“It’s a new account. And it’s your company. His name isn’t on it.” Vero shrugged as she poured herself a glass of wine. “By the time he realizes the bills have been paid, your book will be done.”
“What book?”
“The one you’ve been working on at night.” She took a long sip. “It’s good, by the way.”
“What do you mean, it’s good? How could you possibly know it’s good?”
“And who’s Julian Baker?” She waggled an eyebrow.
“Were you snooping on my computer?”
“You left your browser open on his Instagram page.” She smirked at me over the rim of her glass. “He’s hot.”
“Who’s hot?” Delia asked.
“No one.” I glared at Vero as I shook a mountain of parmesan onto my plate and slammed down the can. The muted TV flickered in the living room, set to the local news station. Vero’s eyes darted to the ticker as she ate. “He’s just a friend,” I muttered into my plate.
“A little young, isn’t he?” Vero asked.
I stabbed at my pasta. “I’m thirty-one. It’s not like I’ve got one foot in the grave.”
“Last I saw, you had two.”
I kicked her under the table.
“How about Andrei Borovkov? What’s his story?”
I stopped chewing. I hadn’t mentioned anything to Vero about Patricia’s rich friend or the seventy-five-thousand-dollar promissory note I’d tucked in my desk drawer. “How do you know about that?”
Vero dropped her garlic bread, her wide eyes focused on the TV behind me. Her chair screeched as she lunged to the counter for the remote and turned up the sound. My stomach took a nosedive when I turned and saw the familiar faces on the screen.
According to police, an Arlington husband and wife have gone missing in two separate incidents, causing investigators to consider the likelihood of foul play. Patricia Mickler contacted her local sheriff’s office at approximately seven o’clock Wednesday night to report her husband, Harris Mickler, missing, saying she hadn’t heard from him since he’d left work the night before. But when police arrived at her home to take her statement, Mrs. Mickler didn’t answer the door. Police say they grew concerned after they made several attempts to reach her by phone, and more than one unanswered visit to her home. Tonight, police are launching an investigation into the couple’s whereabouts.
The camera cut away to the Micklers’ street, where neighbors all seemed to be saying the same thing. No, they hadn’t noticed anything strange. No, the Micklers were perfectly ordinary, a quiet couple, no children or pets. They both worked long hours at respectable jobs and had never caused any trouble.
Vero was still gripping my arm when the news anchor cut to a commercial break.
“Mommy, can I be excused?” Delia pushed her half-eaten bowl away, a deep wrinkle in her nose.
“Yeah, sweetie,” I said in a hollow voice. “Go wash your hands. You can play in your room.”
As soon as Delia was up the stairs, Vero turned to me. “What do we do?”
This was not a plot twist I had planned on. “We are not going to panic,” I insisted. Who was I kidding? We were definitely panicking.
“Where the hell is she?”
“Patricia? She probably got scared and left town.”
“It makes her look guilty!” Zach’s sauce-covered face snapped up at her outburst. His eyes ping-ponged between us and Vero lowered her voice. “If the police find her, she could confess everything.” She swiped my cell phone from the counter and held it out to me. “Call her and tell her she’s making a mistake. She needs to come back.”
“I’ve called her a dozen times. She wouldn’t answer my calls, so I went to her house—”
“Are you crazy?”
“No one saw me.” At least, I hoped not. I swallowed hard, remembering the knife protruding from Patricia’s back door. “But … while I was there, two men showed up.”
“What men?”
“I don’t know. But I think they might have been the men Patricia warned me about. They left a note. I think they might have been Harris’s clients. I think he was stealing from them. When I opened his mail, I found a bank statement—”
“You opened his mail? Your fingerprints are probably all over the envelope!”
I reached inside my pocket and put the bank statement on the table. “It’s fine. I took it with me.”