Behind His Eyes - Convicted: The Missing Years (6 page)

I’m Claire Nichols, formally Rawlings, and I wish I could say that was what I experienced. I wish I could tell you how Anthony Rawlings wooed me, seduced me, and romantically worked his way into my heart. Unfortunately, my reality was starkly different.

Although it now seems inconceivable, when I first met my ex-husband—before my life changed forever—I didn’t know Anthony Rawlings nor did I know of him. I’ve read numerous accounts that paint me as nothing more than a calculating gold digger. I may never be able to convince the world otherwise, but the truth is that I never wanted wealth, or fame, or any of the things that entered my life on that fateful evening when I saw his dark eyes for the very first time. Before that night, my life was amazingly simple and yet complex. As an out-of-work meteorologist, I tried to make ends meet by tending bar at a local restaurant. I had friends, a family, and my life was content. I didn’t realize how truly happy I was until my life was taken away.

Never has nor ever will money be my barometer of happiness. I can tell you with all certainty that money does not buy happiness.

There were many other truisms that I learned after March 15, 2010. The most important was about appearance: never doubt its power or importance. It was a lesson that I mastered to perfection. My outstanding dedication to that lesson helped to perpetuate the misconceptions regarding my relationship with Anthony Rawlings.

Am I writing this book for money? No. Am I writing it to exact revenge? No.

I’m telling my story for one reason and one reason only because I need to have a voice in my reputation. I’ll no longer sit quietly and allow the world to be misinformed—or more accurately, disinformed—at my expense. You will soon learn that I was complacent for far too long. Some of the details from my story will be difficult for me to share as well as difficult for you to read. I can’t make you believe me. All I can do is tell my story to anyone willing to listen.

My reality began on March 15, 2010, in an establishment where I worked as a bartender. Anthony Rawlings appeared out of nowhere and sat down at my bar. Throughout the evening he was witty, charming, and debonair: all the qualities you’d expect. He asked to meet me for drinks after my shift. Although I had a firm rule against dating customers, Anthony Rawlings had a way of making you forget your rules and play by only his instead.

Brent swallowed back a bitter laugh. Damn—she was spot on. He continued reading.

Although I agreed to his invitation, as a safety net I refused to leave my place of employment. He willingly acquiesced and waited for me. When my shift was over, we sat, drank wine, and chatted effortlessly about nothing in particular. Sometime during our conversation, he asked about my aspirations and dreams. With a deep baritone voice that has graced both my nightmares and my dreams, he began, “Claire, surely you don’t want to spend forever serving drinks to stooges like us.”

Clearly, he was a successful man, and I was flattered by his genuine interest. I explained my wrinkle in employment, and he offered to help: he proposed that my dreams could be as simple as a signature away. With a rush of enthusiasm, he presented me with a napkin from the bar, and asked, “Would you be willing to give this all up for something bigger? What if this napkin were truly a contract and what if it said WEATHER CHANNEL at the top? Would you be willing to sign on the line for something like that?”

Perhaps it was the wine, but I’d say it was his magnetism. His words and tone enveloped the booth where we sat and filled me with a false sense of hope for a future and a career I’d lain awake nights dreaming of experiencing. For a brief moment in time, he made it seem obtainable. I bit—hook, line, and sinker—and, willingly accepting the pen he offered, signed my name.

What I thought was an imaginary agreement to my life’s dream, was in actuality a literal agreement to a nightmare.

Though I didn’t see Anthony at all the next day, he called the restaurant and asked me to dinner. I was so surprised that he remembered my name, much less asked me out on a date, that I didn’t realize that he knew my schedule. Not only did he know when I was working so that he could call, but he also knew the time I would finish work the following day.

Another rule I faithfully practiced during my dating years was to never ride with a man in his car on the first date. I always drove separately. It was my escape. That practice had proved useful on more than one occasion. However, once again, Anthony had his own plan, his own rule. Before I knew it, I’d agreed to a dinner date and to having him pick me up at my place of business. That date was March 17—the date I ceased to exist.

Perhaps if there were to be any hearts and flowers in our courtship, it was that night. He took me to a beautiful Italian restaurant, and once again, I missed warning signs. He ordered my meal, my drinks, everything. I’d never met a man like him before. He threw my world off-kilter. No matter what I thought or said, he seemed to be one step ahead of me and for some unknown reason, I liked it. After living independently with no one else to rely upon, an evening with a man in total control was a nice break in routine. I had no illusions about a long-term relationship with Anthony Rawlings. Our worlds were too different. But for a night I was treated like a princess and this dark-haired, dark-eyed gentleman was my prince.

When he offered to take me back to his hotel suite and I accepted, little did I realize that it was one of the last decisions I would make for nearly three years. Little did I realize that my fate was sealed and my prince was truly the beast of every fairytale I’d ever read. I now understand that my future was predetermined, and my pseudo-decisions—like agreeing to dinner and his hotel suite—were just that: a ruse for a bigger, darker plan.

Though my nightmare began later that night, I can’t recall any of it until the next day when I woke in my prison—my cell for the next three years of my life. Of course, that wasn’t what he called it. He called it my suite at his estate.

The captain announced their approach into Cedar Rapids as Brent turned off his app and closed his eyes. He’d heard rumors and whispers around the office. Hell, the Internet and television buzzed with the stories, but part of Brent wanted to believe that Claire hadn’t truly disclosed their darkest secrets to the world. A cold chill brought goose bumps to his arms as he imagined Tony reading this account for the first time.

As the plane touched down in Cedar Rapids, Brent fumbled with his phone, turning off the airplane mode. An onslaught of buzzes and vibrations told him that his momentary reprieve from reality was done. He obviously had messages galore awaiting his reply. Then, just as quickly, the screen went black.

“Damn,” he whispered to himself. “That battery is shit.”

As the plane taxied to the gate, Brent realized that he‘d forgotten to text the office to have a car pick him up, and his car was at the Rawlings Industries private airport. With his phone dead, he couldn’t even call Courtney, not that he wanted to disturb her. She and Claire were probably catching up. Fine, he’d take a cab. Although there was plenty of work at Rawlings, Brent wanted to go straight home. He hoped that when he arrived, he’d find Tony and Claire safe under his roof, with harrowing stories of outsmarting Catherine and saving Emily and John.

Rotating his head from side to side in an effort to relieve the tension, Brent wondered when he’d become an optimist. The tight muscles in his neck and shoulders warned him of the alternate possibilities of what he’d find at home. Perhaps even a police officer. If Tony were taken into custody, would Brent and Courtney’s roles be discovered? Would they too be taken in for questioning?

Those questions and more rattled through his consciousness as Brent exited the causeway to the airport. He wasn’t looking at the televisions sprinkled throughout the waiting area of the gate, but the headline caught his attention:
RAWLINGS INDUSTRIES PLANE DOWN: 5 BELIEVED DEAD.

Perspiration dotted his brow as he fought to comprehend. Rawlings had more than one plane. Surely they didn’t mean the plane he was supposed to be on? He stared at the silent screen. The closed caption finally registered. Brent Simmons. Derek Burke. Sharon Michaels. Andrew McCain. Tory Garrett.

Brent rushed to a pay phone and fumbled for change. He called his home—no answer. He called Courtney’s cell phone—voicemail. “Courtney, I wasn’t on that plane!” he yelled into the receiver. “I’m on my way home. Oh, my God! I’m coming home!”

The ride from Cedar Rapids to his home was nothing more than a blur. He wanted to call the office, to try other phones. He hadn’t left a message on their home phone, but he couldn’t do any of that. His phone was totally dead. Brent couldn’t think straight.

As the cab turned in to his driveway and approached his house, the number of cars on the brick drive brought the tension in his neck fully to Brent’s temples. Easing his way in the front door of his home, Brent listened to the din of hushed voices coming from his kitchen. Stopping dead in his tracks, he heard his son’s voice. “Mom, we’ll be there as soon as we can.” Caleb was obviously on speakerphone. “Julia found a flight leaving in a couple of hours. We’ll stay here as long as you need. Don’t even try to argue. Nothing’s more important right now than taking care of you.”

“I-I need to do something. Anything.” The sadness in Courtney’s voice pulled at Brent’s heart.

He turned the corner, met his wife’s puffy-eyed stare, and rushed to her side.

The entire room gasped in unison as Courtney flew from her seat and wrapped her arms tightly around Brent’s neck, surrounding her husband in a frantic embrace. “Oh, my God. Oh, my God…” Her words became unrecognizable as she shuddered with sobs.

“How? How? It’s a miracle,” Courtney managed between sniffles.

“I didn’t know anything about the accident until I landed. I tried to call…”

Courtney’s unwavering embrace stilled his words. Finally, she asked, “Why weren’t you on the Rawlings plane?”

Caleb’s voice came through the speaker. “What’s happening?”

Bev and Sue smiled as Bev picked up Courtney’s phone, turned off the speaker, and said, “Caleb…” She couldn’t keep the tears from falling. “…there’s someone here to talk to you.”

Prying his arm free from his wife, Brent took the phone. “Hi, son. Apparently, the reports of my death are a bit exaggerated.”

Caleb and Julia could both be heard gasping. Brent smiled. “Let me put you back on speaker. I had a few papers that needed to be tweaked and at the last minute decided to grab a commercial flight. I didn’t know anything about it until I landed. My battery was dead so I tried to call from a pay phone. I left your mom a message.” His eyes twinkled toward his wife. “But you know how she is: she never checks her messages.”

“We’re still coming home, and I just got a text from Maryn. Her plane lands about the same time as ours. We’ll all be home this evening.”

It had been Christmas since he’d had both of his children and daughter-in-law together. “Thanks for taking care of your mom. I love you all and can’t wait to see you,” Brent said before he disconnected the line.

The joyous mood turned somber as Sue came forward and hugged Brent. “I wish the others had waited too.”

Brent’s eyes misted. “I’ve been thinking about them since I heard. I can’t believe it. Do they have any idea what happened?”

Courtney’s head moved slowly from side to side. “I’m so sorry. I feel guilty being happy. I know what Sophia is going through.”

Brent made no attempt to conceal the tears as he scanned the room. Looking to Sue, with her arms wrapped around her growing midsection and her cheeks dampened by emotion, he asked, “Poor Tim. As if he doesn’t have enough happening. I need to help him.”

Sue nodded. “I just texted him. He should call in a few minutes. He’ll be so happy to learn you weren’t on that flight, but Brent, there’s so much more.”

Brent sat silently as Courtney and Sue tag-teamed the significant details of the past few hours. When Courtney received the news about the flight, Claire panicked. She was upset, but also concerned about Tony’s reaction if he learned about it while with Catherine. Claire was certain that Catherine was responsible. Once Sue was on her way to stay with Courtney, Claire took Nichol and headed over to the estate. No one really knows what happened there. They only know that Tony is currently in police custody, and Claire is at the hospital with pending charges of attempted murder as well as aiding and abetting a fugitive.

“Thank God, Emily’s here. She has Nichol,” Courtney added.

Brent tried to process as he fought the onset of emotion. His brow glistened with perspiration at the realization: he was supposed to be dead. Derek Burke, Sharon Michaels, the pilot, and copilot were all dead. That wasn’t all: Tony had been arrested and Claire had charges pending. That wasn’t how it was supposed to happen. The FBI promised that no charges would be filed against Claire.

“I need to get to them,” Brent said.

“You two need some time alone, before the kids arrive,” Bev suggested.

Brent thought about Claire’s words in Meredith’s book. She’d already lived through hell, and he’d done nothing to help. He wasn’t dead—he was alive. Brent wouldn’t sit back again and do nothing. He couldn’t. “I’m fine. I’m not doing this because it’s my job. I want to help them. I have knowledge and proof. I need to get the FBI involved. The Iowa police don’t realize all that has been done and the deals that have been made. With Meredith’s book out there, I’m guessing they won’t be willing to listen to Tony. I have to go.”

Courtney wiped her eyes and nodded. “Then I’m going with you. I’m not letting you out of my sight, and I need to be sure they’re both all right—and that Nichol Courtney’s safe and sound.”