She follows me inside and we work through the dirty dishes and put away the leftovers. Mr. Smith told me why she’s here, but she’s too good an asset to waste as a reminder. And now that she riffled through my stuff, I know she’s got an active role; she’s not just one who observes. I decide to go on the offensive.
“Have you gotten your next set of instructions or are you still checking your mailbox every day?” My tone is conversational, and from the way the plate slips through her fingers into the sink, I know I’ve caught her off guard.
But she recovers quickly. Confusion plays across her face when she says, “Instructions?”
“I don’t expect you to answer. But I do expect you to pass along that I’m here to do my job and I don’t appreciate any interference.” Her body language tells me she’s genuinely surprised by my words, so I’m guessing she didn’t know we share a boss. I lean a little closer. “We have more in common than you know.”
The disbelief on her face is still there, but it’s more controlled now. “I’m sorry, I really don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“The Sheetz on North Van Buren in Eden—what’s the name of the side street?”
Her mouth opens slightly but no words come out.
“It’s East Stadium Drive. Same road that takes you to the high school. A road anyone in Eden would know without thinking about it,” I say. “Did you already send him a picture of what you found upstairs or will you do it when you get back to the Bernards’？”
She flinches at the tone in my voice. “I don’t know—”
I lean in closer. “Can we get to the part where you just answer my question?”
It’s a tense minute and then she says, “I already sent him a picture of it.”
There would be no way for her to know that what she found was useless, only that it didn’t belong in my dresser drawer and looked suspicious. That’s all it would take for her to pass it back to Mr. Smith.
And I couldn’t resist the opportunity to let him know how I feel about her presence here. He knows I would never keep anything sensitive in this house. So I created a spreadsheet entitled Opera Guild Association Fundraiser with a list of fake names and credit card numbers to symbolize the one I would have gotten from that auction at the country club if I hadn’t gotten busted that night. It was enough to catch her attention, and Mr. Smith will know I set her up to find it. I don’t appreciate him sending someone into my space.
She starts to move away then hesitates a second. “How did you know?”
“I was expecting you to search through my things and I left it for you to find. But if I wasn’t expecting it, I wouldn’t have known.” I’m not sure why I felt compelled to give her that little bit of praise, since we’re not on the same side.
“I better check on James,” she says.
Just as we’re almost to the door to the deck, I say, “One last warning. It’s not a big step from being on the job to becoming the job.” There’s more I want to say, but I’ve already said too much, and Mr. Smith won’t like that I’ve spoken to her so candidly.
She pushes the door open and says in that sugary sweet voice, “James, honey, are you ready?”
“Yeah, babe. Ready when you are,” he calls back.
Ryan and I walk them out, and I notice that things are not only strained between the two of us but also between Ryan and James.
The good-byes are terse compared to the pleasantness we’d shared during dinner. She gets behind the wheel, since James could barely make it to the car on his own two feet, and we make eye contact as she starts the car.
Ryan and I watch as they back out of the driveway.
“Something happen with James?” I ask.
Ryan tenses next to me. “Same ol’ shit.”
As soon as their headlights disappear around the corner, we walk hand in hand into the house.
Chapter 14
Present Day
I’m up earlier than usual for a Sunday morning. The events of last night generated an endless parade of questions, ensuring I didn’t sleep well. I slide out of bed, trying not to wake Ryan, and slip downstairs to the kitchen. I need to use the next couple of hours contemplating what to do while I wait for Mr. Smith’s next move.
I start the coffee machine before flipping on the small television in the breakfast nook. An old black-and-white movie hums along in the background while I stare at the steady drip of dark liquid.
The rumble thundering down the stairs has me spinning in that direction. Ryan skids into the kitchen, his phone clutched to his ear. He snaps his fingers at me then points to the TV. Covering the mouthpiece with his hand, he says, “Put it on three.”