“I’d say you could chalk this up to a fortunate escape.”
“You don’t have to tell me twice.”
She kept an easy conversation with him, and another with the group mid-bar, filled orders, watched the floor.
“You know,” Liam said to her when she worked her way down to him again, “I did the backbar thing one school break.”
“Did you?”
“Law of the Jameson Land. You put time in, in every capacity, so you know how everything runs. Or should. I’m pretty sure I sucked at it.”
“I doubt that.”
“I couldn’t do what you do. I’m sitting here watching you do it, and can’t figure out how you do it.”
She leaned toward him. “I can’t ski.”
“I could fix that next season.”
“You will never have the chance. Weird boots stuck to a couple of skinny boards, a hill of snow? Hard pass.”
“Now you’ve made it a challenge.” He stood, laid some cash on the bar. “I love a challenge. See you later.”
“Have a good night.”
Right before closing, Opal marched up to the bar. “Tomorrow, half hour before shift.”
“All right. Let’s meet in the wine cellar. It’s private.”
“Fine.”
Really angry, Morgan noted. But at least—hopefully—she’d soon find out why.
* * *
She arranged her day to make the morning meeting with enough time to swing into Crafty Arts for an early look at the photos for a show her ladies had booked for the weekend. Before she left, she brought in the mail and sorted it into piles.
Though she assumed she’d find a solicitation from the one addressed to her from a credit card company, she opened it and prepared to toss it into the recycling bin.
Then stood, stared as her skin ran cold, then hot.
Three thousand, two-hundred eighty-six dollars and twenty-eight cents. On a card she didn’t possess for purchases she hadn’t made, in two stores in New Orleans, where she’d never been.
Everything inside her began to shake. Her throat slammed shut; her lungs shut down. For a terrible moment, her vision went gray. She didn’t feel herself sliding, but ended up on the kitchen floor, clutching the bill, while her ears rang.
She clawed her way up, stumbled over to the sink, leaning over it until the nausea passed enough for her to splash cold water on her face.
Still trembling, she managed to get to a counter stool and sit. Then just lowered her head to the counter until she could breathe again, could think again.
Pulling out her phone, she scrolled through her contacts, called Special Agent Beck.
“He’s—he’s in New Orleans. Or he was.”
“Morgan.”
“I—he—got another credit card in my name. Morgan Nash Albright. He used my middle name with it this time. I got the bill in the mail. Over—over three thousand dollars.”
“Morgan, I need you to stay calm.”
“I can’t.”
“Stay calm. I want you to text me the bill. Take a photo with your phone and text it to me. We’re going to send someone to pick up the hard copy from you, so don’t destroy it. But text me a copy. Can you do that?”
“Yes.”
“Are you taking the precautions we discussed?”
“Yes.”
“Good. Morgan, I know this is upsetting.”
“Upsetting.” She had to press a hand to her mouth to muffle a quick, hysterical laugh.
“But I want you to hear me. This is another mistake. He’s telegraphed where he is, or more likely was. He’s given us a way to track him.”
“Do you think he’s coming here?”
“He knew you’d get this bill, and he’d know when you’d get it, within a day or two of when. It wouldn’t make sense for him to come there now. He wants you to be afraid, upset, confused. He needs to believe he’s in the front of your mind.”
She closed her eyes. “The way I am in his. That’s what you’re not saying.”
“If you are, it’s causing him to make these mistakes, take these unnecessary risks. We can come to you if you need us to.”
“No, no. Find him.”
“We’re working on it. I promise you. Send me the text.”
“All right. I’ll send it now. I—I have to go to work soon. If someone’s coming to get this bill, they need to come to my work.”
“We’ll arrange that. If we have any new information, we’ll be in touch. That’s another promise.”