“Wow,” Christine said. “That’s definitely Avery Mason-esque. But . . . I mean, it’s been twenty years. How has an ER doctor and her best friend, a financial adviser, managed to keep this quiet for so long? And how did they pull it off in the first place? Where would Victoria Ford be hiding for twenty years?”

“I haven’t figured that out yet, but that’s where I need your help.” Avery smiled at Christine. “You didn’t have plans for the Fourth of July, did you?”

“I work for Avery Mason and American Events,” Christine said. “My personal life always comes last.”

“I can’t tell if you’re saying that proudly or with a chip on your shoulder.”

“Little bit of both. Tell me what you need. I’ll do my best.”

CHAPTER 45 - Manhattan, NY Sunday, July 4, 2021

CHAPTER 45

Manhattan, NY Sunday, July 4, 2021

WALT WAS PERSPIRING AND THE FLOW OF BLOOD THROUGH HIS throbbing carotid was audible inside his head as he walked through the front entrance of the Lowell Hotel on Sunday evening. He carried with him the cardboard box Scott Sherwood had fished from the cobwebbed corners of the BCI evidence room. The front desk clerk smiled as Walt checked in. The woman called up to Avery’s room to let her know she had a guest. The clerk nodded her go-ahead, and Walt headed toward the elevator. He stopped at a dispenser to gulp down a glass of iced lemon water, noticing his hand’s tremor as he lifted the glass to his mouth. He was either out of practice as a surveillance agent for the FBI, or he knew somewhere inside that what he was about to do was wrong.

In the elevator he pressed the button for the eighth floor. The silver doors closed and reflected his image back at him. He noticed his forehead was covered with beads of sweat and felt his shirt stick to his back. Just prior to the doors opening, he wiped his forehead with his sleeve. He exited the elevator and walked down the hallway, stopping at room number 821. As he knocked, he remembered the question he had posed to Jim Oliver on Friday night. On what pretense would I end up in her hotel room?

And now, here he was, the day after they’d slept together, standing outside her room with ill intentions of recording her private conversations. He wiped his forehead one more time, patted the breast pocket of his button-down to feel the small, flat, brushed metal box Jim Oliver had left for him. The door opened and Walt lowered his hand from his pocket.

“Hey,” Avery said.

Walt swallowed hard. “Hey.”

An ear-piercing concussion of silence followed their high-school-type greeting.

“I, uh, missed you this morning,” Walt finally said. “Sorry if I was comatose.”

“No,” Avery said, shaking her head. “I snuck out.”

“Oh. Okay.”

“I needed a jog.”

“Yeah. Makes sense. I’m just glad, you know . . . everything’s okay.”