I begin to pace angrily back and forth across the small motel room, a ping pong ball of rage scoring treads into the carpet. I glower at my surroundings as if that might somehow make them more appealing.
The rusty red sofa. The orange and purple bedspread. The tacky watercolor wall paintings of Dutch windmills and winding rivers. The stained puce carpet, clashing horribly with the striped yellow wallpaper.
I’m not sure which ring of hell this is, but it seems to have been specifically designed to assault the senses with as many contrary patterns and color schemes as possible. I eye the bed, wondering what it would look like under a blacklight.
Probably best you never find out.
Honestly, after today, I’m considering writing to the Vatican to apply for sainthood, because I have given new meaning to the phrasepatience of a saintafter spending twelve long hours sitting in this tiny ass room, going out of my mind with worry. So bored I considered gouging out my own eyeballs just so I’d have something to do besides stress and panic and pace.
Wait.
Actually…
I take it all back.
I don’t have the patience of a saint.Oh, no.I have the patience of a fangirl waiting for the next installment in her favorite book series. Because, seriously, no one does the wholesuffer-in-silence-for-years-on-end-without-any-hope-of-a-sequelquite like bookworms. (Also, there’s the small fact that I don’t think I’d make a particularly good saint… what with my short temper and propensity for colorful curse words and, oh yeah, the one way ticket to Hell I’ve probably earned myself after practically celebrating my husband’s impending doom last night.)
With a groan, I collapse on top of the grody bedspread and close my eyes. They spring open again almost instantly when I hear the beep of a keycard followed by the sound of the door swinging inward. I sit up just in time to see Agent Lucy Sykes step inside the crappy motel room.
“Finally! An intelligent life form on this desolate planet!”
“Hello to you too, Shelby.” Her lips tug up in a smile. It wavers a little as she eyes the questionably clean armchair across from my bed. Nonetheless, she sinks into it with a sigh and crosses her long legs. “Sorry it took me so long to get here. Turns out, shootouts involving the Russian mob require an exceptional amount of paperwork.”
“Ah.”
“How are you holding up?”
I heave a mighty shrug. The FBI sweatshirt — courtesy of one of the agents who locked me in here wearing nothing but my freaking peach nightie — hikes higher on my thighs. I tug it down with annoyance.
Sykes eyes my scraped-up legs. “Gallagher told me you got pretty banged up, last night. If you’re in pain I can get you some Advil.”
At the mention of his name, I have to bite my tongue to keep from asking the question that’s been nagging at me since I was loaded into a black SUV last night and carted from my house to this crappy motel just off Route 1 without so much as an explanation.
Where the hell is Conor?
Why isn’t he here?
“I realize this isn’t exactly the Ritz,” Sykes says, pulling my attention back to her. “But it’s close to the Bureau, which means we can keep a revolving shift of guards staked out. Plus it’s nondescript enough to keep you safe until we’re sure the Evanoffs are no longer a threat.”
“And how long do you expect that’ll take?”
“Unclear. We searched your attic and found some of your husbands belongings stashed there… but nothing of any value. Certainly nothing worthy of Alexei Petrov’s wrath.”
“So you still have no idea what Paul took from him?”
“Unfortunately not.” She blows out a breath. “Nor do we know why Petrov’s men seem to believe you’re the one in possession of it.”
“They aren’t the only ones. Paul seems to think I have it, as well. Which makesno freaking senseconsidering he’s the one who stole it in the first place.”
“Shelby, I need you to think. Is there anything you can remember — anything at all — that your husband said last night that might help us sort this mess out?”
“He kept saying I had to run away. That I wasn’t safe so long as I had ‘it’ and that they’d never stop looking.” My eyes narrow in concentration. “But I don’t know what ‘it’is. It makes no sense. How could I have something that’s supposedlythisvaluable and not even realize it?”
“It’s my personal belief that ‘it’isn’t an object at all. It’s money. A lot of money, siphoned from Petrov’s private accounts into Paul’s pockets. Only… he probably put it inyourname to cover his tracks, hoping his uncle wouldn’t connect the dots until it was too late.”
“Oh.” I blink as I digest this news. “But wouldn’t I know if there was a Cayman Island out there with a designated Shelby Hunt vault of cash?”
“Not necessarily. As your husband, Paul could’ve made deposits on your behalf without your knowledge. But… by putting your name on the account, he needs your authorization to access the stolen funds. Which is likely why he’s been so fixated on recapturing your affections, these past few months.” She pauses. “It also explains why Alexei Petrov sent his thugs after you in the first place.”