Phil’s pocket vibrated.
Claire was nearly ready for bed when she heard the knock on the door to the suite. Reaching for her phone, she sent a text:
“IS THAT YOU? WHY ARE YOU KNOCKING?”
Before she received a response, the second round of knocks echoed through the suite. Cautiously, Claire moved to the peep hole. The lump in her throat grew as she saw Harry with flowers and a sign that read:
CAN WE PLEASE TALK?
She debated her movements when the phone within her hand vibrated. Looking down, she read:
“IS WHAT ME? NO! DON’T OPEN THE DOOR. I DON’T CARE WHO IT IS! I’M ON MY WAY.”
The next time she peered through the hole, Harry’s sign had changed:
I HAVE SOMETHING I NEED TO TELL YOU—PLEASE?
Wondering how he’d located her again didn’t pass through her mind, and what he wanted to tell her didn’t seem as important as the look on his face. It was the sadness. She’d left him in Palo Alto. They’d said goodbye at the hospital, but she left without seeing him again. Then yesterday, she’d allowed the stress of her escape to overpower her feelings of friendship—he was her friend—wasn’t he? They’d been together, he helped her start a new life, and he’d been encouraging and supportive—up until Tony came back in the picture.
Claire placed her hand on her stomach. Their baby wasn’t moving. What was her little one trying to say? Should Claire take the advice of her child and be calm? After all, tomorrow she and Phil were leaving. If she didn’t talk to Harry tonight, would she ever again have another chance?
Let us not be content to wait and see what will happen, but give us the determination to make the right things happen.
—Horace Mann
Phil wasn’t far from the hotel, and his list from Claire wasn’t complete. Without a doubt—none of that mattered. Getting back to Claire was his only thought as he pushed through the crowded streets. His stomach clenched with an overwhelming sense of déjà vu. All at once, he was back in Palo Alto outside of her condominium—
Phil knew Claire was with Baldwin. He’d followed them from the airport, and then, he read his computer—telling him about the sensors. He ran as fast as he could. It didn’t matter; he couldn’t get to her—to her condominium—in time. When he reached her—it was too late...
With blatant disregard for anyone else on the streets of Venice, Phil’s adrenaline-filled veins helped him maintain a full-out run. Some people cursed as he pushed past them, while others sent him hateful looks. None of it registered. The only image in his mind was that of Claire laying on the floor, and Chester reaching in the pocket of his jacket...
Phil didn’t stop to ride the elevator; instead, he took the stairs two and three at a time. By the time he reached the door of their suite, no one was outside. The hallway was empty and calm. Instinctively, he leaned his head against the door and listened. No sounds were registering from inside the room. All he could hear reverberating in his ears was his own heavy breathing and the sound of his pounding heartbeat. Slipping his key into the lock, he opened the door.
It took only a second for Phil to assess the scene. Claire was sitting on the sofa, her expression neither happy nor sad. It was a look he recognized—the one she wore when she was suppressing her feelings. From the doorway, Phil saw the back of a man’s head. Even before the blonde-headed man turned toward the sound of the opening door, Phil knew it was Harrison Baldwin. Phil wasn’t thinking about his movements; it wasn’t planned; nonetheless, as Baldwin stood, Phil found himself suddenly across the room and chest to chest with the younger man. The fear Phil felt for Claire and her child over the last few minutes came bubbling out. “Tell us what you want! How in the hell did you find her?”
“Hey, man”—Harry’s open hands came up in a commonly accepted sign of surrender—“I’m not the bad guy here. Claire’s in no danger from me.”
Phil’s volume decreased, yet his tone remained hard. “Then why are you here?”
Claire interjected, “Phil, Harry was just telling me an interesting story. Please”—she looked toward Phil—“please, let’s hear him out.” Then she added, “Together.”
She’d never seen such rage in Phil’s eyes. He’d told her of jobs he’d done, never with too much detail; however, at that moment, when he entered their suite, she saw military—special ops—private detective—and bodyguard—all rolled into one. It wasn’t that she’d ever questioned his ability to protect her, but at that moment, there was no room for doubt. Phil’s eyes stayed fixed on Harry as he stepped backwards toward Claire.
Claire was nearly ready for bed when she heard the knock on the door to the suite. Reaching for her phone, she sent a text:
“IS THAT YOU? WHY ARE YOU KNOCKING?”
Before she received a response, the second round of knocks echoed through the suite. Cautiously, Claire moved to the peep hole. The lump in her throat grew as she saw Harry with flowers and a sign that read:
CAN WE PLEASE TALK?
She debated her movements when the phone within her hand vibrated. Looking down, she read:
“IS WHAT ME? NO! DON’T OPEN THE DOOR. I DON’T CARE WHO IT IS! I’M ON MY WAY.”
The next time she peered through the hole, Harry’s sign had changed:
I HAVE SOMETHING I NEED TO TELL YOU—PLEASE?
Wondering how he’d located her again didn’t pass through her mind, and what he wanted to tell her didn’t seem as important as the look on his face. It was the sadness. She’d left him in Palo Alto. They’d said goodbye at the hospital, but she left without seeing him again. Then yesterday, she’d allowed the stress of her escape to overpower her feelings of friendship—he was her friend—wasn’t he? They’d been together, he helped her start a new life, and he’d been encouraging and supportive—up until Tony came back in the picture.
Claire placed her hand on her stomach. Their baby wasn’t moving. What was her little one trying to say? Should Claire take the advice of her child and be calm? After all, tomorrow she and Phil were leaving. If she didn’t talk to Harry tonight, would she ever again have another chance?
Let us not be content to wait and see what will happen, but give us the determination to make the right things happen.
—Horace Mann
Phil wasn’t far from the hotel, and his list from Claire wasn’t complete. Without a doubt—none of that mattered. Getting back to Claire was his only thought as he pushed through the crowded streets. His stomach clenched with an overwhelming sense of déjà vu. All at once, he was back in Palo Alto outside of her condominium—
Phil knew Claire was with Baldwin. He’d followed them from the airport, and then, he read his computer—telling him about the sensors. He ran as fast as he could. It didn’t matter; he couldn’t get to her—to her condominium—in time. When he reached her—it was too late...
With blatant disregard for anyone else on the streets of Venice, Phil’s adrenaline-filled veins helped him maintain a full-out run. Some people cursed as he pushed past them, while others sent him hateful looks. None of it registered. The only image in his mind was that of Claire laying on the floor, and Chester reaching in the pocket of his jacket...
Phil didn’t stop to ride the elevator; instead, he took the stairs two and three at a time. By the time he reached the door of their suite, no one was outside. The hallway was empty and calm. Instinctively, he leaned his head against the door and listened. No sounds were registering from inside the room. All he could hear reverberating in his ears was his own heavy breathing and the sound of his pounding heartbeat. Slipping his key into the lock, he opened the door.
It took only a second for Phil to assess the scene. Claire was sitting on the sofa, her expression neither happy nor sad. It was a look he recognized—the one she wore when she was suppressing her feelings. From the doorway, Phil saw the back of a man’s head. Even before the blonde-headed man turned toward the sound of the opening door, Phil knew it was Harrison Baldwin. Phil wasn’t thinking about his movements; it wasn’t planned; nonetheless, as Baldwin stood, Phil found himself suddenly across the room and chest to chest with the younger man. The fear Phil felt for Claire and her child over the last few minutes came bubbling out. “Tell us what you want! How in the hell did you find her?”
“Hey, man”—Harry’s open hands came up in a commonly accepted sign of surrender—“I’m not the bad guy here. Claire’s in no danger from me.”
Phil’s volume decreased, yet his tone remained hard. “Then why are you here?”
Claire interjected, “Phil, Harry was just telling me an interesting story. Please”—she looked toward Phil—“please, let’s hear him out.” Then she added, “Together.”
She’d never seen such rage in Phil’s eyes. He’d told her of jobs he’d done, never with too much detail; however, at that moment, when he entered their suite, she saw military—special ops—private detective—and bodyguard—all rolled into one. It wasn’t that she’d ever questioned his ability to protect her, but at that moment, there was no room for doubt. Phil’s eyes stayed fixed on Harry as he stepped backwards toward Claire.
