Why would Catherine send Claire information about his past? What did she hope to accomplish? Had she confessed her role? What did she expect Claire to do with that knowledge locked away for her entire sentence of seven years?
Not only did Tony want answers, he wanted to see Catherine's reaction when he confronted her. If he'd called ahead, she would've been prepared for his arrival. Would she even suspect that Claire would share her knowledge? Tony intended to tread lightly.
After spending part of Saturday afternoon in California, it was quite late when Tony returned home to the estate. Once he did, he went straight to his suite, more specifically, to his closet and his box of memories. Claire had said there were pictures-he wondered if they came from his stash. As he removed the box, he marveled that this was the second time in as many months that he'd rummaged through these mementos. Other than to remove Claire's grandmother's necklace, Tony hadn't touched any of its contents the entire time she was under his roof. After she failed her test, he didn't want to look at it or remember any of it. He never planned to dispose of this record of his acquisition, but for the longest time he couldn't bear to view it.
Setting the box near his sofa, Tony began to pull from its depths. Everything appeared in order as he removed file after file, each containing private investigative reports. There was a time when it seemed safer for his updates to be transmitted on paper, with photos that were glossy or matte. Paper clips connected envelopes to folders; each contained various numbers of pictures. When he turned over any given picture, Tony saw his own writing, as he'd painstakingly scribbled names on each back. With every envelope, Tony reminisced. Before long, he was lost in the past-Claire's past.
Tony hadn't taken the photos at her parents' funeral, although he'd been there. He did take the ones at Emily's wedding. Smirking, he remembered how easy it was to work his way into the church and reception. No one questioned a man taking photographs at a wedding-everyone was doing it. The majority of the photos and reports in the box were mostly taken by private investigators; nonetheless, Tony was the one to label subjects.
After a while, he realized that he wouldn't be able to tell if the pictures Claire received were from him. There were just too many. One or two or-hell-even ten taken from this file or that envelope wouldn't be missed.
Then he remembered the Red Wing napkin. He'd looked for it last month and given up. Digging farther into the treasures of the past, Tony again pulled from the box. Once everything was sprawled across his floor, he realized the napkin was gone. Did Claire say it was in her prison delivery? Could he have left it in a suit-coat pocket? Did its absence prove beyond a shadow of a doubt that Catherine was the sender of the box?
Claire had also said articles. What articles? Tony didn't have articles about his past.
Each moment and each revelation churned Tony's stomach. The sender had to have been Catherine. He'd worked too hard to distance his current life and persona from his past. Though his curiosity remained, red seeped around the edges. Tony's jaw clenched as he envisioned Catherine going through his personal belongings.
He put everything back, except a snapshot taken at Claire's college graduation. It was taken from a distance, but you could see her in her cap and gown surrounded by people. On the back, it read: Claire (with Emily), Valparaiso Graduation-2007. Sighing, he folded it in half and placed it in his shirt pocket.
Instead of confronting Catherine, Tony decided to let her come to him. He knew she would, out of curiosity about his trip. With each step toward his office, he battled the red. Instinctively, he wanted to bang on the door of her suite and demand answers. Yet, years of experience with Catherine told him that wouldn't be the best means to learn her motives. He needed to surprise her without confrontation.
Tony had only been within the confines of his office long enough to pour a few fingers of Blue Label when he heard the knock. With each rap, his muscles tensed and the hair on the back of his neck stood at attention. Easing himself into his desk chair, Tony hit the button and watched his door open.
It was late, but not late enough for all of the staff to have retired to their rooms. He watched as Catherine played her role. "Excuse me, Mr. Rawlings. I was just informed that you were home. May I speak with you for a minute?"
He could say no and make her wait. Her unmet curiosity could be her punishment; however, if he made her wait, then he would have to wait. Tony was tired of waiting. "Certainly, Catherine, shut the door and have a seat."
Her gray eyes narrowed as she approached his desk. "What is it? Did she refuse to speak to you?"
"What is what?"
"You look... I don't know, upset? And you didn't call."
He shook his head. "No. She spoke to me."
"And?" Catherine leaned forward. "Tell me, how is she?"
"She's doing well-too well."
"Anton, don't make me pry each word out of you. I want to know all about it."
There was no way in hell that Tony planned on telling her all about it. His and Claire's reunion had gone better-much better-than he'd dared to imagine. He wouldn't tell anyone about what happened at her condominium. That memory would be theirs alone. It would sustain him until he held her in his arms again, until she was where she belonged-in Iowa.
He suppressed a chuckle as he recalled Claire's power play. "I had reservations for our dinner. A few hours before, she called my cell."
Catherine gasped. "How did she get the number? She didn't try to cancel, did she?"
"I don't know how she got my number. I wondered the same thing. Although I'm curious, the subject never came up." He shrugged and suppressed a grin. Since something else had come up during their reunion, he no longer cared. "Perhaps, she remembered it from before? And, no, she didn't cancel; she'd made reservations of her own."
Catherine's eyes widened. "What did you do?"
"I let her believe she was in control. I went to her destination."
"You see, Anton, she's much stronger than you gave her credit for."
He didn't usually think about the way Catherine addressed him. She'd called him Anton ever since the two of them were very young. That would change. Nodding at her statement, Tony leaned forward and looked her in the eye.
Uncharacteristically, she pulled away. "What is it?"
"My name is Anthony or, better yet, Mr. Rawlings. It is not, nor has it been for a long time, Anton."
"What? Of course it is. You'll always be Anton to me." When he didn't respond, she added, "That was how you were introduced to me, and what Nathaniel-"
"Don't go there." He abruptly stood and walked toward the highboy.
Catherine's voice softened. "Did something happen... with her? Is that why you're acting this way?"
"I think it's time to move on. Anton Rawls is gone." He lifted his brow. "And so is Marie Rawls."
She shook her head. "Stop it. Why are you saying this?"
"Because of you."
"Me?" Catherine asked, stunned.
"You said that Claire lived in this house for two years and never knew its secrets. I think it's time to put those secrets to rest. Our list is done-we're done with the past. After all, no one knows about it but us." He watched as she smoothed nonexistent wrinkles from her skirt. When she failed to respond, he asked, "Isn't that correct? No one but us."
Lifting her chin, she swallowed before she spoke. "I-I think I might... I might know..."
"What, Catherine? What do you know?"
Squaring her shoulders, she stood. "Mr. Rawlings? Really? After everything that we've been through, you suddenly want to be addressed as Mr. Rawlings-in private? And what respect do I get? After all, I was Nathaniel's wife."
"You were," Tony agreed. "But since Rawls was taken from you, I suppose it would be London."
Her eyes screamed with retorts, yet her lips remained pressed together in a straight line. Finally, she nodded. "Very well, Mr. Rawlings, I hope that you feel better in the morning. I believe this conversation is deteriorating faster than either of us is willing to admit."
Tony chuckled and pulled the picture from his pocket. Thrusting it toward her, he asked, "What can you tell me about this?"
Slowly, she took the photo and unfolded it. "It's a picture of Claire and Emily at Claire's graduation." Meeting his eyes, she asked, "Why?"
"Because apparently it was just part of a prison delivery that Claire received."
Catherine stepped back. "I didn't include... I don't know... she told you?"
"She blindsided me. You didn't think it would have been helpful to let me know about your little package before I went to see her?"
Her hands ran over her skirt as she sat and perched on the edge of the chair. "Anton-thony, I should have." She nodded. "I should've told you when I first did it. It was just that... well, I saw how much you were hurting."
"And telling Claire my birth name would help that-how?" Tony's baritone voice echoed throughout his regal office.
"It would help her understand why you did what you did."
"What about you? Did you add your autobiography to this delivery as well?"
"She didn't share all of the contents?"
"If you are asking if she invited me to her condominium to see for myself, no." When Catherine didn't reply, Tony went on. "She knew the name Anton Rawls and that my parents and grandfather were dead."
"Anton, you have to understand."
He raised his brow.
"Anthony," Catherine corrected. "She wasn't supposed to be released for a long time. I thought that maybe if she knew some of your background and if she had time to think about it, she would understand you better. She would want to understand you better."
He stepped closer and his words slowed. "I don't want you or anyone else going through my private things."
"T-that picture, I didn't send it."
"But you did send pictures, and they had to have come from my information."
"You're right. I'm sorry." Catherine went on to talk about the articles she included. They were selected to create an accurate timeline designed to lead Claire to the right conclusion.
"And what exactly was the conclusion you wanted her to find?"
"I wanted her to know that you'd been obsessed with her far longer than she realized. I hoped that would show her that you did love her and had for a long time. I wanted her to understand that you are a man of your word, and you had a promise to keep. I hoped that if she understood all of that, she could forgive you and... I don't know... help you."
Tony sunk back in his chair. Running his hand through his hair, he asked, "Forgive me? She's the one who left me."
"Yes, An-nd she knows that she didn't try to kill you. She knows that she spent over a year paying for a crime she didn't commit. I had hoped that she would stop hating you for that consequence and start to understand you."
His eyes closed as he processed her explanation. It wasn't at all as he'd imagined it. Had Catherine's plan worked? Did that information help to propel her to become the woman at the restaurant and in her condominium? Finally, he stared back at the steel-gray eyes watching him. "It wasn't your place or your right to share."
"It wasn't your right to take her, either."
"But it was all right to have her killed? That's what you wanted."
"No, Anton, that's not what I wanted. I wanted the children of the children to pay, just as Nathaniel asked. I didn't want to get to know them, reassure them, and tend to them. I didn't want to nurse them back to health and have a personal relationship with them." She stood. "You did that." Her voice grew more determined. "You changed the rules and so did I."
"I should fire you-kick you out of my house."
"Do you think so?" Her cold tone sent a chill through the office. "Do you think Nathaniel would approve? Do you think your grandfather wanted me out on the street? Perhaps you're just not willing to admit that if Claire knows you, really knows you, she might understand you. Is it that difficult to admit that I had a good idea?"
Their nearly thirty-year history fast-forwarded through Tony's mind. Images of his grandfather were a blur to the years of planning and manipulating. "You're not fired. Just stay the hell out of my private things! That means my closet, my suite, and my files. You know?" His brow rose. "She could send us both to prison if she fully unravels your trail. Do you still think that it's a good idea?"
"She won't share."
"What if she already has?"
Catherine's brows peaked in question.
"I don't know if she has or not. I told her not to, and she said it was too late."
"What does that mean?"
Tony shook his head. "I don't know." His dark gaze penetrated. "And, to be honest, I'm tired of discussing it."
Her gray eyes swirled with unasked questions. Finally, she stood and walked toward the door. Just before reaching her destination, Catherine stopped. "Just one more thing, Mr. Rawlings. Did my name enter the discussion?"
"We talked about you-but not in the context of her delivery or my past. She said to tell you hello and that she missed you."
Catherine nodded, obviously wanting to ask more, but recognizing that her time had expired. Wisely, she slid behind the door, leaving Tony alone with his whirlwind of thoughts.
The confession of evil works is the first beginning of good works.
-Saint Augustine Tony waited-and waited-and waited. With his cell phone on his lap and his head against the cool car window, his mind spun and slipped into scenarios, possibilities, and dreams. It was strange how a thought can transform into a full-out movie played behind closed eyes. Tony's flight from Iowa City to San Diego took less than four hours. He'd had pressing matters that delayed his desired departure; nevertheless, he was once again on West Coast soil by 6:00 PM, PST.
By the time he was seated behind the steering wheel of a rented car, he had the confirming text message from Phil Roach: "MS. NICHOLS HAS ORDERED TWO MEALS TO BE DELIVERED TO HER SUITE. HER GUEST RECENTLY ARRIVED. I'VE CONFIRMED THAT SHE TOO IS A GUEST AT THE U.S. GRANT. HER NAME IS MEREDITH RUSSEL. SHE'S A JOURNALIST. FOR PUBLICATION SHE USES THE NAME BANKS."
Every muscle in Tony's body tensed. Blood coursed through his veins and echoed in his ears; the reverberating sound kept beat as splashes of red infiltrated his vision. The innocent steering wheel received the brunt of his displeasure as he struck it repeatedly with his clenched fist. After a few loudly yelled expletives, the red faded enough for his vision to register. He was still in the parking lot of the private airstrip. Running his bruised hand through his hair, Tony inhaled deeply and began to text his reply.
His shaky fingers didn't want to cooperate with the small keypad. Finally, he said, "Screw this," and dialed Roach's cell. "I fuck'n knew that was what was happening. Keep watching her suite, and let me know the second something changes. I'm at the airstrip but should be there soon."
"I have a camera set on her door," Roach replied.
Tony paid him well enough; he should have damn cameras in the suite. "Text me every ten minutes. I want to know the exact moment that woman leaves Claire's suite. And text me her room number."
"Yes, sir."
This damn nightmare felt like it had been going on for weeks, but in reality it only been happening since late the same morning. Shelly had sent an email with a copy of Meredith Banks' planned retraction. It was a seemingly benign article stating that in 2010, she'd used her journalistic prowess to connect the dots of her story about Claire Nichols, and that Ms. Nichols never mentioned or alluded to her involvement with Anthony Rawlings. Apparently, Meredith submitted the short article to various publications. Thankfully, Shelly had connections-connections who understood Anthony Rawlings' desire for privacy. Someone from Rolling Stone alerted her. She'd been able to dissuade a few avenues of publication, and the Rawlings legal team was diligently working to stop more. With each mile toward the U.S. Grant Hotel, Tony's disappointment grew.
It wasn't the retraction that bothered Tony, other than the fact that it confirmed Claire's innocence during the supposed interview nearly three years ago. He tried not to remember that night or the horrendous weeks that followed. Nevertheless, the parallels to his current situation were ironic. Once again, he was waiting, just as he'd waited for her that night in her suite. In 2010, she was at her lake, unaware of the circumstances of his rage. Tonight, she wasn't innocent. Claire was willfully, willingly divulging private information. She was in that damn hotel, eating and talking with Meredith Banks. She was breaking his rules with no regard for the consequences!
Last time he flew home from New York, this time it was from home to San Diego. As the sky darkened and he sat silently watching the people come and go from the grand hotel, Tony imagined the conversation occurring floors above in the luxurious suite. He wouldn't have it-this was not debatable.
The part of the article that upset Tony, sent off alarms, and caused the Rawlings legal team to scurry was the last paragraph. Tony had it memorized: She has, however, promised me exclusive rights to her story, promising an enlightening view into the world of her true relationship with one of this country's wealthiest men, as well as the truth behind her arrest, plea, incarceration, and unconventional release. Please stay tuned. The wait will be worth it!
The one variable that was dissimilar to 2010 was the intensity of the redness. There were moments as he waited that it deepened, blinding him to the world outside of the car, but then he would remember Claire-her lying on the floor of the suite, battered and unconscious, the doctor and nurse's prognosis before she regained consciousness, and the bruises that took forever to fade. Each memory worked to lessen the crimson. He wouldn't allow another accident, but he would confront her. Tony would make sure that she understood that this alliance with Meredith Banks would not continue.
Initially, Tony had hoped that he could stop her impending rule-breaking with a call. Claire didn't answer; however, she did return his call, barely under the time limit he'd proposed. That was what propelled his spontaneous flight west. When he first called, she was on a damn plane. He knew that Claire was in San Diego for one purpose, and Tony intended to put a stop to it, once and for all. His phone buzzed.
"NO CHANGE"
It was the exact same as the last eight messages. The confines of the car were closing in all around him. Stretching his weary legs, Tony got out of the car and slammed the door. Of course, Claire couldn't have booked a room at an out-of-the-way, secluded resort. No, she was staying in the center of San Diego's Gaslamp Quarter, a location filled with tourists. Although he wasn't wearing his customary Armani suit, he was Anthony Rawlings, and as such, was potentially recognizable. It was a part of his life that Tony detested. More often than not, he longed for anonymity-the ability to enter a restaurant or bar without the potential of seeing it as a news piece. He imagined tomorrow's headline: ANTHONY RAWLINGS FOLLOWS EX-WIFE ACROSS THE COUNTRY. Hell, that plus Claire's little expose unfolding floors above in the historic structure could ruin everything he'd taken a lifetime to accomplish. Shelly would do her best to spin it the right way, but Tony needed to stop it before it went any further.
He considered going to Claire's suite, interrupting the interview, and putting an end to the foolishness, but better judgment told him to stay clear. Meredith was a reporter. She'd plaster that shit all over the media in seconds.
A walk up Broadway and back loosened his overly tense muscles. Tony settled back into the plush leather driver's seat and continued to wait: One hour. Two hours. Three hours. Finally, the text arrived: "MS. BANKS JUST EXITED MS. NICHOLS' SUITE."