Sam anxiously scanned the dense woods again. He needed to get out of this mess. He wanted nothing to do with this job or these people. When he turned back to the car, the hot flash of a .45-caliber pistol powered a single blast right between his eyes.
The black Escalade peeled off into the frigid night air, leaving Sam Littlejohn and Geoffrey Gallagher out in the middle of nowhere.
Chapter 25
I rolled over, for what seemed like the hundredth time, and stared into the soft red glow on the digital alarm clock: Wednesday, 6:45 A.M. Another fifteen minutes before the alarm was set to blare me out of bed. These days, sleep was a fleeting commodity I could only gather in small fragments between bouts of worry and dread. My life had become too complicated for sleep. I was working for a company that was operating under a sham leadership structure. My brother was somehow involved in my boss’s murder. And I was hopelessly stuck between turning my brother over to the police or turning over confidential documents that could be a breach of my ethical duty as a lawyer and get me disbarred.
I lay in bed staring at the ceiling fan and lining up all the problematic little pegs. Michael was murdered and a white-collar defense lawyer he hired was missing. Both of them were concerned about a deal that Jonathan brought into the company, a deal that Jonathan said was all buttoned up. But why would Jonathan hire my brother to trail Gallagher? Could Jonathan have killed Michael and was setting my brother up to take the fall? Jonathan had to know Sam and I were related. Littlejohn is not a common name. And somehow Jonathan had found out about Chillicothe. Was all this some sort of threat directed at me?
I just needed to figure out a way to go to the police and sort this whole thing out with Sam. Maybe I could tell them that Sam was inside Houghton looking for me the day the security cameras caught him in the lobby. I could tell the detective the security photos were grainy, that I’d made a mistake when I said I didn’t recognize Sam in the pictures. I could make up some logical explanation for Sam being in those photos. No matter what it took, I’d find a way to get Sam out of this mess.
I pulled back a tangle of Italian bed linens, swung my legs over the side of the bed, and sat staring at nothing. My head throbbed. Maybe I was still suffering from the kick in the head at Sam’s house a couple nights ago. Was Jonathan the man in the Escalade who hit me?
I picked up the remote control and pointed it at the flat-screen television on the wall in the corner of the bedroom. A perky young blonde jabbered on about a 50 percent chance of snow with the kind of glee in her voice usually reserved for a kindergartner’s visit to see Santa. After, she turned it over to an equally enthusiastic guy interviewing some official from the Georgia Department of Transportation as he enlightened Atlanta on the effectiveness of brine solutions and the road crews standing at the ready to ensure safe roads for morning motorists. I knew it wouldn’t snow. It rarely snows in Atlanta. The north Georgia mountains could usually garner a few inches. But Atlanta? Hardly. And if it did snow, it was either an all-out “snowmageddon” or a whimper of snow dust that melted as soon as it hit the ground. Either way, the local news media made an elaborate production over nothing.
I ambled into the closet, yawned and stretched, and started the daily ritual that had been the same since I was a college freshman with the epic question, What do I wear today? Who would I have to impress? Who would I have to disguise myself for?
Ever since earning my first paycheck waiting tables at IHOP in college, shopping was my one vice, and dresses were my particular drug of choice. Maybe it was Aunt Myrtle’s influence. The more money I made, the more money I poured into my addiction. I walked to the middle of the closet and gazed into a sea of designer clothing that rivaled the racks of any upscale boutique in the city. Unfortunately, half the clothes in this closet didn’t fit anymore. Still, I couldn’t part with them, always holding on to the thought that I’d lose a few pounds and slip right back into them. Too bad that salesclerk at the Port showed her ass. Otherwise, I might be wearing that sky-blue Alexander McQueen dress.
I pulled out a black suit, then decided against it while half listening to the local news coming from the television in the bedroom. This time, a serious-sounding male anchor: “As we reported earlier in this broadcast, a road crew laying brine solution along an icy road . . .”
Maybe the gray dress? Nope, I wore gray yesterday. Maybe the winter-white Escada sheath to lift my spirits.
“The Habersham County sheriff stated that two bodies have been discovered along Anders Creek Road . . .”