Page 71 of Coming Home

“Not a bit.” She grinned. “Because I have no plans of coming back here once I drop you off. Any excuse to try and beat the traffic.”

They left the office, climbing into Cindy’s Honda, and heading toward the airport. He asked her about her twin boys, who were eight, and who lived and breathed baseball. In turn, she asked him about his new life in Maple Cove, and he readily shared with her.

Just before they reached the airport, she said, “One of your old clients called not too long ago.”

A since of dread filled him. “It wasn’t Gerard McGreer, by any chance?”

“No, it was Sam Johnson. He said you had represented him before, and he was pretty disappointed that you had left the firm and the state. He went ahead and booked an appointment but stood us up. When I tried to call the number he left, it was a dead end.”

“You said Sam Johnson?” he couldn’t remember a client by that generic name, but then again, he had had hundreds of clients over the years. “I guess I’ve had too many clients. His name doesn’t ring any bells for me.”

Jackson told her he was flying Southwest, and Cindy pulled up at the terminal to let him out.

“Thanks again for the ride,” he told her. “Say hello to your family for me. And come see us sometime. The Oregon coast is beautiful.”

“I wish we could, but summer means baseball tournaments. That’s where my vacation days will go. Maybe someday.”

Jackson got out of the car and went into the terminal, claiming his boarding pass and getting through security with no problems. He walked to his gate and saw the flight was on time. Taking a seat, he decided to check in with Ainsley.

Then he changed his mind and called the office, their paralegal answering.

“Hey, it’s Jackson. Cindy mentioned to me that one of my old clients—a Sam Johnson—recently called and was looking for representation.”

“I remember her saying that. He was a no-show.”

“I don’t remember him, and it’s bothering me a little. Would you mind checking and seeing what charge I represented him on? That might jar a memory for me.”

“Give me a minute,” she said.

He heard her long fingernails clicking on the computer keyboard and then a pause.

“Hmm. I don’t see a record of a Sam Johnson. Is it possible you represented him when you were on the other side of the table? Maybe the DA’s office brought a case against someone, and he was the victim your office represented?”

“I don’t know,” he said guardedly. “Thanks anyway. It was good see you.”

“You, too, Jackson. Take care.”

He hung up, racking his brain, not able to recall a Sam Johnson, much less any case with a Johnson. He was usually good at names and had excellent recall of people he had represented. Why could he not remember this person?

It slammed into him, so hard that it seemed like a physical blow. Jackson couldn’t breathe.

Anthony Abbott.

He finally remembered where he had heard the name. And it wasn’t when Ainsley had mentioned she was baking a wedding cake for an Anthony Abbott. No, it was the name Gerard McGreer had thrown out when he was talking about changing his name after the trial.

Panic swelled within Jackson, choking him, making his hands tremble violently. It wasn’t a coincidence that Anthony Abbott had come to Buttercup Bakery. Jackson’s gut told him there was no such thing as coincidence. That a man of the same name had not miraculously appeared in the Cove, needing a wedding cake baked.

He tried to still his shaking hands as he called Ainsley. She was supposed to deliver the Abbott cake to Crescent Cove. He needed to stop her from doing so.

After three rings, her phone went to voice-mail. Looking at the time, she was either in Crescent Cove by now or should be on her way to Portland.

Fear seized him. he tried to calm himself as he dialed his brother-in-law’s number.

Dylan answered on the first ring. “Hey, Jackson. Still in L.A.?”

“You’ve got to find Ainsley for me,” he said tersely. “She’s in danger.”

“Tell me everything,” Dylan urged.

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