“So what does this mean?” Karen fiercely demanded. “Cam thought he had enough fuel to get to Salt Lake City, but didn’t? Somebody tampered with his fuel gauge?” Her fists were clenched, her knuckles white.
MaGuire’s face looked as if it had grown additional lines and wrinkles. “It means there’s a possibility the fuel tanks looked full when they weren’t.”
Bret closed his eyes. He looked sick. “The simplest way is to put a clear plastic airbag in the tank,” he told Karen. “Fill it with air, no one can see it, and the tank won’t hold as much fuel as it should. It isn’t complicated.”
“I told you!” she said, trembling with pent-up fury. “He must have had something in mind or he wouldn’t have called that day!”
“I think we should see if there are any security tapes,” MaGuire said briskly.
24
SETH HAD FILLED OUT THE REQUIRED PAPERWORK FOR becoming an employee of the Wingate Group, met his supervisor, was shown where to report, and given an employee badge. Grant Siebold had greased the way for him, he learned; he didn’t have to piss in a cup for a drug test the way every other new employee did. He assumed the “omission” would be discovered at a later date, after any drugs he’d smoked or swallowed would have had time to clear out of his system. He got the message, loud and clear: if he ignored this obvious warning and continued with his old ways, when his urine tested positive for drugs he’d be kicked out on his ass.
He’d have to do some online checking, see how long marijuana showed up in the system. Thank God, smoking a little weed was as deep as he’d waded in the drug pool; his preferred anesthesia was alcohol. But even that was off the table now.
Then he went shopping. He’d seen the dress code, even in the mail room: dark pants, white shirt, tie. The shoes could be lace-ups or loafers, but nothing resembling an athletic shoe. Black socks.
He had always despised the corporate drones and their boring dress code, but now he applied himself with a vengeance to looking just like them. A trip to Nordstrom’s, where he resisted the more stylish choices, accomplished that. On the way home he listened to his voice mail messages. Most of them were from people he’d partied with, wanting to know where he’d been last night. He didn’t return any of the calls. Tamzin’s he deleted without bothering to listen to them.
He remembered that he didn’t have any food at home, so he detoured to a grocery store. Again, what he bought was out of his norm, because he didn’t even go down the wine or beer aisles. Oatmeal. Cereal. Fruit. Orange juice. Milk. Coffee. His stomach turned flips at the thought of putting any of that in his mouth, but he knew he’d have to eat. Crackers and canned soup rounded out his planned menus.
Life as he’d known it was over. If he were to survive, he couldn’t afford any more wrong choices or irresponsible behavior. Bleakness filled him like a rainy day, stretching in an endless parade of weeks, months, years, that all looked exactly the same and promised not one minute of sunshine. So be it. He’d earned the grayness.
After he got home and had put the perishables in the refrigerator, he stripped off his clothes and lay down on the bed, hoping he could nap. The sleepless night he’d spent had left him exhausted, but he couldn’t go to sleep. Memories marched through his head like army ants.
He must have dozed eventually, because the ringing of the phone jarred him into a sitting position. Grabbing the phone, he focused blearily on the Caller ID. His pulse gave a leap when he recognized the number. He punched the talk button and said, “Bailey?” in a cautious, incredulous tone.
“Bailey!” Tamzin gave a tittering laugh. “Good God, wash your mouth out with soap!”
Fuck. Seth sat up and swung his legs over the side of the bed. “Tamzin. What are you doing at Bailey’s house?”
“This isn’t Bailey’s house,” she said viciously. “It was our mother’s house, and now it’s mine. You don’t need anything this big; I have a family and you don’t.”
“How did you get in?”
“You don’t think she changed the alarm code, do you? It’s still the same as it was when Dad was alive. And of course I have a key.”
There was no “of course” to it; Seth figured she’d light-fingered the key one day while she was visiting, probably even before their father died.
“Get your ass out of there,” he said flatly. “Legally Bailey is still alive, and you can’t touch anything.”
“What do you mean, legally she’s still alive? A death certificate hasn’t been issued yet?”
“Don’t you ever watch the news?” he snapped. “The crash site hasn’t been found yet. There’s no body. No body, no evidence of a crash, so no death certificate.”
“What’s taking so damn long, then? How long can it take to find an airplane? It isn’t as if it could have crashed in some farmer’s cornfield and he wouldn’t notice.”
The wave of dislike that swept over him was so strong that he had to bite the inside of his cheek to hold back what he wanted to say to her. He couldn’t let his temper get the best of him. He could never again say whatever popped into his head, without thought for the consequences. Instead he said, “If she isn’t dead, and she finds out you’ve made yourself at home in what she thinks of as her house, she’ll cut your fund disbursement down to twenty dollars a month. Trust me on this.”
There was a pause, then Tamzin asked in a radically altered tone, “You mean there’s really a possibility she could come back?”