Phil eased into the art gallery behind a twenty-something couple. It was the third one he’d visited in Davenport this afternoon. It looked similar to the others—art work highlighted by spot lights and three dimensional art showcased on stands. It wasn’t his thing. He wasn’t even sure how to pretend he liked any of it. Most of it didn’t look like art to him anyway. Who decided what constituted art, Phil wanted to know.

As he walked slowly, pretending to appreciate the paintings which looked like something a five-year-old child could create, he saw Sophia out of the corner of his eye. She was moving from painting to painting, taking a painstaking amount of time to devour each piece. This was the third Friday in a row she’d gone to Davenport to visit the galleries. Once he found her, his directive was clear; text Ms. London and let her know Sophia’s location.

Stepping into a side hallway, Phil did as he’d been told. He texted his employer:

“MRS BURKE IS AT THE JOHN BLOOM GALLERY ON 12 TH STREET.”

Next, he stood back and waited. As he stared at the canvas before him, he listened to two women discuss the use of color and shadowing. There were many things Phil knew. He could probably teach a course on surveillance—technology was his passion—he loved learning about new devices to make his job easier and more precise. When it came to computers, he could talk programming and hardware with the best of them; however, when it came to colors and shadowing, he didn’t have a clue!

His phone vibrated. The text was simple. His job for the day was done. Phil couldn’t have been happier. Trailing Claire had been a cake walk. Following Sophia was brain numbing. She spent most of her time at home. When she did venture out, it was either with her husband or to places like this. The gallery was filling with patrons—apparently, his lack of interest wasn’t shared by others. As he made his way toward the door, a waiter stopped him with a tray of champagne in tall glasses. He asked if Phil would like a glass. With the refusal on the tip of his tongue, he saw Catherine enter the gallery. She looked different than she had at any of their meetings. Her hair was shorter, her clothes stylish, and her face made-up.

Curiosity was his new downfall. It’s what had pulled him into Claire’s world. Many times, when Rawlings told him to end surveillance for the day, Phil would continue. Now, nodding and smiling at the waiter, he lifted a flute from the tray, worked his way into a crowd, and watched. It wasn’t the art that interested him—it was the woman who had been so determined to rid herself of Claire. Phil was anxious to learn more about the woman who thought she employed him.

Through the next few hours, Catherine mingled in Sophia’s vicinity. In time, they began discussing the pieces of art. He couldn’t hear their discussion; he could watch their body language. It was alarmingly similar—little mannerisms—the way they tilted their heads or crossed their arms. Phil wondered if they noticed the similarities or if it was more obvious from afar.

The two women were becoming friendly, laughing and talking, until a tall dark-haired man arrived. Phil recognized him from his research—it was Derek, Sophia’s husband. It appeared as though Sophia introduced Catherine to her husband, and then shortly thereafter, Catherine excused herself and left.

One last glass of champagne with a side of brie and Phil was done for the evening.

Claire was asleep on their bed when she felt Tony sit on the side of the mattress. His soft touch gently rubbing her back eased her concern. He wasn’t gone—he hadn’t disappointed her. Turning toward her husband, Claire smiled a sleepy smile. “Hi, Honey, how long have I been asleep?”

“A couple of hours.”

“And where did you go?”

“For a walk around the island. I also made a call.”

That last sentence held Claire’s attention. “A call—to whom?”

“I thought I was calling Baldwin.”

Claire sat up and scooted to the headboard. “Tony, why would you call Harry?”

“He’s our only FBI contact. The only one we know how to contact.”

Although the air had cooled over the last few hours, it still sat warm and heavy; nevertheless, as goose bumps cloaked her skin, Claire wrapped her arms around her chest. “Why did you need to speak with the FBI?”

“I told you the other night that I’m willing to make a deal.”

The sea was still blue, the sky was still clear, and the colorful flowers still filled the air with beautiful scents, yet Claire’s paradise disappeared—peace and contentment were gone. Tears filled her eyes as she fought the sudden pounding in her temples. She’d been asking questions for weeks. During that time, she’d also been getting answers—many she didn’t want. Before she could ask the question on the tip of her tongue, Claire pushed herself off the bed. The sudden movement made the room sway. She reached for the bedside stand, closed her eyes, and waited for it to stop.

Before the room ceased spinning, Tony was at her side. His distant tone was replaced with concern. “The doctor said you need to be careful; the bigger the baby gets, the harder it is for your blood to flow. He said that sudden standing can cause fainting spells. You need to move slower.” His strong arms encircled her body and stabilized her world during each word of his lecture.

Instead of leaning into him, Claire stood straight. “I’m fine. I stood fast because I couldn’t breathe. I needed to stand and have more room in my lungs—and I heard the doctor—I was there.”

“Laying down would accomplish the same thing.”

She wanted to argue, but the swaying room and headache had her stomach in knots, or perhaps it was the thought of Tony’s deal. No matter the cause, she chose to press her lips together and stare up into her husband’s eyes.

“You need to sit back down.”

Her tongue remembered to speak. “I need to use the bathroom,” she retorted, followed by a decline for Tony’s help. When she returned to the bedroom, he was leaning against the wall with his arms crossed over his chest. Before he could speak, she volunteered, “I don’t think I want to know about your call.”

“Baldwin isn’t our contact any longer.”

Claire exhaled. She didn’t have a choice—he was going to tell her anyway. Claire sat at the small table. The straight backed chairs helped her lower back. “He never should’ve been. It seems like an obvious conflict of interest.”

Tony nodded. “Are you feeling better?”

“Not really. Why would you make that call without talking to me about it first?”

“I had to do something.”

“Please, Tony, tell me what was said.”

“I thought you just said you didn’t want—”

“I don’t, all right?” her volume increased. “I don’t want you to make a deal—I don’t want you to confess anything to anyone—except to me”—Her voice cracked as tears rushed down her cheeks—“I don’t want to be without you—I don’t even care if it’s the right thing to do—I—I—we—need you!”

His resolve melted before her eyes as his defiant stance eased and his voice mellowed. “Claire, my God—this isn’t to hurt you or our baby—it’s to help you. Since I left Venice without contacting Baldwin, I’m officially a fugitive. In essence, you’re harboring a fugitive.”

“I—don’t care.”

Tony pulled Claire into his embrace. “I’m not leaving. I spoke to Agent Jackson. He’s the one I talked with in Boston. I told him that I’d make him a deal; I’d tell him about someone who I’ve helped over the years and confess my wrong doings—if the bureau would agree to allow me to turn myself in—in January of 2015.”