That done, she took a look around her study. None of the furniture mattered, but her books would definitely come with her. So would the desktop computer and, of course, her laptop. The boxes from when she'd moved in were downstairs in the closet beneath the stairs. She could start packing tonight and be gone by tomorrow. Her rent was paid through the end of the month, but she'd give Mrs. M. enough to cover an additional month to make up for her sudden departure.
She crossed the hall to her bedroom. There were no memories here. No lost loves, no hot nights of passion. She thought again of Raj. He'd be a passionate lover, there was no doubt of that. Memories of their few encounters still sent shivers through her bones and tightened her gut with longing. What would it have been like if they'd made love?
She closed her eyes and deliberately put the thought away. That was never going to happen. Unless she ran into him at a stop sign on her way out of town, she'd never see him again. Pain swelled in her chest at the thought and she rubbed it absently, surprised to find herself crying. “Don't be stupid, Sarah,” she scolded herself. “He's not even speaking to you."
She drew a deep, stabilizing breath. Clothes, she thought purposefully, marching over to the closet. All of her clothes would go. She didn't have that many, and couldn't afford to leave them behind, in any event. Not if she was going to be living on her savings for awhile.
She was standing there, staring around and wondering where to start, when the doorbell rang downstairs. She froze, listening, and jumped when her phone rang loudly in counterpoint to the persistent doorbell. She ignored the phone; whoever it was would go to voice mail. Instead, she moved quietly over to the window, wincing when the old hardwood floor creaked noisily beneath her feet. Lifting the corner of one of the towels she'd slung over the curtain rod, she saw a black van parked out front. It was a cargo-type van, with no windows, and there was something about it—a disheveled man emerged from the back, looking as if he'd been sleeping inside, or maybe living there. He slammed the double doors noisily and shuffled around to the side where he opened the big sliding door as well. The interior was surprisingly well lit and filled with equipment, some sort of . . . Sarah drew back in dismay. It was a press van and she knew now where she'd seen it before. It had been in front of the restaurant where'd she met Blackwood; she remembered it from her mad dash down the street.
Her heart sank as Blackwood's phony smile filled her thoughts. The press had been there the whole time. No wonder he'd planted himself so prominently in the front window, he'd wanted them to see her, to get pictures of the two of them together. He'd lied to her. Whether she agreed to work with him or not, he already had plans in motion to publicize the whole thing.
She cursed the sleazy con man, fighting off the panic that was trying to rear its ugly head. No sense in panicking. It was only one guy—her doorbell rang again and she heard someone shout down below. Okay, two guys. The man in the van looked up and shouted something back. It was most likely one of the tabloid newspapers, or maybe one of those entertainment magazines. They followed Blackwood's adventures closely, although she'd never been able to figure out why.
Okay. She could deal with this. She'd pack quickly, taking only what she needed for the next month or so. Most of her clothes, even her books would be safe here as long as she paid the rent. She could use the time to set up her new identity, find a new place to live and then when everything had calmed down, come back and get the rest of her stuff. That was a plan. Yes. She could definitely do that. She grabbed a suitcase from her closet and started packing.
Two hours later, the local press had arrived in force, not to be outdone by the tabloids when it came to a story about one of their own. They'd knocked repeatedly on her door until she thought their knuckles must be bleeding. They'd even questioned Mrs. M. next door, cameras rolling. Sarah had called and warned her, and her landlady had taken it all in stride, even seeming to enjoy the notoriety a bit.
Sarah thanked her landlady again and hung up, and then just for the hell of it, she checked her voice mail, deleting one message after the other, pretty much on the first syllable uttered. That ass Blackwood had called several times, offering the dubious safety of William Cowens's home as a refuge. How kind of him, Sarah thought viciously, considering he'd sicced the press jackals on her in the first place.
She went upstairs to continue packing, telling herself this whole thing would blow over quickly. Some other story would capture the tabloid's attention and they'd move on from Sarah and what was really not much of a story at all. She peeked out the window again. The anchor woman from the local news was down there, doing some sort of live feed. But the tabloid guys seemed to be packing their gear. It was supposed to be cold tonight, and besides, there was only so much coverage they could milk out of a locked and shuttered house. Once they were gone, she'd load a few things into her car and be gone before sunrise with no one the wiser.
This was not good. Sarah peeked out the upstairs window for the umpteenth time. This was definitely not good. Rather than giving up and going home once the sun went down, the crowd of reporters crowding her front lawn had only grown. Tears filled her eyes and threatened to spill over, but she brushed them away, just as she had ten minutes ago, and ten minutes before that. Crying wouldn't do a damn thing. She'd considered going out there and making a statement, but dismissed that idea almost immediately. She knew from past experience that the media's hunger only grew with feeding. And it was never sated, especially not in this day and age when there was no secret too personal, no detail too intimate, to be blared across the pages of papers, magazines and web sites, where they were sucked up in turn by a public who had wholeheartedly embraced the peoples’ right to know every damn thing.
A siren burst had her rushing back to the window. Red lights flashed as a police sedan arrived. About time, she thought furiously. All of those reporters and cameras had to be violating some regulation or other. Let the cops clear them out and she'd be right behind them, running as far and as fast as she could. A pounding started on her door downstairs, but she ignored it as she had all the others.
"Sarah Stratton,” a deep voice shouted. “Police. Open up."
Okay, well that was new. She hurried downstairs, taking the time to open one shutter enough to verify it was the cops. Okay, so it wasn't the cops; it was just one cop. Tony Scavetti. And what the hell was he doing here? “Open the door, Sarah!” He pounded again, shaking the cheap door in its frame, and she began disengaging the various locks while she still had a door to open.
Sarah stood in her front room facing down Scavetti who was angrier than he had any right to be. She hadn't asked for any of this. “Look,” he was saying. “This is bullshit. I want this media circus over now. I'm taking you into—"
"I'm not going anywhere,” she insisted, refusing to be bullied. She knew her rights. “If you want this to end, I suggest you start by getting rid of those clowns outside.” She stabbed a hard finger in the direction her overrun front yard. “I've done nothing wrong."
Scavetti took a step closer, intruding on her personal space, trying to threaten her with his greater height and bulk. “If I have to arrest you—"
"On what grounds?” Sarah demanded, getting right in his face. She'd spent her entire life being smaller than most everyone else. He'd have to come up with something a lot better than size if he wanted to intimidate her.
"Interfering with an ongoing investigation, withholding evidence, and—"
Sarah barked a laugh. “What evidence would that be, Tony?” she scoffed. “You want to tell the D.A. I've been keeping my dreams from you? What are you now, my shrink?"
Scavetti flushed angrily and opened his mouth to reply, but someone else had started pounding on her door. “Sarah,” a woman was shouting.
Sarah frowned. Her first instinct was to ignore it, just as she'd ignored all the ones before, but there was something familiar about the voice. She started toward the window closest to the door, but Scavetti got there first.
"Who the f**k is that?” Scavetti snarled.
Peering around him through the half open shutter, Sarah did a double take. It was the woman from the restaurant bathroom. The one who'd knocked her purse over. What the hell was she doing here?
As if she'd heard Sarah's unspoken question, the woman called urgently through the door, “Sarah, my name's Angel. I work for Raj. I want to help you. Let me in."
Sarah's heart did a little flip. Raj? But that meant he'd known about her meeting with Blackwood. Had he been spying on her all this time? Why would he do that unless . . .
"Sarah, please. Let me help you."
Sarah hurried over to the front door. If there was one person in this whole mess she trusted, she realized suddenly, it was Raj.
"What the hell are you doing?” Scavetti demanded. He reached for her, but Sarah snapped the locks open first, pulling the door open just enough to peek out cautiously. “How do I know Raj sent you?"