Convicted (Consequences)

told her story to the attorneys in Iowa. The FBI had that account—he’d read the opening sentences. Suddenly, he wished he’d read more when he was with the FBI. Maybe, just maybe, this was some FBI set-up?
    Tony had no choice—he had to take the bait and turn on the phone. He couldn’t remember ever feeling so trapped. In their game of chess, he was in figurative check; however, he didn’t know for sure who’d put him there. Tony looked around the room for an outlet. Finding one, he plugged in the phone. While the small gadget came to life, he worked to still the mayhem in his head.
    What about the account? The last time he checked, he and Catherine had over 200 million dollars invested. What stipend had he been allowed to keep? Red seeped into his thoughts as he considered the possibilities. If the fuck’n FBI thought they could take away his life and his money, then they were sadly mistaken. He was going to get to the end of this, come hell or high water, and damnit, the last seventeen days had been hell!
    When the screen finally lit, Tony accessed the contacts. There were three. The first programmed number wasn’t associated with a name—it was an asterisk (*). The second was the name: Claire . The third was his name: Anthon y. He felt the muscles of his neck tighten. Was the information about Claire’s cell phone in that FBI report? The shit about the asterisks? Or was this Claire’s way of saying it was her? Claire’s way of saying, now I’ve done it to you, and didn’t he deserve it? Tony knew he did; nonetheless, he wouldn’t accept it willingly or play her damn games!
    The signal within the room was too poor to assure a connection. He refused to live in fear. If there was fuck’n teaching to do—he’d be the teacher. Slipping the phone into the pocket of his jacket, Tony collected the charger and the note. Channeling his business-self , he made his way to the front of the bank to learn the contents of his account.
     

     
    Claire thought daily about the items she’d left in the safety deposit box. Tony’s plane reportedly went down over two weeks ago. She never considered the possibility that he was truly injured; nevertheless, with each passing day, she felt the need to entertain the possibility. After all, if he were able, wouldn’t he be in Geneva accessing his fortune?
    There were times she worried that he had accessed the box and had chosen not to call. In her mind, she created all different scenarios for his decision. Claire knew, no matter what he decided—whether to call or not to call—his decision wouldn’t be based off his understanding or misunderstanding of her clues. She knew beyond a doubt—Anthony Rawlings was the only man who’d know what she was saying.
    He would know the correct number to call; however, she needed to entertain the possibility that he wasn’t the person who accessed the box. If that were the case, Claire had a back-up plan. She had cell phones associated with each number. The only phone she’d answer was the one identified by the asterisk. During their marriage, when Tony finally allowed her to own a cellular telephone, he programmed her contacts—the only calls she was permitted to answer—were those programmed with an asterisk preceding the name. No one else knew this part of their history; she hadn’t shared it with anyone—not even in her memoirs.
    If someone else discovered the safety deposit box, then they would more than likely call one of the numbers associated with a name. If that happened, if one of the other two phones rang, Claire decided she wouldn’t answer; instead, she’d destroy all three international disposable phones and focus on her future.
     
     
    She’d spent the morning in the gardens with Francis. The fertility of the soil, combined with the sun and rain, produced yields Claire could never have imagined in Iowa or Indiana. After a cooling swim in the pool, a shower, and lunch, Claire was spending her afternoon relaxing on her bed and reading a book. The tranquility of the sea breeze and the sound of the surf had her in a near hypnotic state. An afternoon nap was growing nearer as the words of her book lost focus and her eyelids fought to remain open.
    The ring to her untraceable international phone made her jump, evaporating the tropical serenity. It was the correct phone—the one linked to the asterisk. Although she was apprehensive about his initial reaction, she had no option. Claire wanted to answer—it