Callie glanced at her watch. “Look, I don’t have all day. You’ve heard the deal, I’ve answered your questions, it’s time to give me your answer.”
Her deadline brought all their emotions to a head.
Trish’s face blanched. She lowered her head and pressed her hands to either side of her temples as though experiencing a migraine. When she looked up her eyes had tears in them. It was clear she was waging a war with her conscience.
Rob was jittery, in a panic. No question what he wanted to do—his eyes were pleading with Trish.
Callie knew she had them.
“I’ll give you ten minutes,” she said briskly.” I’ll put my headphones on so you can talk privately, but you’ll have to remain in my sight at all times.”
“How do you know we won’t contact the police after you leave?” Trish said, wearily.
Callie laughed. “I’d love to hear that conversation.”
“What do you mean?”
“You think the police would believe you? Or let you keep a suitcase full of cash under these circumstances?”
Rob said, “Are we the first, or have you done this before?”
“This is my eighth suitcase.”
Again they looked at each other. Then Rob reached over, as though he wanted to stroke the bills.
Callie smiled and closed the top. “Nuh uh.”
“How many people actually took the money?” he asked. There was a sheen of sweat on his upper lip.
“I can’t tell you that.”
“Why not?” Trish asked.
“It could influence your decision and impact the social experiment. Look. Here’s what you need to know: when someone takes the money, my boss feels he’s gotten the blessing of a member of society to end the life of a murderer.”
“This is crazy. This is just crazy,” Trish whispered, as if daring herself to believe.
“People die every day,” Rob said. “And they’re going to die whether we get the money or someone else does.”
Trish looked at him absently, her mind a million miles away.
“They’re giving this money to someone,” Rob explained, “so why not us?”
“It’s too crazy,” Trish repeated. “Isn’t it?”
“Maybe,” Callie said, putting on the headphones. “But the money—and the offer—are for real.”
Chapter 1
“And you, Mr. Creed,” she said.
I looked up from my mixing bowl. “Ma’am?”
“What do you do for a living?”
“Apart from making brownies? I’m with Homeland Security.”
Her name was Patty Feldson and she was conducting a home study as part of the adoption process. My significant other, Kathleen Gray, was hoping to adopt a six-year-old burn victim named Addie Dawes. Addie was the sole survivor of a home fire that claimed the lives of her parents and twin sister. Ms. Feldson had been watching Addie and Kathleen play dolls on the living room floor. Satisfied with the quality of their interaction, she turned her attention to me.
“Do you have a business card?” Patty said.
“I do.” I took my wallet from my hip pocket and removed a card that had been freshly printed for this very occasion. I handed it over.
Patty read aloud: “Donovan Creed, Special Agent, Homeland Security.” She smiled. “Well that doesn’t reveal much. But it certainly sounds mysterious and exciting. Do you travel much, Agent Creed?”
I wondered how well we’d get along if I told her I was a government assassin who occasionally performs free-lance hits for the mob and for an angry, homicidal midget named Victor.
“I do travel. But I’m afraid my job falls short of being mysterious or exciting. Mostly, I interview people.”
“Suspected terrorists?”
I layered the batter into Kathleen’s brownie pan with a silicone spatula and swirled Addie’s name on top before placing the pan in the oven.
“Apartment owners, business managers, that sort of thing.” I closed the oven door and set the timer for forty minutes.
“What’s in the brownies?” she said.
I felt like saying marijuana, but Kathleen had warned me not to joke with these people. She was in the home stretch of the adoption process and I intended to do all I could to help her.
“You remember the actress, Katharine Hepburn?” I said.
“Excuse me?”
“This is her recipe. I found it in an old issue of the Saturday Evening Post.”
“Oh,” she said. “I’d love to have it!”
“Then you shall.”
A home study is a series of meetings you have to go through as part of the approval process for adopting a child. Kathleen had provided all her personal documents, passed the criminal background check, made it through all the appointments and provided personal references. But at least one meeting is required to be in your home, and all who live there (Kathleen) or spend nights there (me) had to be in attendance.
Patty Feldson wasn’t here to do a “white glove” interview. She’d already made a positive determination about Kathleen’s ability to parent. All that remained was to see what sort of person the boyfriend was. She knew, for example, that I had a daughter of my own, who lived with my ex in Darnell, West Virginia. If she’d done any digging she also knew that while I’ve always been emotionally and financially supportive, I hadn’t spent as much father-daughter time with Kimberly as I should have.
