suspicion from Nick, not when she’d approached him as Aaron’s widow and nothing more.
“I’m okay—just surprised to see you,” she answered honestly. She stared at him, the possible missing Winfield heir, and tried to see any similarity between the proud, handsome man in front of her and the pictures of the Winfields she’d studied over the years.
“It was a last minute decision on my part. Rough night,” he admitted and then looked as if he wished he could take that last statement back.
She took a deep breath. “Why don’t you come inside? There’s something I need to talk to you about. It’s important.”
“You’re not okay.” His warm hands covered hers, his body behind her as he took the keys from her shaking fingers and opened the door for her.
“Asthma attack. It’s the medicine—I’m always shaky after I take it,” she explained, and yes, that was a partial truth. He closed the door behind them, unarming her alarm at the same time she dropped her bag to the floor. “Did you let yourself in here before I got home?”
“I waited outside this time. Why?”
“Someone’s been here.” Her coat closet was slightly open. If that had been the only thing out of place, she wouldn’t have thought anything of it, but she also noticed that a few things on her table had been shifted around. The papers were still neatly piled but the laptop was slightly farther to the right than she’d left it. Her Internet Explorer browser had been closed as well and the machine hadn’t rebooted.
Nothing obvious, but someone had been in her apartment, in her things.
“I’ve been outside your door for about half an hour. I didn’t see anyone—or hear anything.” He was checking the windows. “They’re all still locked.”
A knock at the door made them both go still. He put a finger to his lips and walked quietly toward the door to look through the peephole. In seconds, he was urging her to do the same.
She saw two men dressed in dark suits, waiting patiently. They looked to be federal agents and she thought back over her last few stories and wondered if she’d gotten into anyplace she really wasn’t supposed to.
“Do you know them?” he mouthed when she pulled away. She shook her head and he pulled his gun and urged her to open the door halfway—he was right there, close enough to touch. In fact, he did brush his fingers against hers, which were wrapped around the door frame tightly.
She ordered herself to hold it together and she did, calmly facing the men with an inquisitive frown.
They’d already pulled out identification, badges and FBI ID cards with their pictures—Agents Simms and Ferone.
“Kaylee Smith?” the taller of the two men asked, and continued before she could respond, “I’m Agent Simms, FBI. We need to talk about your ex-husband, Aaron Smith.”
She swallowed hard and was half-grateful that he at least confirmed that something was going on with Aaron.
“Ms. Smith, can we please come inside to talk?” Agent Simms was asking.
“I’m more comfortable with talking right here.” She didn’t want these men in her apartment—her safe zone. Anything they had to tell her about Aaron, they could say right here. “Just tell me what’s going on.”
Agent Simms nodded. “We have reason to suspect that Aaron Smith is alive.”
She didn’t say anything, just let her eyes go slightly wider, as though this was actually news to her. She’d learned a long time ago that talking got you in trouble, but listening helped you learn exactly what your battle was.
Agent Ferone cleared his throat and Simms continued, his voice low and soothing. “We know this is hard for you to hear, but we received some information last week that leads us to believe he faked his death. Our intelligence has placed him close to the DRC—Democratic Republic of the Congo.”
“Why isn’t the military here?”
“They’ve turned the case over to us—we’ll hand it over to the CIA once we
“I’m okay—just surprised to see you,” she answered honestly. She stared at him, the possible missing Winfield heir, and tried to see any similarity between the proud, handsome man in front of her and the pictures of the Winfields she’d studied over the years.
“It was a last minute decision on my part. Rough night,” he admitted and then looked as if he wished he could take that last statement back.
She took a deep breath. “Why don’t you come inside? There’s something I need to talk to you about. It’s important.”
“You’re not okay.” His warm hands covered hers, his body behind her as he took the keys from her shaking fingers and opened the door for her.
“Asthma attack. It’s the medicine—I’m always shaky after I take it,” she explained, and yes, that was a partial truth. He closed the door behind them, unarming her alarm at the same time she dropped her bag to the floor. “Did you let yourself in here before I got home?”
“I waited outside this time. Why?”
“Someone’s been here.” Her coat closet was slightly open. If that had been the only thing out of place, she wouldn’t have thought anything of it, but she also noticed that a few things on her table had been shifted around. The papers were still neatly piled but the laptop was slightly farther to the right than she’d left it. Her Internet Explorer browser had been closed as well and the machine hadn’t rebooted.
Nothing obvious, but someone had been in her apartment, in her things.
“I’ve been outside your door for about half an hour. I didn’t see anyone—or hear anything.” He was checking the windows. “They’re all still locked.”
A knock at the door made them both go still. He put a finger to his lips and walked quietly toward the door to look through the peephole. In seconds, he was urging her to do the same.
She saw two men dressed in dark suits, waiting patiently. They looked to be federal agents and she thought back over her last few stories and wondered if she’d gotten into anyplace she really wasn’t supposed to.
“Do you know them?” he mouthed when she pulled away. She shook her head and he pulled his gun and urged her to open the door halfway—he was right there, close enough to touch. In fact, he did brush his fingers against hers, which were wrapped around the door frame tightly.
She ordered herself to hold it together and she did, calmly facing the men with an inquisitive frown.
They’d already pulled out identification, badges and FBI ID cards with their pictures—Agents Simms and Ferone.
“Kaylee Smith?” the taller of the two men asked, and continued before she could respond, “I’m Agent Simms, FBI. We need to talk about your ex-husband, Aaron Smith.”
She swallowed hard and was half-grateful that he at least confirmed that something was going on with Aaron.
“Ms. Smith, can we please come inside to talk?” Agent Simms was asking.
“I’m more comfortable with talking right here.” She didn’t want these men in her apartment—her safe zone. Anything they had to tell her about Aaron, they could say right here. “Just tell me what’s going on.”
Agent Simms nodded. “We have reason to suspect that Aaron Smith is alive.”
She didn’t say anything, just let her eyes go slightly wider, as though this was actually news to her. She’d learned a long time ago that talking got you in trouble, but listening helped you learn exactly what your battle was.
Agent Ferone cleared his throat and Simms continued, his voice low and soothing. “We know this is hard for you to hear, but we received some information last week that leads us to believe he faked his death. Our intelligence has placed him close to the DRC—Democratic Republic of the Congo.”
“Why isn’t the military here?”
“They’ve turned the case over to us—we’ll hand it over to the CIA once we
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