Trespassing(93)

The detective’s voice mail picks up. I leave a message as I enter my house. Buffett emanates from the left corner of the place, but I let it play. I gather a few things—DVDs for the car, paper and crayons, clean clothes out of the dryer—and shove them into a beach bag. We might have to disappear for a while in order to stay safe. “My neighbor,” I say. “Christian Renwick. He’s been watching me. He has addresses: the house on Plum Lake, the Shadowlands, something in the Dominican. I think he’s working for Diamond Corporation. Call me back. Bella and I have to get out of here. We’re not safe.”

I grab my car keys and my stunned daughter.

“Leaving God Land?” she asks.

“Yes, baby.”

“No. You said lunch. With Emmy and Andry.”

“Later, baby.”

The next call I place, when we’re already heading toward Truman Avenue to get the hell off this island, is to the Key West Police Department.

I’m doing what they asked. I’m calling them when I’m leaving.

I keep an eye on the rearview mirror all the way past the first bridge to Cow Key.





Chapter 50

A few islands up, we settle in a hotel and wait for a call.

I pace the length of the room while my daughter colors at the table.

“Nini wants to go swimming.”

“No, baby. We have to stay here.” I peek out the drawn curtains every once in a while. The desk staff said they’d let me pay in cash and wouldn’t run the card I’d had to leave “for incidentals,” but I’m nervous. Is simply leaving a card at the desk enough to tell the world we’re here? Is it enough to draw people I don’t trust to whatever-Key-this-is and threaten our safety?

Guidry has yet to call me back, but I take that as a good sign. He’s probably following up on Christian Renwick, and I know the Key West Police Department is on it, too.

When the phone rings, naturally, I pounce on it, but the name in the caller ID gives me pause. Do I want to take a call from Claudette Winters right now?

Maybe she knows something. “Hi, Claudette.”

“Honey, are you ever coming back?”

“Well . . .”

“Micah’s parents have been across the street all day, clearing his things out of there. I mean, maybe you appreciate the help, but if it were me, I’d rather be doing it myself.”

“Wait. They’re at my house?”

“Yes. Box after box of things are coming out of there.”

I suppose it’s not shocking they’re getting it ready for sale.

But given Shell’s odd text message—You have Bella?—it’s just as likely they might even be clearing whatever evidence the cops may have missed to help their son disappear forever.

We’ll know more soon enough, once Guidry and his team comb through Christian Renwick’s shrine.

A sense of dread drops in my stomach. Why did he have to turn out to be one of the bad guys? I liked him. I liked his nieces.

Or maybe . . .

Is there any way he is writing a book about me? And if that’s all it is, could I possibly forgive him for not telling me?

I shake the nonsense from my head.

If he were an author, he wouldn’t know more than the police. And the information sprawled on his desk . . .

Is it true that Micah owes Diamond Corporation millions of dollars?

And he supposedly stole money from his father a decade ago . . .

Who did I marry?

“Micah’s father is clearing the house,” I say. That means they don’t expect us back. Or at the very least that they don’t want us back.

“There’s already a buzz about the house.”

“Really.”

“I told you when you bought, the Shadowlands is very desirable, so maybe it’s good that they’re spending the time, but I thought you should know.”

I wonder if Guidry knows what Shell and Mick are doing.

My phone blips with another call. It’s the Key West PD. “Claudette, I have to go. The police are calling.”

“Honey, call me, all right? If you’re not coming back, I’d like to arrange a time to visit. The kids would love to see you and Bella.”

“Sounds good.” As I click to answer the incoming call, I realize I’m actually looking forward to seeing her. “Hello.”

“Mrs. Cavanaugh, this is Officer Laughlin, Key West PD.”

“Yes.”

“Listen, I don’t how to tell you this, but we followed up on the residence in question—Christian Renwick’s, did you say?—and it’s vacant.”

My spine goes limp. I practically slump to the floor. “That’s impossible.”

“It’s furnished, ma’am, but it’s rented as a furnished house. It’s been vacant for a little over two months.”

“But you saw him . . . the guy that was at my pool the other day. And the night I got the call on the beach. You saw him.”

“I saw somebody, yes, but—”

“Are you sure you have the right house? Off-white. Pink trim. Blue table in the kitchen.”

“Yes. It’s vacant. Went through it myself. I spoke with the owners. It hasn’t been rented since early October.”

“The owners. Christian Renwick owns the house.”