But what dirty secrets was Vero hiding?
The scent of brewing coffee drifted up from the kitchen. I slipped the photo album back in its place. I hadn’t found anything about this mysterious marker Delia claimed Vero had lost, and yet I felt like I had learned more than I was entitled to.
When I crept downstairs, Vero was still fast asleep on the couch. Careful not to rouse her, I drew a warm blanket over her and switched off the lamp. Her laptop awoke on the coffee table, casting a pale blue glow over her sleeping face as a notification popped up on the screen. I angled the laptop toward me. The page was opened to the mail program I’d used to set up the account on the forum, on a message Vero must have sent to FedUp while I’d been out with Nick.
Dear FedUp, It’s very important that I speak with you. Can we meet for coffee? I promise to be discreet.—Anonymous2
A response had appeared below it.
Dear Anonymous2, I’m sorry. I really don’t have time right now. I thought I made it clear, I prefer to chat after the holiday. Please contact me then. Sincerely, FedUp
In Vero’s defense, I hadn’t expressly told her not to email FedUp. And there hadn’t anything too incriminating in the message itself. FedUp obviously wasn’t willing to talk until the job was done, but at least Vero had tried.
I checked the locks on the front door on my way to the kitchen. Then I fixed myself a cup of coffee strong enough to raise the dead. I had eight hours until morning. Eight hours to start drafting a sample of my story. Eight hours to figure out how to delete my posts from the forum and what to do with Carl. And maybe, if I was lucky, a few precious hours to sleep.
I retreated to my office, opened my laptop, and started typing. About the defense lawyer who’d disappeared without a trace. About the assassin who’d lost her mark and evaded capture. About the only friend in the world she could trust to help her, a woman with too many secrets of her own. About a star witness to a murder who’d mysteriously gone missing—a woman who could put the heroine in prison for life—and a cop from her past, who was determined to find her.
CHAPTER 25
Irina Borovkov wasn’t an easy woman to find. I had only ever met Irina in two places: Panera and her fitness club. When I’d asked the receptionist at the health club if Irina was in, she’d informed me Irina didn’t usually come on Sundays. And I didn’t take Irina Borovkov for the type of woman who’d hang out in a crowded sandwich shop. At least, not without a compelling reason, like murder for hire.
So I’d called the only other place I could think to try: the front desk of the extravagant high-rise address she’d written on the slip of paper she’d given me when she’d asked me to kill her husband. The bellman who answered had placed me on hold for a discomforting length of time, then returned with instructions to proceed to this address.
A few heads turned behind the pristine glass walls of the showroom as my minivan rolled onto the international car lot. The rattle in my engine had grown more pronounced during the short drive, and I wasn’t sure if it was the grinding noise or the filthy, frumpy appearance of the thing that had attracted their disdainful attention. I eased into an empty space between two sleek sports cars that, even used, were probably worth more than the bounty on my ex-husband. Careful not to bump their doors with my own, I angled clumsily out of my van and headed for the showroom.
A man in a tailored suit stepped in my path as I reached the sidewalk. His mouth pursed, the shape growing increasingly sour as he made a slow perusal of my gym clothes. “May I help you?” His smile was doubtful.
“I’m meeting someone here. I’ll just wait inside.” I moved to step around him.
“Perhaps you’d be more comfortable waiting in your vehicle.” I jerked my hand back as he reached for my arm, clearly intending to steer me away. “The showroom is for customers only.”
“She is a customer, Alan. She’s with me.” We both turned at the sound of the woman’s voice. In a pair of burgundy stilettos, Irina Borovkov stood eye to eye with him, the collar of her fur coat ruffling with the breeze. She scraped a strand of her dark hair from the corner of her deep red lips with a perfectly manicured fingernail. Alan’s throat bobbed against his collar, his neck reddening to match his tie.
“Of course, Mrs. Borovkov. My apologies,” he stammered.
“Be a dear and fetch me the keys to the Spider. My friend and I will be taking it for a test drive.”
“Right away. The silver one has just been waxed. I’ll have it brought around.”