“I agreed to meet him for dinner, but he never showed. I guess that’s when he went missing. I’ve thought about calling the authorities and letting them know he was in my studio that Saturday morning...”
“I don’t know if that’s necessary. I asked Roger a few more questions and did a few online searches. Apparently, prior to his disappearance, he was in FBI custody. All I’ve been able to figure is that it has something to do with Claire Nichols.”
Sophia took a sip of her wine as they watched the waves of the Pacific Ocean crest and crash along the strip of shoreline. It was one of their favorite places to visit. Sophia would bring a blanket, and Derek would bring the picnic basket with wine and food. On this autumn day, the beach was virtually empty with the exception of a few dog owners allowing their pets the rare opportunity to exert energy. Sophia assumed the weather was too cool for the Californians. For a woman from the East Coast, the warm sunshine and brisk wind were perfect; sharing it with her husband made it heavenly.
Thoughtfully, she asked, “Didn’t you tell me she’s missing too? When did she disappear? Don’t you think it’s strange that they’re both missing?”
“She disappeared a little over two weeks before him, and her family thinks he’s responsible. They’re making all sorts of noise to anyone who’ll listen. Stocks in all of Rawlings holdings are dropping fast now that the news has gone viral.”
Snuggling against her husband’s shoulder, Sophia sighed. “I’m sure this will be huge for you and everyone employed by one of his companies, but I’m tired of talking about it.” Turning her face toward his, their noses touched. She smiled and whispered, “I’ve missed you so much.”
Derek may have answered verbally, but with the sound of the waves and the wind combined with the pressure of his body laying her back on the blanket, she didn’t hear him. Concerns for Ms. Nichols, for Mr. Rawlings, and for anyone or anything outside the two of them were forgotten. Yes, Sophia loved her studio in Provincetown; nevertheless, home was definitely wherever she could be with her husband.
For the second day in a row, Harry followed his electronic bread crumbs along Venice’s characteristic slab streets to the Hotel Danieli. The luxurious hotel was made up of three beautiful Venetian palazzi. Staring at the magnificent historic structure, he wondered how Claire could afford her accommodations. All of the information he’d read regarding her disappearance claimed she left without accessing any of her available funds. She didn’t take her credit cards or any known cash. As Harry read that information, he remembered thinking, well, at least this time Rawlings gave her access to funds, or so it appeared; then Harry reminded himself, appearances have been known to be deceiving.
Harry knew the beacon on his phone wasn’t deceiving or misleading as it had led him to the same structure two days in a row. Claire Nichols was within the walls of this well-known, beautiful hotel. Yesterday, with help from the bureau, he learned she wasn’t registered—at least, not under her name. The hotel had 225 guest rooms and suites; 72 rooms were registered under only a man’s name, 23 were registered under a woman’s name, and the rest had Mr. and Mrs. in the registration. The rooms and suites registered to residents of the United States were immediately eliminated for one reason or the other. That left only 174 rooms/suites as possibilities. When he remembered Claire’s near perfect Italian retort in St. Mark’s Square, Harry asked for a search of either single women or couples from Italy. Once again, the results were excessive.
Entering the very impressive lobby filled with glass chandeliers, pink marble columns, antique carpets, and gilded ceilings, Harry knew the hotel was too large to hope for another chance meeting. He also suspected that after yesterday afternoon, Claire would remain within the confines of her room. Taking in the opulence of his surroundings, Harry decided to go another direction. Obviously, Claire had funds. Once again, he called the bureau. This time, he asked for information on the suites at the Hotel Danieli, particularly the executive suites. If Claire were staying in one of the top hotels, Harry reasoned she was also staying in one of the best rooms. Within seconds, he learned all were occupied by couples; however, there was only one that caught the attention of the agent on the other end of the line. It had been retained by a couple, Mr. and Mrs. Alexander of Paderno del Grappa, Italy, for the last ten nights. There was a note on the registry indicating that Signore Alexander had recently informed the front desk that they’d be leaving first thing in the morning.
Writing down the suite number, Harry grinned. His instincts told him that he’d found her; then, without warning, his satisfaction waned. If she were registered as Signora Alexander, and Signore Alexander called the front desk, who was Signore Alexander? She acted genuinely surprised by the news of Rawlings’ emergency landing. Her reaction caused Agent Baldwin to assume she wasn’t here with Rawlings, but then he remembered the pictures at the San Francisco Bureau and wondered, could the person in question be Roach, and if it was—was their cohabitation all an act? Or could it be real?
Claire packed her luggage while trying to convince herself that leaving civilization, for a while, was the best move. Although Phil asked her to limit her baggage, she wondered how she’d get the things she needed in paradise. It wasn’t like she imagined paradise with a drugstore on the corner or a boutique just a boat ride away.
Her thoughts went back to Fiji. Claire remembered the suitcases of clothes she took with her on her honeymoon and how very few of them were ever worn. The memories warmed her and—despite her sweater and slacks—left her chilled at the same time. Sadly, Claire’s anticipation for this trip, to paradise, was significantly different; instead of love and romance, she sought peace and tranquility. It wasn’t the allure of moonlit strolls on the beach or the stone shower reprieves from the sultry humidity that Claire envisioned. It was the calmness that came with knowing you can go inside or outside without fear of danger. It was the knowledge that she had done everything—sacrificed everything—to ensure the child growing within her would be able to live in peace.
Grasping the long, gold chain that hung from her neck, Claire’s knees buckled as she sat on the edge of the king-sized bed and shed a tear—or two. With all her heart, she wanted to hear from Tony. She wanted to tell him that she hadn’t left him—she’d left because of Catherine. Claire longed to explain—to have him acknowledge her fear as real; however, part of her, a part that grew every day, also feared him. It wasn’t the fear of physical retaliation, right or wrong, she’d compartmentalized that away. No, it was the fear that he wouldn’t accept her reasoning, wouldn’t acknowledge Catherine as a threat, and wouldn’t forgive her for wavering in the trust she promised to give to him. After all, her leaving was the first flake resulting in an avalanche of problems.
Sobbing quietly behind her closed door, Claire decided, no. Catherine was the one who covered their world with the deadly depths of snow. Claire’s leaving was only the final flake to start the tumble—a simple flake, that became a small snowball, and lead to the avalanche which threatened to cover them all—forever. The last time Claire looked, stocks in Rawlings holdings were still falling, the publisher was threatening to publish her book, and Emily and John were stirring up noise and doubt at every turn. Placing her hand over her midsection, Claire felt the fluttering of butterfly wings.
