Hush (32 page)

“Is that the truth?” she asked.

He was gulping coffee. When he came up for air, he said, “You know, sometimes I get the feeling you don't trust me.”

Riley didn't bother to make the obvious reply. Instead she asked, “How do you know that about the van?”

“I met an operative at the gas station back there.” He returned the coffee to the cup holder, snagged a trio of french fries, and scarfed them. His gaze slid in her direction. “Guy I handed the SIM card off to for analysis. He told me.”

That would explain why he'd been gone so long. It also alleviated a small degree of her worry about the SIM card: if Finn wasn't checking it personally, it was far less likely that the fact that his picture was on it would come to his attention. But at the moment, none of that mattered. Turning in her seat so that she faced him more fully, voice eager, she asked, “What else did they say? Do they have any idea who took her or where she is? Oh, my God, do they know if she's safe? Are they close to finding her?”

“There's no reason to think she's not safe, but other than that I've told you all I know.” His glance flicked down to her barely tasted burger. “We'll get her back. Eat your food.”

Riley wanted to ask more, but if that was the extent of his knowledge there wasn't much point. She knew she needed to eat so she picked up the burger and took another bite and then a third. Swallowing—it was like trying to choke down mouthfuls of toilet paper—she made a face at him. “Happy now?”

“Keep eating,” he said.

“Are you always this bossy?” She managed yet another bite as he provided her with a sterling example by polishing off what was left of his second burger with apparent enjoyment.

“Only when I'm babysitting.”

She was in the act of swallowing as he said that. His words, laced by an unexpected touch of humor, made her choke. Quickly she reached for her Diet Coke.

“Babysitting?” she asked, too politely, when she could speak again.

“Whatever you want to call it.” His voice was wry. “This thing I'm doing with you.”

“Not babysitting,” she warned him. “And for the record, I'm not a fan of bossy men.”

“I'll keep that in mind.” The afternoon sunlight was blinding as it reflected off the pavement and the shiny surfaces of the passing vehicles, and he hooked his sunglasses out of his pocket and put them back on in self-defense. Not having brought any with her, Riley had to make do with lowering the visor to block the worst of the sun. He continued, “Speaking of how much you like bossy men, I'm curious: how's your relationship with George?”

That was not a topic designed to stimulate her appetite. Giving up on the whole lunch thing and slipping what was left of her burger into the bag to be discarded later, she sipped at her drink.

“I don't like him, he doesn't like me.”

“Why is that?

Riley shrugged. “Does it matter?”

“It might.”

“I don't see how.” But then, because she didn't see any reason not to tell him, she added, “When Jeff brought me home with him to Houston, we'd been married three months. He hadn't even told his family about me, which I didn't realize until we stepped inside Oakwood. Margaret was shocked, but she was welcoming, and Emma”—Riley's voice caught as she thought of Emma—“was great. She said she was glad to have a sister. George, on the other hand, pitched a fit, the gist of which was I wasn't good enough to be part of his family. He never changed his opinion. I encouraged Jeff to stand up to him, and he didn't like that, either. George bullied Jeff. Well, he bullied everybody, Margaret and Emma, as well, but Jeff worked for him so that made it worse. George wanted him to be a hardheaded, tough businessman, which Jeff just wasn't. He tried to dictate his every move, and it was obvious Jeff was afraid of him, although he never would admit it. I think a lot of Jeff's problems—” She broke off. There was no point in going into that: Jeff's problems were history, over and done with, rendered irrelevant by his death, a reality that she faced with a pang. “Well, it doesn't matter now. But George and I are not what you'd call best buds.”

“Then what makes you think, if he actually has the money, he'll tell you where it is?” Finn's tone was silky smooth. Nonetheless, the question jolted Riley.

She was surprised at herself, she thought wrathfully: she actually hadn't seen that coming. She'd thought they were simply
talking, getting to know each other, maybe, and come to find out he was
interrogating
her again.

“He loves Emma,” she said shortly. Then as Finn started to ask her something else she decided enough was enough, and interrupted with “Hold it. I'm tired of talking about me. Let's talk about something else.” Her eyes glinted at him. “Like, say, you.”

She thought he glanced at her, but it was hard to tell with the sunglasses in place.

“Me,” he said. It wasn't a question. It was more of a skepticism-­laced statement.

Oh, yeah. Time to turn the tables.

“Yes,” she said with relish. “You've been questioning me since we met. I've got a few questions I'd like to ask you.”

“Have at it.” His tone made it clear that he was prepared to humor her.

“How old are you?” she shot at him.

“Thirty-seven.”

It occurred to her that there was something she didn't know that she really should find out. “Married?”

Again she got the impression that he was glancing at her. “No.”

Much as she hated to admit it, that was a relief.

“Ever been?”

“No.”

“Children?”

“No.”

“Girlfriend? Significant other?”

“Not at present.”

“When was your last serious relationship?”

“Forget it. No comment.”

“You did a background check on me. I'm guessing you know just about everything I've ever done in my life, including all about
my
relationships.” She took his silence as an admission that she was right, and pressed on. “Last serious relationship?”

His mouth tightened. “It's been a while.”

“How long?”

“I don't know. A while.”

“You do too know.”

“You're pretty damned interested in my love life.”

“You're pretty damned defensive about it. That makes it interesting.”

He made a sound of exasperation. “Her name was Jennifer. We broke up about three and a half years ago. Okay?”

“Why?”

“Jesus. She wanted to get married, start a family. I didn't.”

“Why not?”

“Because I didn't.”

“So you've just been casually dating in the three and a half years since?”

“I'm done talking about this subject. You got something else you want to ask me about?”

Riley considered. There was still a ton of stuff she wanted to know, so she decided to move on in the interest of keeping him from clamming up.

“Parents?” she asked.

“Yes. Two.”

Her eyes narrowed at him. “Ha-ha. What are their names?
What do they do for a living? And don't tell me you don't know that about me, because I know you do.”

“Robert Bradley. An accountant. Died when I was five. Janet Bradley Oppenheimer. A schoolteacher who got remarried to a dentist when I was seven.”

Looking at the hard-faced, hard-bodied, armed and dangerous man beside her, it was difficult to imagine him as the son of an accountant and a teacher.

“Is your mother still alive?”

“Yes.”

“Where does she live?”

She thought he hesitated for a second. “Seattle.”

“Is that where you grew up?”

“Yes.”

“Do you have siblings?”

“Three younger sisters. Well, half-sisters.”

Riley stared at him. He'd grown up in an upper-middle-class household in Seattle with a teacher mother, a dentist stepfather, and
three little sisters
.

Okay, she was finding it increasingly difficult to be afraid of him.

“You just officially blew my mind,” she said.

“And why is that?” There was a note of testiness in his voice.

“That sounds so”—
great, appealing, wonderful
—“wholesome.”

“Yeah, so?”

“I just—” She shook her head. “I'm having trouble picturing it. Are you close with them? Do you visit?”

“I make it home for the major holidays.”

“You don't live in Seattle, I take it?”

“No.”

“Where do you live?”

“Wyoming. On a small, run-down ranch I'm trying to get up and running again. And yes, it snows a lot in the winter and no, I don't mind. Anything else you want to know?”

He was sounding testy again. Riley looked at him consideringly.

“So how did you end up becoming an FBI agent?”

A subtle tension in his face caught her attention. “I got recruited out of college.”

There was more to the story, she could tell. “And?”

“And, what? I signed on, got trained, went to work. Here we are.”

She gave him a long look. “That leaves out a lot.”

“What do you want, a blow-by-blow?”

She recognized the same smart-ass response she'd given him earlier right off the bat, thank you.

“So how long have you and Bax been partners?” Her eyes narrowed. “Where is he, by the way?”

“He's off doing his job, and, not that long,” he replied, his tone making it clear that he wasn't going to elaborate. She was getting ready to probe for more anyway when he veered into the slow lane and got in line behind a lumbering car carrier. Even as Riley gave him a questioning look, he gestured at a rest stop sign and added, “I need to stretch my legs. We're pulling off here for a minute.”

Which, she thought, was his way of saying,
I'm done talking
.

A
fter that, once they'd stopped and were back in the car, they came to an agreement: if Finn wouldn't interrogate her, Riley wouldn't interrogate him. Still, after a few miles passed in seething silence, they ended up talking, on such neutral but diverse topics as the state of the economy, the current political situation, religion (he knew about her background; she discovered that he was raised Methodist), speed dating, college majors, favorites (movies, TV shows, books, foods) and the merits of living in Texas versus Wyoming, with a few observations about Philadelphia and, as they passed the
WELCOME TO OKLAHOMA
sign, that state, too, thrown in for good measure.

They were just pulling into what a dusty green sign announced was Stringtown when a faint buzzing that seemed to be coming from Finn silenced them both. He frowned, Riley looked at him in surprise, and then as he reached into his pocket she realized that the sound came from a cell phone set on vibrate
that was accidentally reverberating against the side of the plastic console.

In other words, making a sound that she could hear.

“Uh-oh,” Riley taunted, because it was clear from Finn's sour look as he fished it out that the phone had been set on vibrate precisely so she
wouldn't
hear it. As he glanced down at the caller ID then pressed the button to answer, she realized that the call must be important and any last trace of a desire to tease him fled. Instantly she thought,
news of Emma
. Tensing, she looked at him with worried eyes.

“Riley's right beside me,” was the first thing Finn said into the phone, which of course told her that he wanted the caller to be careful of what he said in case she should overhear. Then he mouthed “Bax” at her. From Finn's side of the conversation—mostly monosyllables—Riley couldn't make heads or tails out of it, and the few words she could hear of Bax's end—
today
, ­
hospital
—only alarmed her. When Finn disconnected without so much as a good-bye, the first thing he said, before she could even ask, was, “Nothing to do with Emma, so you can quit looking at me like that.”

Once again, her face was clearly way too easy for him to read. Riley slumped a little in her seat as some of her tension ebbed. Her fear for Emma was a hard, cold knot in her chest that wouldn't go away. She'd hoped the phone call might be good news, but from what she'd overheard and the look on Finn's face, no such luck.

“Remember, nobody's going to hurt her as long as they think they can use her to get the money,” Finn reminded her, and Riley nodded dispiritedly.

“So what was that about?” she asked.

“George was attacked today. Stabbed. He's in the prison hospital. You won't be able to talk to him until tomorrow.”

Riley's mouth dropped open.

“Dear God,” she said. “How bad is it?”

“Bax said he's going to survive.” Finn's voice was grim. “This time.”

“
This
time?” Riley felt cold all over. “It was because of the money, wasn't it?”

“At a guess, I'd say yes, but nobody's talking. Not George, and not the guy who did it.”

“They caught him?”

“Yep.”

“Can't somebody
make
him talk?” The question came out in a frustrated rush before Riley had a chance to think about it—there really was no way in American society to make someone talk if they didn't want to—but the expression on Finn's face in response startled her. It said, as clearly as words might have done,
I could
. Then it was gone, quick as that.

His face was unreadable again, but Riley knew what she had seen.

She thought of his picture on Jeff's phone. She thought of how he'd known how long it took to drown someone. She thought of the impression she'd gotten that he was dangerous, and what felt like an icy hand gripped her heart.