Convicted by Aleatha Romig
Her retort teetered on the tip of her tongue. Finally, she swallowed the words and smiled at her handsome husband, deciding that a smart mouthed response wasn’t appropriate in the middle of her wedding. It didn’t matter. The gleam in Tony’s eyes told her he knew—he knew what she wanted to say and loved her as much for her restraint as for her cheekiness.
Madeline somehow had found time to bake a cake. Since Claire couldn’t drink alcohol, it wasn’t even discussed. The four of them celebrated their wedding, with cake and lemonade. Claire wondered if October 27th was now their anniversary, and whether it meant that December 18th no longer was. Perhaps they could find reason to celebrate both dates. After the reception, Francis and Madeline excused themselves to leave the newlyweds alone.
Within their suite, they found chilled fruit and sparkling grape juice. That, however, wasn’t the discovery that made Claire giggle and Tony’s devilish grin emerge. It was when he pulled the black satin mask from the pocket of his linen shorts and lifted a brow. That was when she couldn’t hold back her snicker. He’d kept it with him throughout the entire ceremony.
“I thought you wanted me to go into this marriage with my eyes wide open?”
Each one of his graceful steps lessened the distance between them and pulled an invisible cord, tightening Claire’s insides. Her sensitive nipples ached as their chests touched and he pulled her close. Slowly widening his grin, Tony answered, “That, Mrs. Rawlings, was meant metaphorically.”
Looking up to his handsome face, Claire opened her eyes wide and replied, “Oh, see, I thought you meant it literally.”
Bending down, he neared his lips to hers, and when she closed her eyes, she felt the sweet connection of their kiss. Before she could inhale, Tony’s teeth caught her lower lip, and Claire gasped.
He gently tugged and released. His lips moved to the nape of her neck and up to her ear. After he gently nipped at her lobe, his raspy voice sent shivers down her spine. “I knew it couldn’t stay hidden for too long.”
She opened her eyes wide, displaying her most innocent expression. It was too late—Tony’s seductive tone resonated through the suite. “No, my dear, no look of innocence, no deer in the headlights, you know exactly what I’m saying.” Once again tracing her lips with his finger, he added, “I believe it’s time we find something better for that smart mouth to do.”
Nothing can prevent you from learning the truth so much as the belief that you already know it.
—Jon K. Hart
Sophia walked through their Santa Clara condominium one last time and took inventory of the moving boxes. Calling over her shoulder, she asked for the umpteenth time, “You’re sure Rawlings Industries will get all of this to Iowa for us?”
Derek came from the bedroom, magic marker in hand. “They said they would. We only need to have everything packed and labeled. They’ll even put the boxes in the appropriate rooms in our new house.”
Sophia contemplated his words: House—it sounded wonderful! Iowa didn’t. There wasn’t an ocean near Iowa City—no beaches—well, unless you included the rivers. Sophia had never imagined herself living in the middle of the country, surrounded by corn. Her husband’s embrace refocused Sophia’s thoughts. He whispered in her ear, “Tonight, they’re putting us up in an amazing hotel in San Francisco. Tomorrow, we’re flying by private jet to Rawlings Industries Corporate Headquarters. Timothy Bronson, the acting CEO, wants to meet both of us.” He nibbled her ear. “Baby, you can paint from anywhere; you’ve told me that before. This is a big break—Corporate Headquarters!”
“I’m happy for you, I am. I just don’t understand how this happened so fast. You said Anthony Rawlings wanted you there? Honey, that’s great, but he’s been missing since September. What happened?”
Exhaling, Derek peered deep into his wife’s beautiful gray eyes. “I’ve told you all I know, all that HR told me. When they scanned Mr. Rawlings’ home computer, they found a file about me. He even had a job proposal started. Timothy Bronson was made aware of the file, so he took it to the board of directors. They felt it was something Mr. Rawlings wanted, and together they reviewed my dossier and called. Mr. Bronson believes I can help in the effort to pull Rawlings Industries from its downward spiral.”
Sophia’s mind whirled. “Who scanned his home computers? Why would they do that?”
“Baby, I don’t know. This is a huge promotion; not just the money, or the title, but the responsibility. I’m going from a junior peon in a small subsidiary—to a junior peon at corporate!”
Sophia sighed. “Honey, I’m proud of you. I’m just not used to living so far inland. I’ve always lived near a coast, and the whole thing seems strange. I mean, after Mr. Rawlings was at my studio...I’m sorry—I just have a strange feeling.”
His arms tightened around her small waist, allowing his hands to linger on her firm, round behind. “Mrs. Burke, we’ll be busy! I learned one of the corporate lawyers—Miller, I think his name is—his wife has a design firm in Bettendorf, and”—his volume increased—“Timothy Bronson, who I keep mentioning. His wife used to work at an art museum in Davenport. They’re a little younger than us. Sue’s pregnant with their second child, but I’d bet you two would get along very well!”
Sophia closed her eyes and dropped her head to Derek’s shoulder.
He grasped her shoulders and pushed her back, trying to see her face. “Baby, what’s the matter? You weren’t happy about California at first, but now look at you.”
Sophia nodded. “You’re right. I wasn’t. I guess, since my parents died, this has been home.” She feigned a smile. “No—home is with you. You’re right; I can paint from anywhere, but please do me a favor?”
“Anything.”
Sophia squared her shoulders. “Let me develop my own relationships. I’ll paint and I’ll move, but don’t pair me off like a preschooler looking for friends.”
Derek embraced her once again. “I’m sorry. That’s not what I’m trying to do. I know how hard the move to Santa Clara was for you, so I was trying to make it better.”
She kissed his lips. “Don’t—it’ll be alright as long as I have you.” Quickly, Sophia added, “I know you’ll be busy and that there will be late nights. I’m more than willing to do the wife thing at events.” Under her breath, she added, “I’m not sure what kind of events occur in Iowa.” Once again louder, “Nevertheless, I will—because I love you, but you have to let me adjust at my own speed.”
“Mrs. Burke, you’re amazing. You do whatever it is you need to do. Just know that I love you, and when you’re on my arm at the Iowa City Corn Husker’s Convention, I’ll be the proudest husband in the room!”
Sophia smirked. “Oh, jeeze! Please tell me you just made that up.”
His lips brushed hers. “I did. Now, if everything is packed then I believe I have reservations in San Francisco with the most amazing woman!”
She kissed his cheek. “You do? Well, don’t let me interrupt your plans.”
Derek’s lips lingered near her ear, purposely exhaling on her exposed neck, creating goose bumps up and down her arms. “I may have even called ahead and asked for a few things to be delivered to our room. You can come too; maybe you’d like to watch?”
Sophia giggled. “I think you know me better than that. Watching has never been my thing.” Grasping his hand, she offered, “I’m much more of a participant!”
Derek smiled. “Then let’s go participate.”
As Harry’s plane taxied toward the small airport outside of San Francisco, he removed his phone from airplane mode. His thoughts volleyed between his research and Deputy Director Stevenson. Although the Deputy Director didn’t sound upset on the phone and even offered information about Claire and Rawlings’ possible destination, Harry worried about his future. He wasn’t ready to lose his badge. He’d worked too damn hard for it!
His phone began to vibrate as messages appeared on the screen. The small plane still hadn’t reached its destination on the tarmac when Har
“You have three unheard messages...” Harry entered his numerical code and waited. Just as the plane came to a stop, he heard Claire’s voice. “Hello, Harry, or Agent Baldwin, I wish I knew your real name.” The sound of her voice took his breath away. The pilot was looking at him. Harry hit 7 and saved Claire’s message.
He couldn’t get out of the plane fast enough. As he walked toward the waiting car, he replayed Claire’s message. It seemed to take forever to get through the preliminary crap. All at once the FBI terminal—the people—the waiting car—everything disappeared. Harry was hearing Claire’s voice. At the very least, hearing her voice confirmed that she was safe. He covered his other ear and listened. “Hello, Harry, or Agent Baldwin, I wish I knew your real name. I’m sorry I didn’t reach you. I won’t leave a number, but I wanted you to know—I’m fine and I’m safe. I would appreciate the assistance of the FBI, and I don’t have a lot of time. Harry...the woman in the blue Honda wasn’t Samuel Rawls’ sister—it was Catherine. The woman I’ve trusted. The woman at Tony’s estate I told you about. She’s who I’m hiding from. She killed Amanda and Samuel Rawls and maybe even others. She isn’t just after me, but she wants Tony and our child. Please have the FBI stop her.” Silence filled his ears. Momentarily, Harry wondered if Claire had hung up, but then her voice came back. “Please, Harry. I want my child to have a normal life. Where I am...it’s great...but it’s not where a child should live. Please help us and make a case against her—Catherine Marie Rawls London. Harry, she was married to Nathaniel. I need to go—bye.”
Harry stood motionless with the phone to his ear. The voice was asking if he wanted to save or erase. What a dumb question—he wanted to save! Save the message—save Claire—save her child—and save—Rawli—Harry wasn’t ready to go that far; nevertheless, he had heard the desperation in Claire’s voice. How could he have been researching this for over a year and not realize Nathaniel had a second wife?
“Agent Baldwin?”
Harry’s blue eyes focused on the world around him. He saw the man in the dark suit and heard him say his name. “Yes, I’m Agent Baldwin.”
“Please follow me, sir.”
Harry didn’t question as he followed the driver and sat in the back seat of a large black SUV. While they pulled away from the curb, Harry considered his other missed calls and hit the VOICEMAIL icon, once again.
Message two—“Baldwin—Anthony Rawlings. I intend to fully cooperate with the FBI. I know that picture was bullshit, but I’m calling. I don’t intend to make my whereabouts known until my child is born, or after. I will—I can’t now. If...if Claire ever meant more to you than a damn assignment then just let us have this. We’ll call back.”
When the line disconnected, Harry let out the breath he’d been holding. How the hell did Anthony Rawlings believe he—Harrison Baldwin—had that kind of power? Yeah, right? Like Harry could suddenly say, “Hey, let’s leave Anthony Rawlings and Claire Nichols alone before their big day—for the birth of their child.”
As the large SUV neared the San Francisco field office, Harry pulled up his third voice message—“Agent Baldwin, our car will be late; please be advised.”
We must accept finite disappointment, but never lose infinite hope.
—Martin Luther King, Jr.
Wheeling Claire’s dinner down the long, quiet corridor, Meredith contemplated Ms. Bali’s concerns and directives—Ms. Nichols underwent tests earlier in the day. Due to an unforeseen glitch, additional sedation was required. As Ms. Bali uttered the word glitch, the hairs on the back of Meredith’s neck prickled. The supervisor once said that she’d read Meredith’s book. Could she possibly understand the significance of that word? Fighting to remain stoic, Meredith continued listening. Ms. Bali explained that the tests were scheduled for the entire morning and the additional sedation resulted in prolonged hours of unresponsiveness. Ms. Nichols hadn’t eaten all day. Actually, she’d just recently awakened. Her sister had been here most of the afternoon and had only recently left, waiting until Claire was fully awake. The staff, who assisted with daily showers and hygiene, should be just about done. Mrs. Vandersol wasn’t happy with the day’s mishaps, including an entire day without nutrition. Ms. Bali couldn’t emphasize enough—Claire must eat! She also praised Meredith’s past interactions and offered her confidence in Meredith’s ability to accomplish their goal.
With each step toward Claire’s room, Meredith questioned that ability. She assumed that, with Claire’s new uncooperative state and today’s excessive use of sedation, tonight’s dinner could go less than smooth. Taking a deep breath, Meredith knocked respectfully and slowly opened Claire’s door. It wasn’t as though she expected a greeting.
Claire was alone. The people who helped her bathe and dress were gone; however, she wasn’t sitting in her normal seat by the window. She was pacing near her bed. Despite Meredith’s knock and greeting, Claire didn’t turn or acknowledge her entrance.
Something about Claire looked different—determined—purposeful. Meredith saw the straightness of her posture and clenching of her jaw. Each time she changed direction on her invisible track—back and forth—Meredith saw an intensity in her eyes. Meredith hadn’t seen that look for a long time; however, she had seen it before. It was the expression Claire wore during the hours recalling difficult times in her and Anthony’s relationship. Even then, when she’d repeat a particularly bad time, Meredith remembered Claire’s expression—it was as if she were seeing the scene before her, which wasn’t visible to anyone else. That was the exact expression Meredith saw now. Years ago, Meredith assumed it to be Claire’s internal debate. She’d agreed to share her story, knew it was accurate, but she felt conflicted, especially later in their interview process as her and Mr. Rawlings’ relationship began its reconciliation.
During those interviews, Meredith waited patiently and allowed Claire the necessary time to sort her thoughts. When she did, Claire would recall the scenarios with eloquence. On some occasions Meredith had to remind herself to type rather than simply listening. Later, when she’d review Claire’s dictation, rarely was there need to change or modify—everything was obviously well deliberated. Watching her now, Meredith wondered what she was thinking.
Meredith placed Claire’s food on her table and called to her, “Claire, it’s me, Meredith. I brought your dinner.” Not surprising, neither Claire’s stance nor pace wavered. If anything, her internal debate intensified—Claire’s step quickened.
Walking slowly toward her friend, Meredith spoke again, “Claire, can you hear me?—You haven’t eaten all day—Aren’t you hungry?” The pacing continued.
As Meredith reached for Claire’s arm, Claire pulled away and momentarily glared. Instinctively, Meredith stepped back to apologize; however, as she did, she realized—Claire had just acknowledged her presence. It wasn’t verbal, but she deliberately pulled away and looked right at her!
Meredith wasn’t sure where the words came from—she didn’t want to hurt her friend; nonetheless, after eight to nine weeks of interaction—or no interaction—Meredith chose to break another rule. “You’re thinking about him, aren’t you?”—no response—“I’ve seen you like this before. I know you’re thinking about Ant”—She started to say Anthony, but remembered Claire referred to him as Tony. During the book interviews, she recalled how that familiar title was a gift, a positive consequence he bestowed upon her while she was still his captive—“I mean, Tony. Claire, it’s all right. You can think about him. Why shouldn’t you think about Tony?”
Each time Meredith uttered his name, Claire’s pace slowed. By the fourth or fifth time, her neck, shoulders, and jaw relaxed. Finally, Meredith tried one more plea, “Claire, Tony would want you to eat. He loved you
Claire didn’t speak; however, stepping around Meredith, she walked to the table with the food and sat. When she didn’t feed herself, Meredith went to the table, sat opposite her, and lifted the lid on Claire’s plate. “Well, it looks like you have salmon. That’s one of your favorites, isn’t it?” Her eyes didn’t register, and the earlier intensity was gone, but each time Meredith lifted the fork, Claire obediently opened her mouth and ate. The exercise continued slowly—food—food—and then drink. By the time Claire finished, her plate was mostly empty. She didn’t stand and move to the window as she usually did. Instead, her head dropped, and she looked down with her hands demurely resting on her lap, compliant and obedient.
Meredith praised Claire for her cooperation; nevertheless, it wasn’t until she whispered, “I know Tony would be proud of you. Thank you for helping me,” that Claire raised her chin and looked toward the still light sky.
August 10, 2016
...Claire didn’t speak, but she acknowledged...she cooperated! I want to tell someone what happened today, but if I do, they’ll probably fire me. I mean—I’m not supposed to mention Anthony’s name or have as much knowledge about Claire as I do.
I can’t believe how she responded! She ate! Ms. Bali said she hadn’t eaten all day. That wasn’t all. When she looked out at the sky, I asked her if she wanted to go outside. For the last two weeks, she hasn’t wanted to do anything—but sit in that damn chair. When I asked if she wanted to go outside—she walked toward the door! I don’t think that’s ever happened. Usually, she’ll stand, but wait for someone to lead her to the door. I barely had time to call and request permission to take her out.