“You deal with identity theft in your
company, don’t you, Kyle?” Lindsey asked, pressing her cell phone to her ear.
“Sure. Why?”
“It’s my father. I found at least two dozen letters from collection agencies in his desk.”
“Does your father have debt?”
“My father’s a miser when it comes to money. I don’t think he’s ever had debt.” She knew she shouldn’t be dragging Kyle into this, but she didn’t know who else to turn to. “I’m sorry to dump all this on you. I’m sure you didn’t have this conversation in mind when you called.”
“I was thinking of something more along the lines of asking you to dinner, actually.”
Lindsey smiled. “Dinner would be nice. I—“
She was interrupted by the violent sound of shattering glass. She jumped up from the table and spun around. The metal handle on the back door shook. Someone was breaking in.
LISA HARRIS
Currently, Lisa and her husband, along with their three children, are working in Mozambique as church planters. She speaks French and is fervently working to improve her Portuguese. Life is busy between ministry and homeschooling, but she loves her time to escape into another world and write, and sees this work as an extension of her ministry.
Besides writing, Lisa loves to travel. She and her husband have visited more than twenty countries throughout Europe, Africa, South America and the Far East, and have lived in Togo, France, South Africa, Brazil and currently Mozambique. One of her favorite pastimes is learning to cook different exotic dishes from around the world. Be sure to check out her Web site at www.lisaharriswrites.com or her blog at myblogintheheartofafrica.blogspot.com for a peek into her life in the heart of Africa.
Lisa Harris
Final Deposit
Published by Steeple Hill Books™
In Him we have redemption through His blood, the forgiveness of sins, in accordance with the riches of God’s grace.
—Ephesians, 1:7
This book is dedicated to Mema. I miss you.
CONTENTS
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
PROLOGUE
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
DISCUSSION QUESTIONS
Acknowledgments
The past year has been a roller coaster of adventure, from the tropical paradise of northern South Africa to the busy rush of a Brazilian city, and now the white beaches of Mozambique. Thankfully, none of my adventures have been quite as perilous as they were for my hero and heroine. Through all these changes, I never could have kept on writing if it weren’t for my wonderful and supportive husband and kids, my awesome critique group and members of my extended family, who are always there with an encouraging word when times get crazy. And believe me, it’s been crazy!
Thanks also to my agent, Joyce, for always cheering me on, my editor, Krista, for believing in this story, and for Louise, who did a great job—and fairly painlessly, I might add—in helping me edit this story.
PROLOGUE
Whoever said that love of money was the root of all evil had never experienced the financial benefits of working a long con.
Leaning against the light post outside his London flat, Abraham Omah nodded at the familiar face of a woman as she jogged past, iPod on her arm, Windbreaker zipped up to block the April chill. She smiled at him as he took a drag off his cigarette, and then flicked the ashes onto the sidewalk. She was definitely worth pursuing, but she’d have to be a prize for another day. He had more pressing things to consider at the moment.
His lips curled into a grin at the thought of George Taylor. Contact with Mr. Taylor had grown into daily online chats, e-mails and even an occasional phone call charged to the American’s bill. It continued to amaze him how trusting people could be. Throw out the tempting lure of easy money and watch the gullible jump headfirst into the game.
He couldn’t help but chuckle. Anyone that naive deserved what they got.
A taxi driver blared his horn as he sped down the narrow roadway congested with other cars, buses and bikers. Abraham tossed his cigarette onto the sidewalk and then sprinted up the flight of stairs to the two-bedroom flat. He loved the noise of the city, the heavy scent of exhaust from the morning rush hour that mingled with a hint of curry from the Indian restaurant across the street, and even the unpredictable spring weather. He’d come a long way from the slums of north London where he’d grown up.
He slammed the front door shut, then settled in at his computer with a cup of hot coffee and a slice of leftover pizza. The way things were progressing with Mr. Taylor, he’d soon be able to invite Miss iPod to dinner at the Crowne Plaza to celebrate. He clicked open his e-mail, anxious to read Mr. Taylor’s response to his latest request, this one for seven thousand dollars to be wired to Abraham’s account to cover the remaining transfer fees the bank had imposed. A final payment, he promised.
He scanned his in-box.
Nothing.
Abraham frowned. Normally George Taylor was prompt in his replies. If he’d decided to pull out…
Abraham gripped the edges of the keyboard and fought to stop a wave of panic. No. He would stay calm and wait—years of training had taught him that. It took months to gain people’s trust so that they were willing to mortgage their
