“You could start by apologizing.”
“She made it clear that she won’t talk to me.”
“Then you’ll have to write her a letter.”
“I tried that once before. As you may recall, it didn’t work.”
Meredith grimaced. “I think you have to do it anyway.”
So he did.
Bronwyn,
I did it again. I don’t know why. I have reasons. Lack of sleep. Fear. Emotional turmoil. But they’re all just lame excuses for my incredibly bad behavior. I’m a jerk. An imbecile. A moron. I’m a worm. I’m the absolute worst. You don’t deserve to be subjected to me and my sharp mouth.
This letter is an apology, but it’s also my way of acknowledging that you win. I won’t speak to you until you speak to me first. It’s the least I can do.
Sincerely,
Mo
Twenty-Five
Present Day
Thirty minutes later, Mo sat in the spa lobby while Bronwyn, as Meredith would say, got her zen on.
Mo hoped it helped. He’d been anti-massage for anything other than injury purposes until Meredith had ambushed him last year. He’d found himself getting a cut, a shave, and a massage, followed by some time in the sauna.
He’d walked out calmer and more relaxed than he’d been in months.
And he’d gone back twice since.
He should probably schedule another one.
When they left Bronwyn’s office, they’d made a quick run to her home before heading to the spa. As he’d done for the past couple of days, he cleared the house before letting her enter. When he walked into her office, he’d nearly come unglued.
She’d moved her piece on the Chinese checkers board. It was right there, plain as day. She hadn’t made a move the last time he looked. But now, her red marble was on the board.
He needed to finish clearing the house. Leaving her outsidewhile he stared at a Chinese checkers board was ... ridiculous. But before he left her office, he made another move of his own. Maybe this time it wouldn’t take so long for her to respond.
Not that she would be home. He was keeping her on Quinn land tonight. And maybe tomorrow night. And maybe the night after that.
He’d keep her there forever if he could get away with it.
His phone vibrated in his hand. He kept his voice low and answered. “What do you have for me?”
“Nothing that makes sense.” The female voice on the other end of the line was clipped and didn’t pause for him to respond. “Your Peter Brown is running through my facial rec software now. It picked him up at the Charlotte airport yesterday as he got off a flight from DC. We have another capture at a rental counter. He’s driving a black Suburban. He flew in and rented the vehicle under the name Peter Brown, so he has photo identification and credit cards in that name, but that’s an alias.”
Mo wasn’t surprised. But he was impressed with how fast Sabrina found the information he requested.
“Peter Brown goes by several other names,” she went on. “Three so far. And the system hasn’t checked all the databases I have access to. Two of them are as obviously fake as the one he’s using now.”
“John Smith?”
“No, but they might as well be. David Black and Robert White. Someone needs to tell him to step away from colors. The other name is Kevin Glen Masters, and that’s the one you need to spend some time on. I know there’s something there. I just don’t have it yet.”
“I’m not in front of a computer. Won’t be for a while.”
