Thief .(20)

“Don’t,” I said. Olivia was on my flatscreen, walking with a man I presumed to be Dobson Orchard. She waved away from the press and got in a car with him.

No, Olivia.

I wanted to tell her to stay away from this case. To stay away from him. I wanted to touch her silky, black hair and wrap her in my protection. My mouth was dry by the time the news went to commercial.

That’s when I realized they’d flashed Laura’s picture, describing her as one of his first victims. Dobson/Devon…

Forget it, I thought. She’d been drugged. Maybe she got the name wrong. Maybe the news did. Maybe she jumped on the Dobson train because she wanted the ride. When she was in college she was looking to be a part of something, a family of eight. Maybe, just maybe, she found it in the faces of Dobson’s abducted, assaulted victims. Fuck if I didn’t pick the strangest women to spend time with.





“Where are we?” Cammie sits up, rubbing her eyes.

“Naples.” I pull down a heavily wooded street, and she looks around in alarm.

“What the hell, Drake?”

Olivia, who has been quiet the whole drive, looks impassively out the window. I’m worried about her. She hasn’t asked once where we’re going. Either she trusts me, or she doesn’t care. I’m good with both.

The road curves, and I pull down a much smaller street. The houses here are spaced further apart. There are ten of them, all sitting around a lake and surrounded by their own five acres. The closest neighbors own horses. I can see them grazing behind white picket fences. As we drive past, Olivia’s head cranes to get a better look.

I smile to myself. She’s not a hundred percent zoned out.

I stop the car outside an ornate white gate and reach into my glove box to find the automatic opener. My hand grazes her knee and she jumps.

“It’s good to know I still have that effect on you,” I say, pointing the device at the gate. It swings open just as her hand shoots out and smacks me on the chest.

I grab her hand before she can pull away and hold it right over my heart. She doesn’t fight me.

Cammie sniffs in the backseat, and I let her go.

The driveway is paved with creamy, brown brick. We follow it for two hundred yards until we reach the house. I throw the car into park; Olivia watches my hand.

I watch her, watch my hand. When she looks up, I smile.

“Where are we?”

“Naples,” I repeat, throwing open my door. I lean the seat forward to let Cammie out and walk around to open the door for Olivia.

She gets out and stretches her arms above her head, looking at the house.

I wait for her reaction.

“It’s beautiful,” she says. I grin and my hammering heart calms down.

“Who does it belong to?”

“Me.”

She raises her eyebrows and follows me up the stairs. The house is three stories, brick-faced with a turret and a widow’s walk that has the most astonishing view of the lake. As we approach the front door, she gasps.

The knocker sits on a solid wood door and is in the shape of a crown.

I stop at the door and look at her.

“And you.”

Her nostrils flare, her eyelashes beat, and her mouth puckers into a little frown.

I turn the key in the lock. We walk into our house.



It is unbearably hot. I head straight for the thermostat. Cammie swears colorfully, and I’m glad they can’t see my face.

The house is fully furnished. I have someone come in once a month to dust and clean the pool — which has never been used. I move from room to room, opening the shades. The girls follow behind me.

When we reach the kitchen, Olivia wraps her arms around her body and looks around.

“Like it?” I ask, watching her face.

“You designed this yourself, didn’t you?”

I like that she knows me so well. My ex-wife liked everything to be modern: stainless steel, sterile white and tile. Everything in my house is warm. The kitchen is rustic. There is a lot of stone and copper and hardwood. I made the decorator use a lot of red, because the color reminds me of Olivia. Leah has red hair, but Olivia has a red personality. And as far as I’m concerned, red belongs to the love of my life.

Cammie wanders around the living room, eventually plopping herself down on the couch and turning on the television. Olivia and I stand side by side, watching her. This was not how I intended for her to see this.

“Want me to show you the rest of your house?”

She nods and I lead her out of the kitchen and toward the curving staircase.

“Leah-”

“No,” I say. “I don’t want to talk about Leah.”

“Fine,” she says.

“Where’s Noah?”

She looks away. “Please stop asking me that.”