“No,” Amber replied. “Not for Simon. The article said that Claire shot someone.”

“Oh, my God, she is nuts. And you had her living with you.”

Harry’s shoulders straightened. “I think there’s more to it than that. And no one said she’s nuts.” His modest attempt at defending Claire earned him cold looks from the two women at the table. “The woman she’s accused of shooting is the same one who was at the estate when Rawlings first took her.”

“Didn’t you go and talk to that lady?” Liz asked.

“I did.”

“And Claire killed her?” Liz questioned.

“No,” Harry replied.

When he offered no more information, Amber responded. “I called John. He said it’s a mess. The lady’s name is Catherine, and she was shot, but her wound isn’t life-threatening. Of course, I was all concerned about Claire. He said that she’s not doing well. She hasn’t spoken to anyone since it happened.”

“She isn’t as dumb as she acts. I bet she’s faking it to avoid jail time,” Liz said.

Harry thought about her transition from prison the first time, the way she reacted to simple things like sky and sunlight. He didn’t want her going through that again. It wasn’t right. The FBI made her a deal. She had immunity.

Amber’s laugh refocused him. He wasn’t sure what he’d missed in the conversation, but Liz and Amber were clinking their glasses of red wine and grinning.

“I scored us four great tickets to the Lakers game this coming Saturday. They’re in the Google suite: drinks and food on me,” Keaton offered.

“On you or on Google?” Amber teased.

“I work for Google, so without me you wouldn’t be there,” he answered smugly. “I’d say it’s on me.”

Amber kissed his cheek. “Sounds great.”

“Yeah, sounds fun,” Liz replied. “What time?”

“I’m sorry,” Harry said, interrupting their plans. “I need to be out of town for a few days. You have fun without me.”

Liz’s expression dropped. “What else didn’t you have time to tell me? Do you have a new assignment?”

“Yeah, but it won’t last long—just a couple of days.”

“When are you leaving?” Amber asked.

“Tomorrow.”

Pressing her lips together, Liz slumped in her chair and sighed.

“Well, this party just took a downturn,” Keaton observed.

After a long drink of her wine, Liz refilled her glass and faked a smile. “Don’t be silly. I’m not that insecure. It isn’t like Harry’s running off to Iowa or something.”

Amber’s gaze cut to Harry.

“Would anyone else like some more wine?” he asked with a purposeful tone of innocence as he refilled his glass.

One of the secrets of life is that all that is really worth doing is what we do for others.

—Lewis Carroll

My Life as It Didn’t Appear: Chapter 3…

It’s difficult to look back at a time of despair and isolate the most difficult moment. They all worked together to accomplish the same goal. In my education as a meteorologist, I learned how essential elements combined in just the right way to create the perfect storm. Finding the one element, the one piece of the puzzle that completed the devastation would be like choosing the single raindrop responsible for a ruinous flood or the upward draft that completed the destructive funnel cloud. Each drop of water or gust of wind played a role in the destruction. In my education as Mrs. Rawlings, I learned how each storm, no matter how small, played a role in creating the perfect companion.

As a town is never the same after a destructive storm, neither was I.

The isolation in my suite was my first storm. It should have been the kidnapping and the physical abuse: surely they contributed. They were rumblings of impending desperation, like the threatening winds before a hurricane. During those times that seemed unsurvivable, I erroneously believed I could make a difference. I held on to the hope that I could say or do something to change my destiny. While left alone—literally alone—for almost two weeks, the dams broke and I changed forever. I found myself almost wishing for the threatening precursors.

After Anthony’s proclamation of ownership, he left my suite. Though my cheek stung from the slap of his hand, it was the impenetrable silence that hung about me like a cloud. I’d already tried and failed to escape my cell: I was alone with no way out.

The windows wouldn’t break with the pounding of the chair against the glass. First, I tried the tall French doors that led to a balcony. Of course, the doors were locked, but I hoped that I could break the glass to get outside and climb to freedom. That seemed safer than the windows. The small panes repelled the blows. After numerous failed attempts, and despite the distance from the other windows to the ground, I tried breaking the windows. Unfortunately, no number of strikes shattered the glass, only my hope.

The Weather Station had told me I was in Iowa. When I escaped, I didn’t know where I would go or how long it would take me to get there. I just knew that freedom was beyond the sea of trees. From my view, they seemed to go on forever. I also feared that if the windows broke, an alarm of some kind would sound; however, with each passing day my desperation grew. Running through the trees was my recurring dream—and nightmare.

Often, I’d wake panting from the realness of my illusions with my heart pounding too quickly in my chest. During the day I imagined freedom, but with night, reality intruded: I couldn’t get free. I’d be chased and caught. Though I wasn’t sure what would happen after my recapture, I knew instinctively that it wouldn’t be good.