A Stranger's Touch -- Wattys2015

Chapter Eight

She woke with a start.

Reassuring herself he was next to her, she reached to her side.

The bed sheet was cool underneath her palm, not even a trace of him lingered. And nothing felt remotely fine.

And the black notebook was propped up on her nightstand, a handwritten note stuck to the cover.

She picked up the note, read it. Read it again. And again because it wasn't making any sense. Underneath a phone number, he had scrawled, Call Simon Parker and tell him everything. You can trust him.

P.S. Don't burn down the house.

P.P.S. You look cute asleep.

The note fluttered from her fingers as she got out of bed.

Stepping in front of the dresser mirror, she pulled her hair away from her face into a small ponytail and secured it with an elastic. Her dark eyes seemed huge and she critically observed the dark circles, the fine net of wrinkles etched into the skin underneath her eyes.

It didn't matter that Ben had left her, taking with him all the warmth and joy she'd felt when she had fallen asleep in his arms. He'd left her alone to deal with her confused feelings, with the budding hope he was also feeling a connection that went beyond sex.

And he'd left her alone to deal with the book.

Simon Parker, she thought. The name was familiar... The DEA guy from the website. Quickly she booted her computer and loaded the bookmarked site. She wanted answers and they were just a phone call away.

She picked up the note from the floor, grabbed her cell phone, punched the string of numbers before she changed her mind. Drumming her fingertips on the closed book, she heard a brisk "Parker, how can I help?"

"This is Liz Walker," she rushed out. "And I have information about Ben Chase and about a certain notebook. In fact," she closed her fingers around the worn leather binding, "I'm holding the book in my hand."

Dead silence greeted her on the other line then she heard something clatter in the background as if a chair had toppled over. She allowed herself a small smile, wondering if they had started tracking her phone to locate her, like they did in the movies.

Then she heard someone let out a long breath. "Ms. Walker, please call me Simon, and do exactly as she say. Don't move away from your phone, stay on the line and tell me again what you hold in your hand."

Despite everything, she laughed. "Simon," she said, "call me Liz. I am in the possession of Mr. Fuentes' notebook."

"If this is the case," he answered, "I will be your best friend for the rest of your life."

* * * * *

Exactly sixteen minutes later, she opened the door for Simon Parker and a SWAT team.

They swarmed her place without regard for her personal space, without showing her a search warrant, without even sparing her a glance, except for one wiry man dressed in dark slacks and a crisp gray shirt with rolled-up cuffs.

It had been easy spotting Simon, who was the only one not wearing black or carrying a gun and because he greeted her with the words, "The book."

"Why the National Guard?" she replied, but gave him what he asked for.

He carefully leafed through it, and it was as if a weight dropped from his shoulders, the sharp furrows on his forehead suddenly smooth. He barked out a genuine-sounding laugh—which lasted about three seconds—then he yelled at someone named Drake and dropped the book inside a plastic bag.