of copping out? If his man failed would Colby be off the hook for making such a claim so hastily?
Willow closed her eyes and fought the vertigo of fear and confusion. She had to stop this. She had to focus.
She opened her eyes and watched through the tiny hole as the man who had identified himself as Spencer Anders reached into his hip pocket and withdrew a wallet. When he held a Louisiana driver’s license up for her to see she confirmed that his name was indeed Spencer Anders.
“Why do you have a Louisiana driver’s license?” Relevant or not she wanted to know. Louisiana was an awfully long way from Illinois. If he was a licensed P.I. in Illinois, wouldn’t he need to be a resident of this state? Too many questions that just didn’t matter. She was borrowing trouble and putting off the inevitable.
“I’m new to Chicago.” He slid the license back into his wallet, then tucked the wallet into his pocket once more. “Look, Ms. Harris, if you’re uncomfortable speaking to me in your room, I’ll wait for you in the coffee shop down the block.”
Maybe she should call Jim Colby and confirm that he’d sent this man.
“We’ve worked out the strategy for recovering your son,” Anders said, drawing her attention back to him. “If you’re still interested in hearing the details, I’ll be waiting in the coffee shop. Take a left at the motel entrance and you can’t miss it.”
… recovering your son…
Willow wrenched the door open when he started to walk away. “Wait.”
He hesitated a moment before turning to face her. A new trickle of trepidation slithered down her spine. Stop it, she ordered. This man was here to help her. Getting off on the wrong foot wouldn’t be productive.
He faced her and only then did she actually look at him closely enough to absorb the details. Dark hair, really dark. Gray eyes. Tired eyes. His expression wasn’t precisely grim, but the lines and angles of his face spoke of having seen more unpleasantness than any one human was built to take. Just like his employer.
His height, six-one at least, put her off just a little. At five-two, she found that almost everyone was taller than her. Perhaps it was the broad shoulders that went along with the towering height, coupled with the grim face that unsettled her just a little. No, she decided, it was the eyes. Somber. Weary. The eyes looked way older than the thirty-one or -two he appeared to be. And yet there was a keen alertness staring out at her from those solemn depths.
What she saw or didn’t see was of no consequence. He was here. He had a plan. That was the whole point… the only point.
“Come in.” She squared her shoulders and told herself to get past the hesitation. All this attempting to read between the lines was making her paranoid. She’d never met Davenport’s man, the one who’d probably lost his life while getting close to her son. For all she knew he might have been far more intimidating than this man.
Willow moved away from the door to allow Anders entrance. After coming inside he closed the door, but remained standing directly in front of it.
Taking a deep, steadying breath, she opened the conversation. The next move was clearly hers. “Thank you for coming, Mr. Anders.” That was a mega understatement, but it would suffice. She could thank him properly when he’d gotten her son back.
“I have a few questions for you, Ms. Harris.” He reached into an interior pocket of his leather jacket. “The information you provided was helpful, but I need more details to round out our strategy.”
Jim Colby had asked her to make a list of the events that had led up to her decision to ask for a divorce from her husband, as well as anything she could think of related to him or his family that might be useful in the coming task. She’d spent an hour coming up with as many details as she could call to mind. Mr. Colby had obviously passed her list along to Mr. Anders.
Might as well get comfortable. If this went anything like her interviews with previous investigators, it would take some time.
“Please.” She indicated the chair next to the small table positioned in front of the window. “Sit.” She perched on the edge of the bed and tugged at the hem of her skirt to ensure it stayed close to her knees where it belonged. She cleared her mind of any static prompted by worry or anxiety as she clasped her hands in her lap and waited for him to begin. Listening carefully was essential in understanding the details.
As he took the seat she’d offered, she focused on the man in an effort to get a fix on him. First, she considered the way he dressed. The leather bomber jacket was brown and had the worn appearance of being a favorite. The blue jeans were equally faded and obviously a favored wardrobe selection as well. The black V-neck sweater he wore beneath the jacket was layered on top of a white T-shirt, both of which looked new. If she had to assess him solely on his overall appearance she would conclude that he was a nice man with a lot of painful history.
Willow abruptly wondered if he came to the same conclusion about her. Nice, with a heavy load of hurt slung around her neck like a millstone.
“Did you sign any kind of legal documents when you married Mr. al-Shimmari? A prenuptial agreement or other binding arrangement? Anything at all besides a marriage license?”
Willow regarded his question carefully before shaking her head. There had been essentially no paperwork involved. “Nothing. I know it sounds strange now, but we really were in love. Or, at least, I was. I had no money, other than my salary and a few small investments, and he didn’t appear worried that I would attempt to steal any of his.” She’d already been down this road with her attorney during the divorce proceedings. There was nothing to be gained by rehashing it, but she kept that to herself. She needed to give this man a chance.
“Did he or his family pressure you to convert to the ways of Islam?”
A frown tugged at her forehead, the tension somehow reaching all the way to the base of her skull. This was one she hadn’t been asked before. “No. Not really. It was suggested a couple of times, but he knew I wasn’t going to convert when we married. We talked about that. He didn’t have a problem with my decision.”
Spencer Anders leaned forward and braced his elbows on his knees. “Ms. Harris, do you know if your ex-husband was Sunni or Shia?”
She wasn’t sure where he was going with this. “Sunni.” His hands kept distracting her. They hung between his spread thighs, relaxed but infinitely dangerous-looking. A person’s hands said a lot about them. She’d always been fascinated by hands. She blinked, forced her eyes to meet his and her brain to get back on track. “Why?”
Those gray eyes searched hers as if he needed to be sure she didn’t already know the answer he was about to give her. What was it he thought he knew that she didn’t? Apprehension started its dreaded rise once more.
“According to the laws of his country and his religion, he could marry you without consequence. He could have children with you and retain full custody in the event you divorced—under one condition.”
She’d learned about that law the hard way. Her attorney hadn’t been able to find any exceptions or conditions. “What condition?” If what he was about to tell her impacted his ability to help her get her son back… maybe she didn’t want to know.
“That you didn’t convert. A non-Muslim woman cannot be granted custody of any child, girl or boy, when divorcing a Muslim man. You didn’t need a pre-nup because as a non-Muslim you weren’t entitled to any property or money. That’s the law, Ms. Harris. You never had a leg to stand on.”
He was right. This part was definitely no surprise to her. “I found that out too late.” She should have been smarter. But she’d been in love. The idea that Khaled had urged her to retain her own beliefs for underhanded purposes sent fury roaring through her even now. He’d insisted that he was perfectly happy without her bothering with conversion. She’d considered his understanding an act of love and trust. Lies. All of it. His assurances had all been for one thing alone—to guarantee he couldn’t