Without Faith (12 page)

“Silver?” My heart instantly burst into a quick pace. “Um, who ... How . . . What . . . what is going on?”

The light had turned green, but I was too frozen to go. A large semi honked behind me, jumpstarting me back to movement. I made a left turn into a parking lot that faced a small strip mall and pulled into a free parking space.

“Ms. St. James.” Silver's words tumbled out quickly but softly, maybe a slight decibel louder than a whisper. “I need help and you are the only one who can help me.”

“You . . . you are kidnapped. The police are looking for you.” I felt like a bumbling idiot, knowing that, at a minimum, I sounded like one. But how was I to make sense out of this? “Let . . . let me call the police. I mean, where are you?”

“No, no!” The woman who called herself Silver gasped. “You can't call the police. I'm okay, I promise I'm okay, but everything else is not.”

“Well, then you definitely need to call the police, if only to let them know you are okay.”

“No, no, no. That's not an option.” Silver pleaded, “I need to explain everything to you, but I need to do so in person. Please, I will tell you where I am, but only if you promise not to tell anyone—at least not yet.”

“I'm not comfortable with this.” I shook my head. “The police think you are a victim of a crime and my name keeps popping up all over their investigation. Why are you calling me? How did you even get my number? I want nothing to do with this. I am hanging up and calling the police.”

“No, please, listen.” The woman who called herself Silver sounded desperate. “I promise if you come to where I am I will explain everything, and then, if you want, then you can call the police. But please, hear me out. I would tell you now, but . . . but I need to talk to you in person for any of this to make sense.”

“Jesus.” I dropped my head into my hands, saying the only prayer I could get out in such a tight, time-pressed situation. “Silver, I will meet you in a mutual place and then I am calling the police.”

“No, it's not safe for me to leave where I am.”

“Then how do I know it's safe for me? How do I even know that you are really Silver? I don't know you!”

“I need you to trust me,” she whispered.

“You are a complete stranger and I ain't no fool. Somebody is setting me up for reasons I do not know and I am not getting any more involved.” I meant it. I was going to dial 911 the moment our call ended. “Why on earth do you think I have any reason to trust you?”

There was a long pause—so long, in fact, I thought the call had dropped. I was about to check the signal on my phone when the woman's voice weakly sounded.

“Please trust that I mean you no harm, even if there are others who do.”

“Others who do what? Mean me harm? What are you talking about? I haven't done anything.”

“No, you haven't, but you're involved now. I need you and once I can explain everything, you'll see that you need me.”

At that, I burst into laughter and hung up the phone. The conversation was so ridiculous, her request so outlandish, her assumptions so over the top, I was surprised I'd even entertained the call as long as I did. Now, I
wanted
to get home.

He would know what to do.
That is, if I'm even able to talk to him.

As I sat there struggling to decide whether to talk first to Leon, the cop I knew, or dial 911 and deal with cops who thought I was in on it, my phone chimed that I had a new text message. Of course, the number was blocked again, but the sender was obvious as I read the all-capitalized text: PLEASE! 18181 PANORAMA CT.

It was an address in nearby White Marsh. I remembered the street name from my days of touring model homes before the housing market crashed. There was no way I could afford the nearly million-dollar homes that were being built in that particular development as they were priced back then, but the models were so luxuriously designed, I used to tell myself I was getting decorating ideas, and not merely daydreaming—or house-lusting.

But why would Silver—if that was even really her—give me an address when she knew I was going to take it right to the police, especially since she was saying that she was trying to avoid the authorities?
Maybe it's a trap!
Now that made sense. Clearly, someone wanted me in the middle of this madness, and texting me a phone number with the assumption that I would simply pass it along to the police could only mean more trouble for me.

I had no idea what was going on or why, but I was 100 percent certain that giving the address to the police would be a mistake against my own well-being.

“You think I'm going to send the police to you, but I'm a step ahead of you.” I pressed down on the accelerator and turned toward the suburb of White Marsh, Maryland. I wanted to scope out the address myself before the police got wind of it and found something that implicated me of wrong-doing, as I was sure that had been the sender's intention.

The neighborhood was as lofty and grand as I remembered. Driving down the narrow back roads of Baltimore County, I passed by homes with three-car garages, brick courtyards, and multiple balconies. I recalled the model I had practically slobbered over. It had an extra finished space over the garage, which I loosely dreamed of making my own art studio.

But Roman and I did not need a five-bedroom, four-bath house. Not that I could have afforded it anyway.

I shook my head at the elaborately manicured lawns and the collection of high-end cars and SUVs parked in front of some of the residences. What kind of jobs did these people have to live like this? I shook my head again and reminded myself to stay focused.

I needed to figure out what was going on.

When my GPS indicated that I was only a few houses away from the address that had been texted to me, I pulled to a stop, ready to sit and watch. However, my gut told me that this was the kind of neighborhood where people would probably be looking out of their windows, wondering about the stranger sitting out in front of their homes.

“I'm here now. I might as well go all the way and see what trap is being set out for me.”

Maybe I wasn't in my right mind, but could you really blame me? I had police picking through my house earlier that morning; I was actively losing the one man in over a decade who I knew I had a real chance at love with; my son had set himself free from me and was somewhere on the other side of the country looking for a man who'd set up his life to keep us from finding him.
And now I have to deal with a stripper name Silver telling me that she needs me and I need her.
Like I really had time for any of this.

I slammed on my brakes right in front of 18181, a massively large stone-front colonial with red double front doors and trim. I shut off the engine, got out of the car, and heard my own anger and frustration being punched by my boots into the stone pathway to the small porch. I banged on the door, really feeling like I could kick it in, but controlled myself enough to simply step back and wait. Sharp footsteps approached on the other side of the red doors, and that's when my common sense returned.

What was I doing? I had no idea who lived here or who didn't. What was I supposed to say? Who was I supposed to ask for? I looked around frantically for a clue, an answer. And I got one.

The attached three-car garage to the right of me was partially open. A shiny, bright red Lexus peeked out. That quick revelation gave me enough confidence and composure to greet the person who opened the door without blinking an eye or missing a beat.

“Hello, Jenellis. We need to talk.”

Her hair weave was pulled back in a ponytail. She wore a pink and gray running suit, black sneakers, and her face was fully made up in shades of wine and plum, which complemented her natural bronze tone.

But there was nothing made up about the shock that stared up at me from behind her fake-color contact lenses. Today, her eyes were light brown.

“Ms. . . . Ms. St. James,” she stammered. “What are you doing here?”

When I did not immediately answer, she seemed to collect herself and settle down. The reason I did not immediately answer was also probably how she knew she had regained the upper hand—I was too busy gaping at her foyer.

The single showpiece in my foyer was the decades-old collage I'd been working on. Jenellis's foyer showcased a staircase-length silver and gold kimono in the most elaborate jeweled flower pattern I'd ever seen. It hung from a satin hanger at the top of her cascading stairwell with the train pinned to the wall at a flattering angle that allowed the natural sunlight from the skylight above to reflect off of the jewels.

“My wedding gown,” she answered my unasked question and grinned mischievously. “I had it commissioned by a spectacular gown designer I met during one of my trips to the Orient years ago, long before I even had a fiancé or a rock.” She waved her left ring finger as if I had never seen the multi-carat diamond that graced her manicured hand. “All those trips back and forth to Hong Kong to get measured—talk about a reason to keep off the weight.” She twirled around in her running suit. “But now I finally get to wear it in two weeks.”

I did not miss the quick drop of her smile.

“Come in, Ms. St. James, please. Good, we finally get to talk.”

As I stepped into the foyer, I noticed her scan the neighborhood behind me before shutting the door. She smiled at me as she led me down a narrow hall. Our footsteps echoed on the polished hardwood floor, the only sound that filled my ears. At the end of the hallway was a two-story family room and she directed me to sit down on one of its plush couches.

The room was done in shades of red with a single wall painted black. Two spotlights artfully placed on the lone black wall across from me shone on a framed sword. What looked like Chinese writing filled both the blade and the handle. My head was cocked to the side, looking at the writing as if I would somehow understand it.

“It's an authentic
jian
from the Qing Dynasty.” Her smile continued as she sat in a couch cater-cornered to mine. She smoothed her hands back and forth over her legs as I continued to study the framed sword. I noted that the frame was more than a frame. With a cover and a keyhole, it was apparent that it was a specially crafted display case. The fact that it was locked and secure gave me cautious comfort.

I did not really know this woman.

And, more importantly at the moment, I did not know why I had been directed to her home.

“What does it say, the writing on it?” I asked. Small talk to get us ready for the big talk.

“‘Red is the color of love and blood,' or something like that.” Her tone was unreadable as she spoke.

“Interesting.” I turned my attention away from the framed sword and smiled back at her. Silence flooded the room and I felt like she was waiting for me to talk, waiting to see where I would begin.

But I was a therapist. I was used to awkward silence, and trained enough to not feel uncomfortable with long breaks in conversation such as the one happening between us now.

After several rounds of the minute hand swirling around the face of my watch, Jenellis finally gave in.

“Would you like some tea?” Her smile had diminished in size and her eyes blinked almost rhythmically, but she otherwise remained quite poised and proper.

“Sure,” I said flatly.

“Tatyana, tea!” she yelled, her eyes still glued on me.

I heard some tinkling noises come from what I assumed was her kitchen and in a matter of mere moments, a short, slouching, mousy-looking woman entered the room, carrying a wooden tray of porcelain teacups and a teapot. She had Slavic features, wisps of gray hair, and she was actually wearing a blue pincord housekeeping dress.

Really, Jenellis?
I wanted to roll my eyes at her overdone display of wealth. Had that poor old woman in here working like a darn slave, I could imagine. She disappeared back to wherever she'd come from before I even had a chance to make sense of her.

“So, you seem really into Asian culture.” I decided to bring a real end to the silence as I poured a steaming hot cup of black tea laced with ginger into the quaint white and blue teacup.

Jenellis shrugged me off. “One of many cultures I study.”

“What kind of work do you do?” The question occurred to me. Jenellis only stirred her tea and took a sip before looking back up at me with a tight smile.

“Ms. St. James, I'll be honest with you. I'm still trying to figure out why you are here. I did not realize that I had even given you my address when we met.”

“You didn't. I got your address from a text message I just received.”

“A text?” One of her arched eyebrows rose slightly.

“There's a girl who's been flashing all over the local news, allegedly kidnapped while coming out of an alley in Fells Point. Her name is Silver.” I paused, wanting to read any slight reaction.

There was none.

Her non-reaction told me she knew exactly what I was talking about.

“And?”

“And she called me a few minutes ago asking me to come see her, but I told her that I was going to go to the police and then she sent me the text with your address.”

“So an alleged kidnapped victim calls you with an address of her supposed whereabouts. Well, I can assure you she is not here, and, I see, neither are the police. You didn't call them?” Jenellis took another sip of her tea. Tatyana returned with a plate of sliced oranges and then scurried back into the kitchen after a quick wave of Janellis's hand.

“Thank you,” I offered to the older woman. She did not seem to notice.

“She doesn't speak English,” Jenellis explained.

She was way too calm and collected for the entire situation as far as I was concerned.

“I didn't call them. The police. I did not call them. Not yet.” I was kind of wishing I had. Everything felt wrong.

“Hmmm.” Jenellis put her cup down.

“Ms. Walker, what is going on with Silver? It is obvious to me that you know something. You know who she is.”

Jenellis stood and walked over to the mantle of her fireplace. Her back was to me as she fished through a short stack of mail that sat on top of it. “‘Silver' Simmons.” She shook her head. “You're talking about that nasty skank of a woman who was mouthing all over my fiancé in front of a studio audience.”

“So you did see that episode of
The Soul Mate Show?
” I watched her carefully, wishing I could see what she was searching for out of my view. “I thought you said you didn't care about Brayden's infidelities.”

She spun back around. “I don't, at least when it comes to physical affairs. Brayden's a man, and, let's face it, a man's going to be a man.”

“I don't share your views.”

“That's fine. You don't need to. What you do need to know is that I couldn't care less what Brayden does in his free time, but Silver apparently cares what he is doing with me.” She turned back to the pile of papers on the mantle, picking them up one by one and examining each as she continued. “Ms. St. James, mark my words, a woman who is desperate enough for money that she will take off her clothes in front of a crowd for it is a woman who is desperate enough to pull drastic tricks to get more of it.”

“Let me get this straight.” I eyed her closely though her attention was elsewhere. “Are you saying that Silver staged her own kidnapping to somehow get more money out of the whole situation?”

“That's exactly what I'm saying.” Jenellis huffed. “It's no secret that both Brayden and I are persons of great wealth. I'm thinking that if she can't have my man, she's thinking she can at least have my money.”

“So she is setting you up to look like you had something to do with her supposed kidnapping? That's why she wanted me to send the police to your house?”

“Look at this.” She finally turned around for good, an envelope between her long, fuchsia fingernails. I took it from her as she continued. “It was delivered to me this morning. Open it.”

A single sheet of paper was inside. $1,502 was typed on it.

“A ransom?” I looked up at her.

“A
fake
ransom.” She slid back into her seat near me. “Remember, she's not really kidnapped.

“Blackmail?”

“That would probably be the more accurate term.”

“So she has dirt on you.”

“No, on Brayden.”

I tried to put it all together in my mind, but the pieces were just that. Pieces. “I'm sorry, Jenellis. I'm not following you.”

Jenellis sighed loudly and sat back farther in her seat. “Remember yesterday, Brayden said we would both understand within twenty-four hours. I think he knew about this, he knew that she would be demanding money from me. And since he did not try to stop it, to stop her, and would not come clean with us at the counseling session yesterday, he obviously has something worth hiding.”

“But $1,502? That's hardly enough to qualify for blackmailing two millionaires.”

“I agree.”

I pondered it more, wondering if she knew that was the exact amount Brayden had given me, the exact amount that the detective confiscated from my notebook that morning.

What did I have to do with any of this?

“It's not about the cash,” I murmured. “1502, the number itself, is significant, I bet.”

Jenellis was silent again.

“What is it? What do you know? What does 1502 mean? What does it symbolize or stand for?”

For the first time, I saw Jenellis's lip quiver. “It's complicated.”

“So you do know what it stands for? You do know, and you understand what Brayden has to lose if you don't follow through with whatever demand Silver is making?” When Jenellis still did not answer, I could feel my body temperature rising. “What does any of this have to do with me?”

“Ms. St. James, I'm sorry you are in the middle of this. It was not my intent—or Brayden's for that matter. It is what it is.”

“Okay, well, what it is now is time for me to call the police. You are not going to have me entangled anymore in your foolishness. I don't know what y'all have going on, but I'm out.” I stood, ready to walk out, drive home—yes, march right through my front door—and get the detective's business card, which I'd left on my counter.

“I understand why you feel that it is necessary to call the police.” Jenellis did not move from her seat. “But I should at least warn you. I've looked into Silver's past, done some research. She's dangerous, Ms. St. James. Before you catch the authorities up on everything, let me finish protecting Brayden. The situation he finds himself in, it's not his fault. He is a good guy, honorable. Let me finish my business with Silver, and then feel free to call. Two hours. That's all I am asking for.”

I shook my head as I headed to her door. These people thought I was crazy if they thought I was just going to go along with their ploys.

“Funny thing is that two days ago you were begging me to find out if Brayden had any history of violence toward women in his past. Now, you're practically canonizing him as a saint.”
Or she could be lying about everything,
I considered. Maybe the dirt, if there was even any, was really about her. Either way, I was not staying to find out. “Bye, Ms. Walker.”

My hand was turning the knob on her front door when she suddenly rushed toward me. “Wait, Ms. St. James.” Her hand rested on my shoulder. “Please don't call yet. I need you to trust me.”

“Funny.” I brushed her off. “Silver said the exact same thing.” I felt her eyes on me as I walked back to Laz's car. A million and one thoughts about my day, my life ran through my head as I started the motor. As crazy and bizarre as it all had been, not one thought had prepared me for what happened next.

I had just sat down in the seat, closed the door, started the car, and reached for my cell phone when a hand came from behind the driver's seat. I heard the click of a gun, and felt cold metal on the base of my neck. My rearview mirror showed me only the top of a black knit cap.

“Drive.” The single word came from a muffled voice.

Wasn't nothing else for me to do but drop the phone and put my foot on the accelerator and obey.