Another two fingers of bourbon and he might just go down to one of the clubs—hell, he hadn’t been with another woman since before he and Claire married—not even when she was in prison. He went out on dates and made appearances; that’s who Anthony Rawlings was; nevertheless, his heart wasn’t in it. He was always polite and gentlemanly, even when advances were made on him. It wasn’t that he didn’t have needs. It was that during the instances when his lips touched another woman’s and he closed his eyes, all he saw was the sparkling emerald he wanted to have in his arms. When he opened his eyes and the sight before him wasn’t what he truly desired—the rest of his body wasn’t interested in proceeding. Although there were many women willing to help the situation, Tony wasn’t interested.

Of course, that didn’t mean Claire had afforded him the same exclusivity. In Tony’s current condition, that was somewhere he shouldn’t go. One thought opened the floodgate to many more—had she left him to be with someone else? Was she with someone now? There was always that thought that periodically infiltrated his thoughts: what if the baby wasn’t his? Refocusing on their conversation—where the hell was here? What kind of an answer was that?

Tony snickered as he poured his third glass. Damn, if he weren’t so refined, then he’d drink the shit from the bottle. He may still be using the same name as the man at the hostels, but he wasn’t that man. He’d drink like culturally duped men do—out of a glass.

He definitely had more questions swirling through his head than answers. Tony thought back to the research he tried to do. There were too many pieces of this puzzle still missing.

Slumping back into a plush chair and gazing out to the twilight sky above Lake Geneva, Tony acknowledged the FBI was right. Claire left him—of—her—own—free—will!

Slightly dimmed by the onslaught of ninety-six proof liquor, Tony’s thoughts were forming slower; nevertheless, Claire’s words were coming back, Really, Tony? How many people knew about it? How many people would consider us both children of children? He knew that answer in the pit of his stomach. With each second, the truth burnt within him—Catherine knew—she knew they were both children of children. Catherine knew about Nathaniel’s money. Catherine knew how to access Nathaniel’s money. Catherine knew!

Reaching for his nearest phone, Tony almost spilled his drink. As he steadied himself, he thought about Catherine’s number—not hers—no his! The idea that he could call his house and she’d be there—fueled the rage coursing through him. Just as he considered entering the number—with the phone in the palm of his hand—it rang.

He almost dropped it!

With a slight slur to his speech, Tony answered, “Hello, Agent Jackson, how are you this fine evening?” The momentary silence made Tony laugh. “What’s the matter, Agent? Cat’s got your tongue?”

“Mr. Rawlings, we have word that you’re making yourself visible.”

“Oh, you see, that’s not true. No—no one can see me, right now”—Tony scanned the corners of the room for signs of cameras—“or, can you?”—he lifted his free hand to wave—“Can you see me?”

“No, Mr. Rawlings, I can’t see you; however, you’ve been spotted.”

“Well, is that so? I’m not using my real name.”

“Mr. Rawlings, we’d like you to meet with a field agent. He’ll instruct you on better ways to stay hidden.”

“I don’t think I’m up for more learning today. You see, I’ve already had a lesson or two, so I’m really over the entire educational system at this moment.”

“That wasn’t a request. You’re staying at the Kempinski; our agent will meet you in fifteen minutes at Mulligan’s near the train station.”

Tony looked at his watch. “I’m gonna have to pass. You see, I had room service in mind.”

“Mulligan’s—fifteen minutes.” The line went dead. On the corner of the screen, the time said 02:24, so—they were finally able to trace a call—it didn’t matter. They already knew where he was staying.

Tony made his way to the bathroom, splashed water on his face, and straightened his tie. If he were expected to meet with some FBI asshole, then he’d at least do it with dignity.

Phil watched Tony leave the Kempinski. If Rawlings was supposed to be in hiding, Phil didn’t think he was doing a very good job. His demeanor, swanker, and aura all screamed Anthony Rawlings. It truly didn’t matter what name he chose to use, no one who knew him would mistake him for someone else—hell, Phil was good, but anyone could’ve found him.