Wariness.
She’s nervous.
As she should be.
I daresay this evening won’t be quite the evening she’s hoping it will be, which I won’t be letting on until it’s time formyplans to fully fall into place.
“Or we could stay here and critique Daphne’s telly choices,” I offer.
Say yes, a soft voice whispers in my brain.
Give yourself an out so that I can enjoy how lovely you look without the pain of knowing what you’re about tonight.
The boys tromp out of the apartment.
Bea looks to the ceiling with an exasperated half smile tilting her lips once more. “Going out in public with a serial killer is preferable to watching Daphne’s favorite shows.”
Daphne winks at me and mouthsyou’re welcome.
“I only played a serial killer hired to suss out a man’s son’s true intentions,” I say. “Despite the number of deaths at Peter Jones’s fictional feet, I have not, in fact, ever murdered anyone, though I do pride myself on reading between the lines.”
“That’ll serve you well tonight, mate,” Daphne says.
Bea shoots her a look.
But I can’t quite contain another smile.
Because of inspiration.
Yes.
Inspiration and inspiration alone.
“One question before you go,” Daphne says. “Who stocked Bea’s handbag?”
“I did.”
Both women goggle at me.
“How did you pick what went in it?” Daphne presses.
“That’s more than your one question. But if you answer one for me, I’ll tell you my secret.”
More suspicion rolls off Bea. “What do you want to know?”
“Were you truly on the line with your bus last weekend? At the Secret Alley entrance?”
They share a look, then a smile.
“I was three inches over,” Bea whispers.
“Bloody brilliant. I thought so.”
“How’d you decide what to put in Bea’s bag?” Daphne repeats.
“The internet. Ta-da! My greatest magic trick. Now. For the last time before I’m convinced that you’re playing games with me, shall we be on our way? Wouldn’t want to miss our reservations.”
Bea gives her shoulders a slight shake, straightens, and looks me dead in the eye. “Absolutely. Let’s do it.”
