Convicted by Aleatha Romig
—Rose Kennedy
Sophia eased her car onto the circular brick drive in front of Marie’s massive house. On her cell phone, she heard Derek’s voice, “Have a nice lunch, babe. Is the house as nice as you anticipated?”
Her mouth gaped open as she looked up at the Romanesque-style mansion with facades of river stone, limestone, and brick. It was like something out of a 1940’s movie. “It’s amazing. I can’t believe she really lives here. Do people actually live like this?”
Derek laughed. “Well, she worked for Rawlings. That’s his house—or it was. No one knows if he’s alive or dead, but it’s probably not great table-talk for your lunch.”
“I’ll try to remember that—keep conversation topics away from missing employers. What did you say; she’s named the executor of his estate?”
“Yeah, the information I found just named her as a long-time trusted employee—”
Sophia interrupted, “Hey, honey, the front door’s opening. I should get out of the car. I’ll call you when I’m on my way home.”
She heard him say he loved her as she turned off the car and the Bluetooth disconnected. “I love you, too,” she said to the warm air within the confines of her car. It was a stark contrast to the cold February chill between her and the mansion she was about to enter. Sophia secured her coat and gloves and bowed her face to the snowflakes as she hurried toward the grand doors.
The gentleman within nodded as her shoes hit the marble floor. Looking down, she saw the traces of snow that had fallen from her shoes and created puddles within the beautiful foyer. “Ms. Sophia?”
“Yes,” she said sheepishly. “Hello.” Sophia offered her hand.
The gentleman nodded again and said, “Ms. London is expecting you. May I take your coat?”
Sophia tried desperately not to gawk at her surroundings as she removed her coat and gloves and handed them to the butler—um—servant? She didn’t know who he was—only, that apparently, he didn’t shake hands. “Yes, thank you. Where is Mar—Ms. London? Is she here?”
“Yes, miss. She’s waiting for you in the sitting room. Please follow me.”
Each step reminded Sophia of a fantasy. Growing up in New Jersey and being a fan of the arts, Sophia loved watching old movies, especially those in black and white. If there was singing and dancing, it made it all the better. When she’d go to bed at night she’d think about the movies and the places the characters lived. She dreamt about mansions, servants, and opulence. As she grew up, Sophia learned that a life like she saw in the movies was mostly a world of fantasy. She could glean inspiration from it, but it didn’t truly exist. Stepping down into a warm sitting room, Sophia hypothesized—maybe this world did exist. She glanced toward a fireplace that was nearly the size of her living room in Provincetown. Within its limestone walls a warm fire roared, filling the room with warmth.
“Welcome, Sophia!” Marie said as she stood, placing the tablet she’d been reading on the nearby table.
Sophia leaned toward her friend and accepted her welcoming hug. “Marie, your house is amazing.”
Marie shrugged. “I know it seems that way, but after so many years—it’s just home.”
Looking through the windows, Sophia saw a sun room. Beyond, there was a large yard where blades of grass showed their heads through the thin layer of snow while more flakes swirled in the frosty air. Trees lined the yard creating a private haven. Refocusing on the room, Sophia concentrated on the heat radiating from the fire. “That fireplace is huge! On a day like today, it feels fantastic.”
Marie smiled. “It does feel good. Can I get you some coffee?” Before Sophia could answer, Marie corrected, “No, it’s tea you like, isn’t it? Would you like some warm Earl Gray?”
“That would be wonderful, thank you.”
Within seconds, a woman was in the sitting room taking instructions from Marie. Sophia was sitting on the sofa talking with Marie when the woman returned with Sophia’s tea. Apparently, lunch would be ready momentarily. A few minutes later, a young girl rushed into the room with a piece of paper in her hand. Her voice cracked with each word, “Ms. London, I’m sorry to bother you.”
“Cindy? Is there a problem?”
The young lady shook her head. “I didn’t mean to interrupt. I know you’re busy; however, perhaps later, I could speak with you...”
Marie turned her gaze toward Sophia.
Sophia didn’t know what to say. It was obvious there was an issue. “Marie, I’m in no hurry. If there’s something the two of you need to discuss, then I’ll gladly enjoy the fire.”
“Thank you, Sophia.” Marie turned toward Cindy. “Come with me to my office.”
As the two of them walked away, Sophia heard Cindy mention something about a letter, the FBI, and her parents. Before she could truly glean any meaning from the conversation, Marie and Cindy had disappeared down a long corridor. Sophia sighed. This was a strange and different world from anything she’d known. The owner of this house was missing, yet no one seemed concerned as they carried on their daily lives, and the young maid received letters from the FBI...Sophia leaned back against the plush sofa and looked into the flames. The crackle and snap of the wood added to the allure. In Provincetown, she and Derek’s home had a real fireplace. Everywhere they’ve lived since then had gas logs. Supposedly, the two were the same. Inhaling the distinct wood aroma, Sophia knew, they weren’t.
“Are you ready for lunch?” Marie asked, pulling Sophia from the hypnotism of the flames.
“Yes, is everything all right?” Sophia saw Marie brush her palms against her thighs. It was the same technique Sophia used when she tried to hide her uneasiness.
“Yes, let me show you to the dining room.”
As they walked, Marie mentioned that Cindy had worked for this estate for quite a few years. She was only eighteen when her parents died in a tragic accident. Now, it seemed the FBI was interested in their death and wanted to exhume their bodies.”
Sophia gasped. “Oh my! How terrible! I’d never let anyone do that to my parents.”
Marie’s hands again brushed her thighs as they sat. “Perhaps you’d be better to speak to Cindy than I? I knew her mother—we were friends. I recommended that she deny the FBI access. There’s no good to come from digging up the past.”
Sophia sat back against the high backed chair and gazed around the lovely dining room. The built-in cabinetry at one end of the table held exquisite china. When her gaze moved upward, Sophia saw the ornate ceiling with reflective gold flecks. “I agree. It’s better to move on.”
The rest of the afternoon was spent back in front of the fire, discussing art and upcoming events in the Quad Cities. Before Sophia was about to leave, she asked, “Marie, do you mind if I ask you something?”
“Not at all. I can’t promise I’ll answer, but ask away.”
“I really don’t have many people to talk to—not here anyway. The thing is”—Sophia hesitated—“before we left California, I received a call from my birth mother.”
Marie stared and slowly asked, “You received a call from the woman who recently died?”
Sophia shook her head, the absurdity of Marie’s statement made her grin. “No, the people who raised me were wonderful. I loved them and will love them forever; however, I was adopted. My parents were honest about it. I never felt deprived or less loved because my mother didn’t give birth to me. Honestly, I never really gave a damn about the woman who gave birth to me, or my biological father, until I got that call.”
Marie’s hands were again experiencing the sensory input of her slacks. “What happened after you got the call?”
“I started wondering about her and about him.”
Marie’s head tilted as her brow rose. “Him? You started wondering about your father?”
Sophia’s breathe expelled. “Well, yes! I mean, the woman who gave birth to me called, but what about my biological father? Are they still together? Did they love one another or do they still? Do they regret givin
“Oh, I see. Did you ask any of those questions?”
“No, I have a telephone number, but sometimes I think not knowing is better. I mean, I can make up my own answers.”
Marie smiled. “So, what’s your question, dear?”
Sophia readjusted her legs, curling one under herself as she leaned back into the plushness of the large chair. “I don’t know.” Her voice sounded far away. “I guess I just need to talk about it. Derek listens, but he’s protective. He doesn’t want me to get hurt.”
“Do you think you will?”
Sophia’s lips pressed together and she feigned a smile. “I’ve thought about the possibilities from all directions. If I learn I have this great set of biological parents who have a great life, then I’ll wonder why they didn’t want me to be a part of it. If I learn they didn’t stay together or they’re not good people, then I’ll wonder if dealing with me was part of the cause.”
Marie leaned forward and put her hand on Sophia’s knee. “That’s quite a decision. I’ve known many people who have done things they regret. Perhaps that’s why the woman called, or perhaps she regrets what she did thirty-three years ago; however, I don’t believe you should feel responsible for anything other than who you’ve become.” Marie’s gray eyes shimmered in the firelight. “Sophia, you’re an accomplished, lovely woman. The woman you spoke to should be proud.”
The scene melted as Sophia fought stoically not to cry. “I miss my mom and pop.” With the back of her hand, she brushed a renegade tear away. “Thank you Marie. I suppose the holidays left me feeling lonely.” She reached out and held Marie’s hand. “Thanks for listening.”
“Anytime.”
“You know, we don’t seem that different in age, yet look, Cindy came to you when she had a problem, and now, so did I.” Sophia chuckled. “You’re probably sick of listening to everyone else’s troubles.”
“Not at all. I’m honored you feel comfortable enough to talk.”
“I do, and I think you’re right before—no good comes from digging up the past. I don’t want to know that woman. I’ve been blessed with great parents, a fantastic husband, and good friends. Why push my luck?”
After a delightful afternoon, Marie walked Sophia to the door. Once Marie watched Sophia’s car pull away and the barrier to the outside was closed, Catherine murmured, “Eighteen years; that’s our age difference, and you do not want to learn about the man who donated his DNA to make you—I refuse to consider him any kind of father. He doesn’t deserve any credit for the beautiful woman you are today! The way things are now is much better than bringing memories of that monster into the equation.”
As she walked toward her office, Catherine smiled, her words not audible to anyone, “In time, my dear, I promise, that it’ll be even better.”
Harry finished his report. His case in West Virginia was done. Tomorrow, he’d fly back to Palo Alto. He considered calling Liz and warning her, but as a sneaky grin came to his lips, he decided it would be more fun to surprise her. Since he’d been called away before Christmas, they hadn’t had a chance to celebrate the holiday. With Valentine’s Day just around the corner, he’d try to think of some way for them to enjoy the next one. Harry believed if he gave it a little thought, something would come up.
With a few minutes to spare before leaving the field office, Harry decided to utilize the bureau’s database. It didn’t take him long to back-door his way into his old case. Within seconds, he’d accessed the Rawlings/Nichols files. When he did, he was rewarded with new information. It appeared Anthony Rawlings had continued to stay in contact, as ordered by the FBI. Claire Nichols Rawlings had given birth to a healthy baby girl. For a split second, Harry wondered if the baby had blue or brown eyes. As fast as the thought entered his mind, he pushed it away. That wasn’t his purpose for this walk down memory lane. For the last two months Harry had successfully distanced himself from all things Rawlings/Nichols. He wanted to keep that distance—forever; however, there were a few things that kept eating at him. If he were to truly ever have closure—he needed to resolve some issues.
He accessed the tissue sample analysis for Simon Johnson. Since Rawlings confessed to paying for Simon’s demise, no one had taken the time to verify the Johnson case. Harry wanted to let it go. He wanted Anthony Rawlings to rot in jail for a very long time. Without a doubt, hiring someone to sabotage a plane was a crime, and of that—without a doubt—Rawlings was guilty. Of actually murdering Simon Johnson—Harry wanted to say—yes, Rawlings was responsible—but he couldn’t. Johnson’s body had been so badly burnt, the forensics were difficult.
The toxicology report came back with one hundred percent accuracy that actaea pachypoda was not in Simon’s system. Over the last few months, Harry had begun to wonder, what was in Simon’s system. Now, as he accessed the data, he found the answer to his question—the only foreign substance detected in Simon’s tissues was diphenhydramine. Harry scrolled to the raw data—diphenhydramine, micrograms/liter 17.5. Saying a silent prayer that his snooping would go undetected, he wrote down the information and backed out of the system. He was finally getting his life and his head where they needed to be. Harry didn’t need the powers that be to know he was still obsessing over a closed case.
A quick Google search on his phone confirmed Harry’s thoughts—diphenhydramine was more commonly known as Benadryl. He and Simon had been friends for a few years. Harry tried to remember if Simon had allergies—after all, his plane did crash in the late fall. With the dryness and fires often associated with autumn in California, it would make sense that he’d take Benadryl during allergy season. Harry had Simon’s medical history on his laptop back at the hotel and made a mental note to check for allergies. One last search, then Harry was done—he wanted to know the lethal volume of distribution for diphenhydramine...he waited.
After a few clicks, the answer appeared—lethal volume of distribution for diphenhydramine in adults—19.5 mg/L—children 7.5 mg/L—and infants 1.53 mg/L. Simon’s volume of distribution didn’t fall in the lethal range. Once again, Harry had more questions than answers.
Courage is resistance to fear, mastery of fear, not absence of fear.
—Mark Twain
Claire stared down at their three-month-old daughter. She remembered to breathe, as air fought with pride and love, to fill her chest. Staring at Nichol’s big brown eyes, she watched the chocolate come and go as her stubborn little girl fought unsuccessfully to keep her eyes alert. The lids fluttered slower and slower, each blink lasting longer than the last, until sleep overtook her round, angel like face. While her pink lips pursed and her long, dark lashes rested upon her rosy cheeks, Claire swooned helplessly, finding it difficult to look away from the child resting peacefully in her arms. Claire wasn’t the only one held captive by Nichol’s charm. It reached out to anyone within her sphere, including Madeline.
Claire rocked Nichol gently as Madeline’s rich laugh and hearty voice filled the tropical air, “Madame el, she eats well! Your beautiful daughter, she’s growing every day. Look at those cheeks!”
Both women peered at Nichol’s soft skin nestled against Claire’s breast. Answering in a stage whisper, Claire replied, “She is—too fast! I want to hold her and rock her forever.”
“Enjoy, because soon she’ll be crawling all over this floor. Next, she’ll be running all over the island.”
Claire shook her head. She couldn’t imagine her little baby girl crawling, much less running. Enjoying the even pace of the rocking chair, Claire closed her eyes and sighed. “I never imagined it would be so amazing.”
“Madame el, do you want me to put the princess in her crib?”
Claire started to say, no, when she looked up and saw Tony enter the room. The gleam which normally occupied his soft brown eyes—especially since the birth of their daughter, was gone. In its place, Claire saw darkness. She wasn’t sure the cause. Was it worry or concern? His stoic expression hid any revealing clues, yet she knew there w
Feigning a smile toward Madeline, Claire relinquished the sleeping bundle. “I’d love to sit here all day; however, I’ll admit, Nichol needs a good nap in her crib—if we’re going to ever get her on the right schedule.”
“Oui, Madame el, we will.” Madeline looked toward Tony and back to Claire. Her smile faded as the lines in her forehead deepened. She continued, “If you need anything, or you Monsieur, please call for me. After I put the little angel down, I shall be in the kitchen.”
Tony remained silent as Claire acknowledged Madeline’s words and watched her walk away. Once they were alone, Claire made her way toward her husband. With each step forward, she analyzed the man before her, standing silently staring out at the beautiful, blue sea. Despite his casual attire, Claire recognized his stance, the tightness in his shoulders and clinched jaw. She knew he was contemplating a thousand things—he was, once again, the CEO of a billion dollar conglomerate—the man with unfathomable responsibilities—the man before paradise. She needed to know why.
Reaching for his arm, Claire looked up into his dark eyes. “Tony, what is it? What’s the matter?”
“I need to tell you something”—his tone matched his gaze, strong and demanding—“but first, I want you to promise that you’ll do as I say.”
Claire stood a little taller. “I love you—I promise that. What I’m going to do has yet to be determined.” The muscles under her fingertips tensed. Softening her pitch, she implored, “Tony, please tell me what happened. You’re scaring me.”
Turning, he clutched her shoulders as his stare bore down from above. Undaunted, she waited for his explanation. Behind his eyes, where she used to see only darkness, Claire now saw fury, indecision, and love. The sound of the surf filled the void while Tony wrestled to organize his words. Finally, his warm breath hit her cheeks and he implored, “Don’t you understand? I need to know that you and Nichol are safe.”