With each minute, Phil’s blood pressure rose. The thick fluid coursed through his veins, thundered in his ears, until his vision clouded with the red pooling behind his eyes. Patricia’s plans would not happen. Phil knew that with all of his heart and soul. He also knew that the Rawlingses would never, could never, know why the mailings stopped. If Phil could have done it without anyone’s knowledge, he would have. Unfortunately, he’d already let Eric and Taylor into too much of the operation.

As Phil waited for Patricia’s arrival in her living room, Eric waited nearby with the car. Over the years the two men had developed a trust that only comes with time and experience. Eric was a stand-up man who devoted his life to Rawlings, even initially at the sacrifice of Claire. Though Rawlings claimed Eric had nothing to do with Claire’s kidnapping, Roach knew in his gut that Eric helped. Rawlings couldn’t have gotten her back to Iowa alone. The flip side to their partnership was that Phil himself felt the same way. If push came to shove, and it had come close, Phil would always choose Claire. Knowing that their two main goals were combined gave Eric and Phil the common objective. And with Nichol, there was no doubt: both men would lay down their lives.

Taylor’s help had proven invaluable. The pink room was a subtle warning, but Ami’s declarations were a full-blown alarm. No one expected the office manager of the Diamond Law Office to be so forthcoming. It was doubtful Eric or Phil would have reaped the same results as easily. Nevertheless, at this juncture, as Phil awaited Patricia’s arrival, Taylor was in Iowa with Claire and Nichol: the fewer people who knew the truth about this day, the better. The timing was perfect: with Rawlings out of town, Eric and Phil’s absence would appear as though they’d accompanied Rawlings to Chicago.

The sound of a key turning in the lock of the side door brought Phil back to present. Again his heart rate increased, as he heard not only her footsteps on the kitchen floor but the sound of her voice. His surveillance equipment had yielded very little, but it had revealed Patricia’s routine. Each night she returned from work, entered through the kitchen, locked the side door, and hung her keys on a nearby hook. Her next stop would be her coffee maker, where she’d set it for her evening cup. On most nights she didn’t go out of the house until morning. Never in the time he’d been watching had anyone been with her.

Phil held his breath and listened to Patricia speak and waited for the other voice. The revving of the Keurig echoed, but no other voice came. He sighed with the audible confirmation: Patricia was talking on the phone.

Stepping silently into the shadows of her living room, Phil waited, knowing that her next stop would be her bedroom, where she‘d change her clothes. Once her conversation was complete, Phil planned to make his presence known. There was no need to be coy. Patricia would recognize him the moment she saw him. They’d had more than a few conversations in the past.

As she made her way to her bedroom still talking, he remembered hearing about the reason for her firing. A smile graced his lips as he recalled Brent filling him in on the details. Brent was the one to authorize the larger than normal severance package. After all, Patricia Miles had been the assistant to the CEO of a billion-dollar conglomerate. Half a million dollars should have been sufficient to secure her silence and allow her to slip away. Changing her identity was never part of the deal. Brent offered glowing recommendations for Patricia Miles. She could have easily moved to any Fortune 500 company and done well. The situation she now faced was her own doing.

Phil tugged on the fingers of his leather gloves and continued to listen. Patricia was still in her bedroom when she finally said goodbye. It wasn’t until she walked down the hallway toward her waiting cup of coffee that he made his presence known. Stepping from the living room, Phil silently moved toward the brightly lit kitchen.

“Ms. Miles,” he stated in a cold, even tone.

Patricia’s shoulders stiffened as he heard her gasp. Slowly she turned his direction. Confusion and fear swirled in her eyes as anger and determination vied for dominance. Prying her tense lips apart, she finally asked, “Mr. Roach? What are you doing in my home?”

Moving his head slowly back and forth, he said, “Come now. I’m sure you can come up with a better question than that. I have one: what’s an MIT and Stanford graduate doing in Olivia, Minnesota, working as a paralegal? Especially someone who received a handsome settlement with the promise of glowing recommendations? Ms. Miles, you could be living the high life in New York or better yet, someplace abroad, perhaps London.”

Her ashen pallor intensified as Patricia’s gaze slowly moved around her kitchen. “I-I want you to leave.”

The spring sky through the window had begun to darken. He couldn’t have orchestrated a better cover. Along with removing herself from the radar, Patricia had also chosen an isolated home, at least a half mile from the nearest neighbor. A low chuckle rumbled from somewhere deep within Phil’s throat. One that even he thought sounded sinister. “Really, Ms. Miles, your time for making demands has expired. I have demands now.”

Her frightened eyes moved to his.

“Ms. Miles, my demands are basic and straightforward. You were given the opportunity to make yourself scarce and go on with your life. Instead you chose to seek revenge. The Rawlingses have had more than enough of that—enough to last a lifetime. I want you gone and out of their lives. I don’t want you to attempt to contact them in any way—ever again.”

“Who said that I—”