“We’re in this together.” He nods encouragingly.
I press redial, and we listen to the greeting again. I press zero to be connected to reception.
“How can I direct your call?”
I widen my eyes. “May I speak to Betsey Comarsh?”
Sounds of keys clicking come over the line. “One moment please. I’ll connect you.”
“Betsey works for the SEC?” I whisper but it feels more like a hiss.
Clint shrugs. My eyes are probably as wide as his.
“Meredith Hansel, is that you?” an older man’s voice asks.
“Who is this?” I ask.
“Gaven Newal. Enforcement Division chief. Are you ready to come in?”
I stare at Clint. Am I? I can share what I’ve found, which all points to me perpetrating a crime against our investors.
His tone softens. “We just want to talk.”
“Where’s Betsey?” Not exactly the question I had planned to ask, but I’m not ready to answer his.
“One of the questions we have for you.”
I suck in a yelp.
Clint flies up from the couch and disconnects the phone.
I stare at him like he’s lost his mind. That was the SEC.
“Enough. We need to figure out what the—” He gnaws his lips and then breathes deeply, his body rigid. “We need to get our son.”
I drop my phone in my bag and follow my husband to the car. Fear propels my feet.
42
ALMOST AN HOUR LATERthan we originally planned, we scramble into Clint’s beat-up Tacoma. I’ve kept my head down. I don’t want Erika to see the panic in my eyes. We need to get to Reid. I yank on the seat belt, but it won’t budge. I force myself to slow down and gently pull. After three tries, I’m able to click in.
Erika grumbles but doesn’t complain as she climbs up into the cracked gray leather bench of the extended cab. Nothing luxurious about the smell of greasy metal and used basketball socks.
Clint slams the door behind him. “I’ve got the tarp slid back. Everybody good?”
“All set, honey,” I say with false breeziness.
Erika makes a noise from the back seat that somehow means she’s also ready to go.
Without discussing it, Clint and I decide to sit with our own thoughts. I’ve got lots of theories but none of them are good.
Ten minutes later as Stevie Nicks croons on the Tacoma’s surprisingly good stereo system, Erika speaks up as if we’ve been talking the whole time.
“I can’t believe I’ve been beating myself up for being such a bad judge of character when it wasn’t even him.”
Clint taps his thumb against the down volume button on his steering wheel.
“You really thought he spray-painted our garage and car?” I shift slightly in my seat as I can barely see her in my periphery.
