But if she could find out the truth—through Julie—and help both women at once...
“Santa Raquel is our home. Julie loves it here. We’re living in an ancestral home that’s been in the Fairbanks family for more than a hundred years. She doesn’t want to leave. And neither could she bear the idea of being looked on with either scorn or pity from members of our social circle. Some of the kids knew she hooked up that night. The story that went around was the breakup soon afterward was mutual.”
“Surely people know...”
“No one knows. That was part of the deal we struck,” Colin said. “If anyone from either side speaks of the incident, the other side has means for pressing charges...”
“Which is why you aren’t telling me who it was.”
“That. And because the details aren’t mine to tell. I just needed you to understand how important this is.”
To know that his sister wasn’t on the verge of crazy.
“So, this other incident Julie mentioned today—the one where she thinks there’s a possible link—was there suspicion of another rape?” If it was Leslie Morrison they were talking about, that answer would be no.
And the abuser wouldn’t be the same, either, as Julie’s rapist would have been someone close to her own age. Which completely ruled out James Morrison.
“No. It really was nothing. Even Julie realizes that.” Colin, thank God, was keeping to his corner of the rounded booth they were sharing.
“Is she just being paranoid, then? Thinking she’s being looked at because of it? You didn’t seem to buy in to her theory that Patricia Reynolds is spying on her.” Purposely choosing Julie’s word—spying—because she didn’t know how Chantel Johnson would ask the question, she took a sip of her wine.
His frown made him look...studious. Dependable and trustworthy and...
He was a subject. Not a man for her to find likable. And more.
“With good reason, Julie doesn’t trust many people. She’s suspicious because she’s been taught she has to be.”
“But you know the truth. The facts. You were there, too. And you don’t think Patricia Reynolds is spying on her.”
“I don’t.”
Chantel Johnson nodded. Chantel Harris wasn’t so sure Colin was right.
Still, for now, until she had more than gut to go on, her report to the commissioner was going to be nice and clean. And her first piece of meat was done.
But her fact-finding had only just begun.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
AS FATE WOULD have it, Colin didn’t kiss Chantel Johnson Saturday night. He didn’t even finish the dessert they’d ordered. He’d had a call—one he couldn’t not take—and had to take his date home and go to work. At ten o’clock on a Saturday night.
A billion-dollar business deal that one of his clients had been trying to put together in Japan was on the brink of being waylaid, and Colin had had to pack a bag and hop on a chartered jet to Asia. Signed deal in hand, he returned to the United States, along with a very happy client, early Monday morning. Exhausted, disoriented and eager for a shower.
Before bed, though, he was going to call Chantel.
He’d texted her from Japan.
She hadn’t responded.
On the plane, on the way home, with a good internet connection and his mind not staying as focused as he wanted, he did some surfing. Because he was uncomfortable. Afraid he was getting in too deep. How did he know whether or not Chantel Johnson was really who she said she was?
So, right, her invitation to the auction Thursday night was a pretty good determiner. Due to the value of the property being auctioned, the guest list had been exclusive. She wouldn’t have been in the room if she hadn’t been carefully vetted.
Feeling a bit dirty, like someone Smyth might like, he searched public records for Johnsons in New York. And found seven Chantels. Two of which fit her age group. Making note of their latest known addresses, he went to a map website, one that he’d used before. It gave him bird’s-eye views of the neighborhoods. One of the two was upscale.
As was the case with a lot of people of substantial wealth, there was little else to find. At least for someone with his limited access.
And he was ashamed of himself. Hated the idea that Chantel could ever know he’d done such a thing. Turning off his tablet, he closed his eyes. Told himself to rest. And half an hour later he had it back on again.
Searching for a New York boutique publisher by the name of Johnson.
When it took all of two minutes to find it and find out that a Pamela Johnson was CEO, Colin wiped out his search history, turned off the tablet and put it away. He’d guess her mother’s name was Pamela.