Page 9 of Whispers of Redemption

Cassie shrugged. “We went to high school together, used to hang out with the same crowd. But we never really got along, mostly because of the reason you just said. He has a perpetually bad attitude. Not worth wasting my time over.”

Tami printed out the necessary paperwork and handed it to Cassie, who scanned the pages. “Looks like I’ll have to take one of the vans for this one.” Cassie pulled her cell phone out of her back pocket and checked the time. It was nearly four o’clock. “I’m glad Olga lives outside of town. At least I’ll be able to avoid some of the rush-hour traffic. Driving to the airport won’t be fun at this time of day, though.”

“Just be careful out there,” Tami said, as she always did.

Cassie went through the same door Brett had disappeared through, greeting people as she passed offices and the packaging area. She entered the small garage and walked to the far side of it, approaching a man working on a laptop at a standup desk. “Hey, Howard,” she said.

Tami’s husband, the other owner of PCS, looked up. “Hi, Cassie, how’s it going?

“Good! Is the standup desk helping with your back?”

He grimaced and rubbed subconsciously at his lower back. “I don’t know, maybe. Tami claims it will help. But I suspect she’s just secretly hoping it will make me move more so that I lose a little of this.” He patted his rounded belly, and Cassie laughed. “I suppose it’s better than me just sitting on my butt all day though, right? Anyway, back to business here. I got Tami’s van request for you. Brett just turned his in and says he’s done with it for the day, so you can use it. He offered to go fill up the tank, then it should be ready to go.”

“Really?” Cassie was surprised. “He offered to fill it up?”

“Yeah, well,” Howard said, “maybe he’s taking his last review to heart and trying to step it up a bit.”

“Hmmm,” she mused with suspicion. She wandered outside the garage and could see Brett pulling away from the gas station next door. He swung into the PCS drive, parked the van in front of Cassie, got out, and dangled the keys in front of her face. She made a grab for them and he jerked them back, then dangled them in front of her again.

Cassie rolled her eyes. “Grow up, Brett.”

“You first,” he said, then tossed the keys past her into the open window of the van. As he walked away, he called over his shoulder, “Watch your driving. You don’t want to destroy your precious record.”

She climbed into the van and adjusted the mirrors. Truly, the only negative of this entire job was working with Brett. He’d been hired about six months after her, and she still remembered how annoyed she’d been to see this reminder of her past come walking through the PCS door on his first day.

Back in high school, she’d hung out with a rough crowd that had included Brett. She’d made a lot of choices back then that she wasn’t proud of. Of course, she hadn’t had the best influences growing up, either. With a drug addict mother and no father in the picture, Cassie had become a product of the foster system at a very young age, and she’d already lived in multiple homes by the time she ended up in the same family as Ani Bolivar. She recalled her first impression of four-year-old Ani. She’d been a skinny little kid, and she was terrified. The love-starved child had latched on to Cassie, who’d seemed so much older and wiser. And Cassie had been keen to take on the role of her protector.

Their foster parents had been Devlin and Cora Myers. And in their home, love was a foreign concept. The Myers were verbally abusive alcoholics who fought all the time. They blew their monthly stipend for foster care to keep their supply of alcohol flowing. And while they were stingy with the basic necessities of life, like food and clothing, they had been generous with beatings.

Cassie did everything she could to protect Ani from the abuse of the Myers’. And Ani grew to adore Cassie. She imitated her and followed her everywhere. And Cassie came to view Ani as a true younger sister.

At that time, though, Cassie was far from a perfect role model herself. She acted out a lot. And she was always getting into trouble at school for fights and not showing up for classes. The one positive choice she made was that when many of her friends got into drugs, she refused. Because of her mother, Cassie vowed to herself never to touch the stuff.

But near the end of her freshman year, she discovered a high that was much more exciting than any drug.

Speed.

Cassie’s first boyfriend had been a junior, two years older than her. And he was a street racer. She helped him trick out his cars and discovered she had a knack for it. Through him, she learned to drive and then began racing. And she was good at it. She got a part-time job and bought a 1993 Mustang with a Fox platform. She gutted it and then used all her money for car parts.

Brett had been friends with her boyfriend and was part of the same local street racing crowd. It had always galled Brett that from her first pre-license race against him at the age of fourteen, she always beat him. In fact, it was clear he hated her for it. Trouble was, Brett never understood that it wasn’t just about the speed or the mods. There was a mental element to racing that he just never mastered.

Cassie snapped out of her reverie and checked the paperwork before plotting her route. She would drive to Olga’s first, then pick up the boxes from the print shop and drop them off at the marketing agency before completing Olga’s delivery. She drove through Whispering Pines’ small downtown and turned onto a side road that led out of the village. She passed a couple strip malls and then her favorite little coffee shop, Lakeside Latté. Glancing over, she noticed that its small parking lot was as full as ever. She turned the corner onto a dirt road that wound in sweeping curves for a few miles. Instead of the strip malls and small businesses that lined the roads closer to town, she now sped past thick, leafy oaks and maples that arched over the road, creating filtered patches of sunlight and shade.

Within a few moments, she was pulling into the circular gravel driveway of Olga Kozlovsky. Olga was a freelance art restoration specialist who’d moved to the area at about the same time Cassie began working for PCS. Olga’s home was situated on a multi-acre site near the edge of Whispering Pines State Park. Her home also served as her art studio, where she cleaned and restored damaged historic paintings. Olga relied on PCS to handle the delivery of and shipments to her many clients, including museums and private collectors around the world.

Cassie jumped out of the van and bounded up the front steps of the two-story Craftsmen-style home. Although she knew the door would likely be unlocked in anticipation of her arrival, she knocked and waited until she heard a male voice call out, “Come on in, Cassie!”

She stepped inside and was struck afresh at how distinctive the interior was. A staircase with a polished wooden banister sloped down to what would normally be the foyer. This, however, was transformed into a sort of reception office. Creamy travertine flooring ran beneath a large, dark wood desk scattered with papers and photos of artwork. Exposed wooden beams and window trim gleamed in the open floor plan beyond, and the eye was automatically drawn to the large stone fireplace at the opposite end of the room. She knew that Olga was likely working in the spacious, light-filled room off to the right of the great room. Hidden from sight right now by a half wall.

Cassie’s eyes moved back to the desk which faced the entrance. A tall man with close-cropped dark hair stood behind it. His back was toward Cassie, though, as he faced a painting on an easel behind the desk. He was holding up a camera and snapping photographs of the artwork from different angles, a strategically placed light bouncer aimed at one side of the piece.

“I’ll be with you in juuusst a sec,” he murmured, and took a few more shots before turning to face Cassie.

Zack Barrett was Olga’s assistant. He was a capable young man who handled all the administrative tasks involved with her work, including the important job of prepping packages for shipment. “She’s ready to start work on this one,” he said, sliding his glasses back up his nose and indicating the painting on the easel behind him.

Cassie knew from previous chats with Olga how important it was to document the quality of the artwork before, during, and after she completed her restoration work.

“Is your package ready?” Cassie asked.

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