Convicted - Romig Aleatha - Страница 23
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Claire interrupted and pulled her hand free, “No, you didn’t, but you weren’t honest with me either! You misled me into believing you were someone you’re not. At least Tony was honest with who he was.”
“Really? Was he honest when he said his name was Anthony Rawlings or Anton Rawls?”
The intensity of Claire’s eyes grew with each word. “Anthony Rawlings is his legal name. That isn’t, nor was it, a lie; however, I have yet to be assured of your legal name.” When Agent Baldwin failed to respond, Claire continued, “I will repeat—Tony has changed, and he isn’t the person who I’m running from.”
“Then tell me, who are you running from? Who scared you enough to leave him, let your family and friends think you’re possibly dead, and hide out in another country?”
“You’re the FBI—figure it out.”
Phil’s deep voice entered the conversation. His steadfast tone didn’t invite debate. “I believe Claire asked you to leave.”
Once again, disregarding Phil, Harry continued, “Claire, how about if you don’t leave?” His tone mellowed. “Stay here a day or two longer and think about what I said. Tell me who you’re running from. Let me tell you what we know about Rawlings and his connections to other open cases.”
Claire stepped past Phil and walked toward the door to the bedroom. “Phil, please show Agent Baldwin out.” With that, she disappeared through the threshold, shut the door, and left the two men alone. If she tried, she could hear their words, but Claire didn’t want to try. She didn’t want to think about how yet another person, someone she’d trusted, had lied to her. Tears formed as she remembered late nights with Harry, sitting with him on the sofa of Amber’s condominium and recanting details of her private life. During those times, she’d felt safe and supported as she recounted things she never thought she could share with another man. Today, she felt used.
Harry’s words from only a few minutes earlier came back to her: I never kidnapped you, raped you, hurt...Before she walked into the bathroom to get ready for bed, Claire whispered, speaking aloud, yet not for anyone to hear—more as a validation to herself, “You’re wrong, Harry. Now you’ve hurt me.”
When she returned to her room, Phil was standing in the open doorway. His presence surprised her. He usually knocked before he entered her room. “What are you..?”
“Are you all right?”
The concern in his voice wouldn’t allow Claire to be upset by his invasion of her private space. She swallowed and nodded.
Phil grinned. “You see, your instincts were right.”
A renegade tear slid down Claire’s freshly washed cheek. She didn’t want to be sad. After all, she’d left Harry for Tony. She wanted to compartmentalize Harry away; however, from the moment she watched Harry walk out of that hospital room, she’d thought she was the monster, the one who took advantage of his feelings and crushed them. During those months in Palo Alto, she considered Amber and Harry her reinforcements, her chess pieces fortifying her with the strength to face Tony. She wondered, was she just a pawn in a much bigger game? Was anything real?
With a lump in her throat, Claire answered, “Why doesn’t that make me feel better?”
“It will, one day. Just keep listening to them. What are they saying right now?”
Claire shrugged. “That I need to push this away, get some sleep, and concentrate on getting to paradise.”
“Are we still leaving?”
“Oh, yes.” Her eyes brightened. “Can you get us away from Catherine and the FBI?”
Phil smirked. “I’ve always done better under pressure, and just in case my recent babysitting assignment has in anyway caused you to doubt my abilities, you should know—I love a challenge! Tell me, how attached are you to the things in those two suitcases?”
Claire smiled. “I’ve started over from nothing before. I could care less about the contents of those suitcases, and for the record, I think you’ve done an amazing job with your babysitting assignment. If I didn’t, then I wouldn’t continue to trust you with me and my baby’s lives.”
“Good.” Phil casually leaned against the door jam. “We’ll keep our reservations for 10:00 AM. There’s a taxi scheduled to pick us up; however, we’ll leave earlier. There’s a seldom used private water entrance to the hotel. We’ll be going by motorboat. It’ll be cooler, so you might want...” Phil grabbed Claire’s jacket, the one that had been lying on the chair since Claire’s afternoon outing, and flung it toward her. When he did, something dropped from the pocket.
His casual demeanor evaporated. Putting his finger to his lips, he picked the object up and turned the small device all different directions. Claire watched as his eyes shone and his lips turned upward. With new excitement to his voice, Phil said, “You get some rest. I have a little work to do. This just got easier.”
Claire nodded.
As he started to walk away, Phil added, “Oh, and Claire, no matter what sort of ID someone shows you, please don’t...”
She grinned. “I won’t open the door. I’m going to sleep.”
Phil closed the door to her bedroom. Seconds later, she heard the door to the suite open, close, and lock.
By the time they reached the plane, Claire wasn’t sure where they were, or who they were. The Alexanders were gone—forever. At Phil’s urging, she agreed to keep Harry’s card with a phone number tucked inside her carry-on bag. Phil said it was just in case. Prior to their departure, he examined everything—her purse and clothing—everything, to be sure there were no more tracking devices. The best part of his plan, in Claire’s opinion, was when he found another couple scheduled to leave Venice the same time as their reservations. Ingeniously, Phil planted the tracking device in their luggage. Eventually, the FBI would learn it wasn’t Phil and Claire; in the meantime, his diversion bought them some additional time.
It wasn’t that Claire wasn’t willing to work with the FBI or any other branch of law enforcement to bring Catherine down. It was—well—she was hurt. Yes, it may be petty in the grand scheme of her troubles; nonetheless, she needed time to process the new notion of who Harry was and who he wasn’t.
He was an FBI agent.
He wasn’t her friend—or at least—he wasn’t the friend she thought he was.
The haze of sleep faded slowly as the harshness of Tony’s new reality filled his consciousness. Fighting the need to wake, he heard the sound of another person breathing. Instinctively, he reached for the source. As his hand brushed the rough surface of the cheap sheet covering the twin-sized mattress, he pushed away the disappointment and contemplated the turns in his life. Forcing his eyes to open, he faced the drab, dimly lit interior of the hostel.
The room where he’d slept held ten twin beds—all occupied. As he looked about the room, Tony even noticed that one bed contained two people. Laying his head back on the pillow, he exhaled and questioned this reality. Venice, Italy had always been the lap of luxury. From the first time he visited with his grandfather, it was a milieu of opulence. Looking up at the cracked plaster and listening to the sounds of multiple sleeping people, Tony knew the customary five star suites and gourmet meals were nearby; nevertheless, until he reached Geneva and accessed the safety deposit box, they might as well be a million miles away.
Rubbing his face, the softness of his recent beard growth continued to catch him by surprise. It was part of his new persona. The proprietors of the hostel didn’t know him as Anthony Rawlings or even as Anton Rawls. No, the identification he carried, as well as the passport he held, contained a different name.
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