gauges, and she noticed that the check engine light was on. Braking gently, she steered the van off onto the shoulder and shut off the engine. She popped the hood and got out to peer closely at the van’s insides, trying to see where the trouble was.

“Everything looks fine, I don’t get it,” she muttered under her breath.

A shadow moved at the corner of her eye. She leaned to the side of the open hood and noticed that the van’s back doors were open. She frowned in confusion. Then a split second later, she saw a figure racing away, carrying Olga’s package! The figure ran across the coffee shop parking lot toward an idling black pickup truck. It was sitting at a strange angle on the dirt road she’d just turned off from. Whoever it was wore a ski mask and hoodie and was dressed completely in black. The thief tossed the wooden crate into the bed of the truck and hopped into the cab.

“Hey!” she shouted, running after the person.

But it was too late. The truck shot off in the opposite direction, tires spitting up dust from the dirt road and obscuring her view.

Cassie stopped running and stood there in bewildered shock, looking helplessly between her broken down van and the disappearing black truck. In seconds, she began running back to the van. She reached inside for her cell phone and hit 9-1-1.