“She had a ticket for San Francisco,” Brent said, “but prior to boarding the plane, her reservation was cancelled. Do you know where she went instead?”

Jane appeared genuinely surprised. “I don’t know anything about her reservation being cancelled, and as I said before, I don’t know where she is now.”

“Ms. Allyson, she had a first-class ticket. Do you know how Ms. Nichols could afford such a ticket?”

“As I mentioned, some things are confidential.” Standing, Jane said, “Now, gentlemen, if that is all? I have work—”

How dare she? Tony hadn’t flown to Des Moines to be flippantly dismissed. He stood to meet her glare. “Ms. Allyson, I’m not happy with the recent turn of events. I plan to learn of all individuals involved in this miscarriage of justice, and it’s obvious that you played a role.”

Her gaze never faltered. “Mr. Rawlings, I was your ex-wife’s co-counsel during her trial. I represented her then, and I would gladly do so again. If you have complaints about her pardon then I recommend you take them up with Richard Bosley. His signature alone opened the door of her cell, and I’m certain that a man of your stature did not intend for his concern regarding self-preservation to be misinterpreted as a threat. That wouldn’t coincide with your benevolent image and—I’ll add—is illegal.”

Standing to join the rest, Brent interceded, “You’re correct, Ms. Allyson. My client is obviously distraught over the recent turn of events. You can understand his alarm. After all, Ms. Nichols tried to harm him once. It’s only natural for him to be concerned she may try to do it again.”

“Yes, Mr. Simmons, I see how your client would be concerned that my client would cause him harm.”

Tony didn’t appreciate Ms. Allyson’s thinly veiled implication. He wasn’t going to allow her to bring up Claire’s accusations in front of Brent. Inhaling deeply, Tony summoned his most affable voice. “Thank you, Ms. Allyson. I’m glad you understand my concern, and I hope you didn’t misinterpret my alarm. If you remember anything else regarding Ms. Nichols’ departure or learn of her location, I would appreciate being informed.” Well-ingrained manners took over as Tony extended his hand.

Shaking it firmly, Ms. Allyson replied, “Mr. Rawlings, you will be among the first I call. Are we done?”

“Yes,” Tony said, with a genuine smile. “I believe we are.” As they exited her office, Tony’s lips remained turned upward as he contemplated various possibilities of derailing Ms. Allyson’s career. Someone would take the fall for this travesty, and right now, she was at the top of his list.

With nightfall, Tony’s energy plummeted. The surge that had been propelling him for nearly twenty-four hours was gone. He stared once again at the text message he’d received from Phillip Roach.

“I’M CONFIDENT THAT THIS IS MS. NICHOLS’ NUMBER. AMONG OTHER NUMBERS, IT HAS BEEN IN CONTACT WITH EMILY VANDERSOL, ON MULTIPLE DAILY CALLS, SINCE THE MIDDLE OF MARCH. I’VE NARROWED THE ORIGIN OF THE CALLS TO PALO ALTO, CALIFORNIA. THE NUMBER IS: XXX-XXX-XXXX. I WILL CONTACT YOU AGAIN WHEN I LEARN MORE.”

Tony had waited all day for more information and was tired of waiting. He’d learn for himself. Walking the corridor back to his suite, Tony entered his private haven, his sanctuary. He didn’t want to be interrupted—or overheard—like the night before.

His suite held more memories than Tony cared to recall. There were those that he should abandon, both literally and figuratively, and ones that he treasured. The literal memories were items relegated to a box in the back of his closet. Some of the items, his ex-wife never knew he possessed. There were the photographs he’d taken from her Atlanta apartment, and her old laptop. He doubted the old dinosaur even worked. It hadn’t been booted up in almost three years. Tony searched the box for the one item he treasured. It was one of Claire’s belongings, one that he couldn’t bear to include in the auction. Catherine had encouraged him to purge it all, break free and move on. She even insisted on redecorating Claire’s suite. He wanted to move on, but he couldn’t get rid of this item. Anthony Rawlings may be a lot of things; however, he wasn’t a man who would donate his wife’s—or ex-wife’s—most sentimental possession to a fund-raising auction. Riffling through private investigative reports, pictures, and papers, Tony found the black velvet box and grinned. Peering inside, he gently touched the delicate white gold chain and cream-colored pearl. The necklace had belonged to Claire’s grandmother. Closing his eyes, he remembered the night he gave it back to her—the night of the symphony.

Glancing at the numerous pictures from his years of surveillance, Tony wondered if he and Claire had come full circle. Would it be like this again? Would his only connection to her be through this new investigator? Would he only see Claire in two dimensions? Tony searched for their contract, the beginning of their personal journey together. He knew it wouldn’t be that easy again. If he were to get her back to Iowa and into his life, it wouldn’t be because of a signature on a napkin.

Then he shook his head. He didn’t want her back, did he? Hell, the lack of sleep was making him sentimental. He stopped his search. The damn contract was no longer valid; it never had been—legally. Pushing the box back into its hideaway, he contemplated throwing it all away. Having her back wasn’t his goal; learning her location was. She had no right to disappear.