Me
Do you know this woman in red?
I tap my fingers on the pristine white tablecloth as I await her response. Minutes pass, and she still hasn’t even seen the message, leaving me on Unread.Come on!
Me
THIS IS AN EMERGENCY!
Cora
Okay, relax. I’m not attached to my phone like you are. What’s going on? Another rando stalking you?
Me
DO YOU KNOW HER?
Cora
Can’t see shit, it’s too blurry. Get a better shot of her face.
I roll my eyes.
Me
I can’t exactly shove my phone in her face. Hang on…
A plan forms and I turn around in the booth seat with my back toward their table, pretending to take a selfie but aiming the camera at their table. I hold the position, trying to appear casual, but the longer I wait, the more I look like a complete poser. Finally, the woman turns her head, offering me a clear shot.Gotcha!
Me
This better?
Cora
Yes, I do know her! That’s Piper. She works in finance at Hayes & Hayward. Why? What’s happening?
Heat shoots up my neck. I’m so furious that I’m surprised steam isn’t billowing from my nostrils like a raging bull. Every fiber of my being trembles with rage.
Me
I’ll explain later. Do you know where Dameon is at the moment?
Cora
I assume he’s with James—they’re sealing a deal on a merger today. Let me check with Portia where it’s taking place. I’ll let you know.
God, I wish I knew what the women were saying. I’d give anything to be a fly on their champagne bucket. My heart pounds, and I close my eyes, willing myself to calm down. Now that the pieces have fallen into place, I’m seething with anger at myself for not figuring it out sooner—for not questioning things earlier. While I wait for Cora’s response, I pull up Kev’s number on my phone and begin typing out a message.
Me
Hey Kev, it’s Hailee. Did my mother ever come visit while I was living with Dameon? This is super important—it could affect Dameon.
I add that last part knowing how loyal Kev and Martha are. They’d never do anything to betray his trust or hurt him. They practically raised him.
While I wait for his response, my meal arrives. I don’t remember ordering the pasta, but whatever. I dig in, and after a few bites I realize I must look absolutely ridiculous. If this weren’t so serious, I would laugh at myself—shoveling spaghetti into my mouth, hunched over my plate, eyes narrowed on a table across the restaurant. I’ve officially hit psycho status.
My phone pings, and I snatch it up.
