“And he has Mel’s daughter? How?”
“Money.”
“He’s rich?”
Ami nodded. “She hasn’t come out and said it. I only learned Nicole’s name one time when Mel was drunk. She kept talking about how pretty her daughter is and how much she misses her.” Ami leaned forward. “Now that she opened up to me, she talks privately about it from time to time. I’m pretty sure that the prick ex is remarried. Mel’s said, more than once, something about getting Nicole away from the bitch playing mommy.”
If Taylor’s training hadn’t kicked into gear, her jaw would have been on the floor. As it was, she was sure her pulse rate was off the charts. “What is she going to do? Is Mr. Diamond going to represent her to win back her daughter?”
Ami emptied her glass and poured another. “You’d think that, wouldn’t you? Like if you need to fight a court order and you work for a lawyer…” She shook her head. “I keep expecting Jefferson to tell me to counter something or do something. I want him to. I want to know this dickhead’s name, but so far, nothing.”
Taylor sipped her wine, using the term loosely. Whatever it was in her glass was too sweet to be considered wine. Not to mention, the insulting aftertaste. Swallowing the liquid, she asked, “So do you all try to keep the conversation away from kids?”
“Yes. Not always. I mean, Jefferson handles a lot of divorces and custody battles. At work we mention them. It’s when we’re out and she’s drinking. Usually she just turns off and leaves. It’s only been a few times when it’s just been the two of us that she’s confided in me. I promised not to say anything.” Ami shrugged. “I’m not very good at keeping a secret.”
Undoubtedly, a great quality for someone who works for the town’s attorney. No wonder small towns get the reputation of gossip mills. “Do you need to go home to Brian before dinner?”
Ami looked at her phone. “Shit, I do. I’d better go. My mom knows I go out on Fridays, but I usually go home and see him first.” She continued talking as she put her jacket back on. “My folks bowl on a league on Fridays. Since I go out with the girls, they take Brian with them to the bowling alley. I better hurry before they’re gone.”
“Okay, thank you for the coffee.”
Ami smiled. “Thanks for the wine. I know I sound like a bitch telling secrets, but the thing is, I like Mel.” She suddenly looked sad. “Not that she feels the same. I mean, we’re friends. I’d like it to be more than that, but I think she’s still hung up on that dick of an ex.”
Taylor’s eyes widened. This was much more information than she’d dreamt of retrieving.
“So the thing is,” Ami continued, “I don’t want her to get all pissy and leave the bar. I was hoping you’d help me out.”
“Sure thing.” Taylor pressed her lips together and pretended to twist a key. “Not a word from me. I won’t mention kids or dick exes.”
Ami laughed. “I don’t mind the dick ex conversation. I’m dying to know his name.” She reached for her glass and finished off what little remained in there. “This was great wine!”
Taylor nodded, trying to keep a straight face.
“I’ll see you in a little bit. Don’t forget. Nothing about the realty either, and…” Ami smiled. “…remember me.”
“Oh, I will. Thanks, Ami.”
Taylor waited until Ami’s car backed down the drive to call Phil. As she meticulously put the Townsends’ farmhouse back in the order she’d found it, wiped down anything with fingerprints, and headed back to town for dinner, she shared her newfound knowledge.
IT HAD BEEN a long time since Phillip Roach had sat fully on the wrong side of the law. Perhaps all he’d done to help Claire escape the clutches of Catherine London as well as stay off the FBI’s radar wasn’t legal, but it wasn’t this. This was the Phillip Roach of years ago: the one who knew his objective and accomplished it at any cost. This was the man he thought he’d always be but had somehow put to rest. The stark difference between years ago and today was with the issue of the order. In special ops and even in private hire, he received an order and he carried it out.
Today, there was no order.
If there had been, in Phil’s current state of employment, it would have come from Claire or Rawlings. Phil refused to allow either of them to be involved. They didn’t know his plans or what Taylor had learned from Ami Beech, and they never would.
Somehow, despite the elevated stress the packages and letters instilled, the Rawlingses had come to terms with them. Phil’s family had a sense of peace with their security. He had too, until there was too much—too much evidence that moved his calm, experienced mind into a cyclone of terrorizing thoughts. One seemingly innocuous clue was the color of Patricia’s hair. Red. People who wanted to stay hidden changed their hair to a neutral color, one that blended into the masses. Patricia’s color screamed for attention, or more accurately of arrogance.
Another finding that shouted for recognition was what he saw in her new home. When Phil entered her house to hide the tiny cameras and he walked into a small bedroom, the pink paint and white twin-sized bed made him nauseous. Learning of Patricia’s discussion with Ami of her daughter turned that feeling into a full-blown sickness. A bead of sweat materialized on Phil’s brow at the mere thought. The woman was either delusional or genius. Unfortunately, Phil feared the latter. Patricia was establishing herself in this small community and constructing a believable backstory. If her plans came to fruition, she would arrive back to her house and job with her daughter, the one she claimed was taken by her ex. The members of her inner circle would never question this child and Nichol’s life would be forever, irrevocably changed.