The diagrams and reports faded into one another as she read, but there was one name that kept popping up: Mike MacArthur.
The next file was a letter.To Walter.No address or last name was included.Somebody signing off “L.A.”wanted him to know they were trying to prove that a fracking permit application for the Everglades was approved using fraudulent information.It mentioned Torstile Investments, the name of a shell company that owned shares in Cleffan Energy Corporation.And that Mike McArthur, whoever he was, was heading north to prove the Florida governor was a shareholder.
She switched to the internet and entered “Cleffan”.Images of a large chrome and glass building, and an older man in a Stetson appeared.
Drea’s hands shook.What kind of unholy mess was she caught up in?Quickly she stood and hurried downstairs to double-check the window catches and doors.
The file definitely belonged to the woman, and Drea was filled with the terrifying reality that Snake would kill her if he found out she had it.
CHAPTER FOUR
Mike MacArthur was dead.Twenty-four hours after finding the drive, Drea had been unable to resist pulling at the virtual strings of the information it contained.
When she’d woken, the internet had been working.Finding out the previous evening’s connectivity issues were simply an outage was a huge relief.She’d been dreading calling the provider, begging for a payment extension.Drea closed the web browser and walked over to her bedroom window.
The talented journalist with a long list of environmental articles and awards to his name had been found in an upturned car in a lake about fifty miles north of Athabasca, Canada.
Drea shivered at the thought of it.Drowning in freezing water had to be a terrifying way to die.Reason two hundred and four she was relieved to live in a place where the temperature rarely dropped below fifty.
She’d scoured the web since her mom needed the washroom at five.In all of the articles she’d found by MacArthur, there was no mention of Walter, or anyone with the initials L.A.Only Gilliam Gillespie, a lecturer in Environmental Science from the University of Alberta appeared frequently, providing expert sound bites.
While theEdmonton Journalstated that police weren’t looking for anyone in connection with theaccident, Drea was convinced they should be.Because if they found out what happened to Mike, they might figure out what happened to the woman.
Drea couldn’t get the woman from the café out of her mind.She should have been out front, helping, calling the police, not out back getting her phone.The guilt was eating at her.And if Gilliam and Mike worked together frequently, there was a slim chance Gilliam might know who the woman was.She found a picture of Gillespie as well as his email on the University of Alberta’s website.If Santa lost a fight with a pair of clippers, he’d look like Gilliam.He’d been a lecturer at the university for over twenty years.
She typed an email, included the photograph of the woman from the video surveillance footage, and asked if he had any idea who she was.
The loud alarm notification pinged on her phone.
Breakfast with Cujo.
Shit.Drea hit send before she had second thoughts, and dashed for the shower.
She arrived at the S & S diner forty minutes later, five minutes early to meet Cujo.The communal bar in the shape of a giant horseshoe was empty except for an elderly couple nursing their coffee and reading the newspaper.They were most likely local—it was still too early for the late-night reveling tourists.Drea grabbed two spots on the left side so she could face the window.She ordered a coffee and studied the menu, even though she’d already decided she couldn’t afford the BLT she really wanted.The ham sandwich and apple she’d brought from home would be enough later.
The door opened.“Morning, Shortcake.”
He was dressed in black jeans that hugged his butt and a fitted charcoal gray V-neck.The aviators he wore cast her reflection back at her.Her heart couldn’t have beat any faster if she’d injected it with the really strong Argentinian coffee José swore by.Black leather bracelets adorned his uninked arm.The stomach flutter she just experienced was definitely hunger.Right?
“You okay there, Shortcake?Looking a little flushed.”
Drea kicked the stool next to her out.“I’m fine.I just rushed here to be on time.”
Cujo pulled out his phone and laughed, holding the screen toward her.“It’s three minutes past eight.Three minutes.Cut me some slack.”
“What can I get you, hon?”A friendly server in a matronly white blouse pushed her glasses back up her nose.
“Did you order?”he asked.
“I’m good.Just the coffee for me.”
“I’ll get a coffee, a large OJ, the omelet special with extra toast”—he paused and looked at Drea—“and a BLT.”
“Sure thing, guys.”The waitress went to place the order for them.
“Wow, hungry much?”Drea salivated at the thought of all that food, but maybe she could steal a piece of toast.
“Just finished at the gym.”He grabbed the orange juice as soon as it was placed in front of him, downing it in huge gulps.“You should come with me sometime.Burn off some of that… erm… energy.”
