Jack Rourke slid my real driver’s license down the bar in front of half the town and told me to move in and wear his ring, or face the warrant. He never told me my ex had already paid him $40,000 to find me.
“Your name isn’t Anna Grey.”
Jack Rourke slid my driver’s license down the bar of the Anchor, face up, past six lobstermen and the sheriff’s brother.
“It’s Leah Sterling. Wanted in Boston for stealing $2.3 million from her husband’s company.”
The room went dead quiet. For eleven months I’d poured beer in Port Ellery, Maine, and nobody had asked where I came from.
“You went through my car.”
“I own the lot you park in.” He didn’t blink. “I own most of this town.”
“Then call the sheriff.”
“I could.” He leaned in, low enough that only I heard. “A man came in last night asking about a blonde bookkeeper with a scar on her wrist. I said I’d never seen her.”
My hand went to my sleeve before I could stop it.
“Why would you lie for me?”
“I don’t lie for free. You move into my house tonight. You wear my ring. Any man who comes for you comes through me.” His gray eyes didn’t move off mine. “And your phone stays on. I always know where you are.”
“That’s a cage.”
“That’s the price. Say no and walk out. I won’t stop you.”
I should have walked. But sewn into the lining of my coat was a flash drive. Wade’s real books. Proof every stolen dollar went into his accounts, not mine.
Nobody knew it existed. Not even Jack.
“Fine,” I said. “But I sleep alone.”
“For now.”
His house sat on the point, all glass and dark wood. He gave me a room with a lock on the inside.
“I record every call on that line,” he said, nodding at his office phone. “Old habit. I used to be the man people hired to find people.”
“Did you find them?”
“Always.”
Three days later the man with the questions came back. He caught me behind the Anchor and clamped my scarred wrist.
“Wade says hi, Mrs. Sterling. He wants his money.”
“I don’t have his money.”
“Then come explain that yourself.”
The back door banged open. Jack didn’t run. He walked over, took the man’s thumb and bent it until he dropped to his knees.
“Hands off my wife.”
“She’s not your—”
“She will be Friday. Tell Wade.”
That night I couldn’t stop shaking. Jack sat on the floor outside my locked door until sunrise.
I didn’t open it. But I sat with my back against the other side.
Friday, at the county clerk’s office, his cousin Tricia signed as our witness. She ran his motel, and she smiled like a knife.
“Eleven months in town and she lands the richest man in the county. Some women are fast.”
“Some women are worth it,” Jack said, and slid his grandmother’s ring onto my finger.
Saturday my mugshot was on the Port Ellery community page, posted by an account with no picture. By noon the Anchor was empty.
That afternoon I went into Jack’s office for a stamp. I found a contract instead.
Sterling Development retains Rourke Recovery LLC to locate Leah Sterling. Fee: $40,000. Signed by Wade. Signed by Jack.
Dated ten months ago.
He’d known the whole time. The ring, the house, the phone that stayed on. I wasn’t protected. I was being kept for delivery.
I left the ring on his desk. At the end of the drive, Tricia’s car was idling.
“Need a ride to the bus, honey?”
She drove me to a gas station off Route 1. A black SUV was waiting. Wade got out, smiling.
“Hello, Leah. Tricia, your five grand cleared.”
Tricia wouldn’t look at me.
“Get in,” Wade said. “You’ll sign a confession. Or nobody finds you until the tide does.”
Gravel cracked behind us. Jack’s truck. A deputy’s cruiser behind it.
My phone was still on in my pocket.
Jack held up his own phone and pressed play.
Wade’s voice filled the lot. “I don’t need her found, Rourke. I need her gone. Double the fee.”
Then Jack’s. “No. Don’t call this number again.”
“Nine months ago,” Jack told the deputy. “He called twelve more times. I recorded every one. Maine’s one-party consent.” He handed over an envelope. “His $40,000, returned. And my investigator’s license. I’m done being that man.”
Wade laughed. “It’s still her word. She took the money.”
I ripped open my coat lining and set the flash drive in the deputy’s palm.
“His real books. Every wire lands in his accounts.”
Wade’s face went gray. The deputy cuffed him against his own SUV.
Tricia edged toward her car.
“Your lease on my motel ends Monday,” Jack said. “Explain that post to the sheriff on your way out.”
Then it was just us, and the wind off the water.
“You knew for ten months.”
“I found you in a week. Watched you laugh at Earl’s bad jokes and count your tips twice.” His jaw worked. “I tore up my report. I kept the contract so I’d know who to bury if he came.”
“Why not tell me?”
“You’d have run. And I’d already decided I wasn’t letting you go.” He held out the ring. “That part was never a lie. But I’m asking now. You can say no.”
Two weeks later Boston dropped the warrant, and I took my maiden name back.
“Ask me again,” I told him. “With my real name.”
“Leah Moran.” His voice cracked on it. “Stay married to me.”
“Yes.”
He still knows where I am every minute. For the first time in my life, I want someone to.
