I need to do it.
I need to tell Margot.
“No, you’ve done enough, thank you,” I tell Bea.
“Are you sure?” she asks.
“Happy to send someone along to trail you at a safe distance and pretend they’re not there,” Simon adds.
If we’ve been made, we’ve been made.
And if Margot suspects where Oliver is—then I need to talk to her.
Weneed to talk to her.
“Not necessary, but thank you,” Oliver says.
“You still know how to use your manners?” I ask him.
“With other people.”
A brief silence lingers on the other end of the phone.
I cringe to myself.
Bea knows me. Sheknowsme.
She has to have heard so much more in my voice that I’m not saying, and my face is getting hot because Ididtell her Oliver’s boring, and she knows I hate him.
Hatedhim.
Who he used to be.
Not who he is now.
This guy?
This Oliver?
“Don’t worry about us, Bea,” I say in a rush as she says, “Okay, then, let us know if you change your mind or think of anything else we can do.”
We both fall silent for a minute, and then Bea cracks up. “Miss you, Daph. Be safe, okay?”
“Of course. And I’ll be home soon. I miss you too.”
We hang up, and silence—other than the pitter-patter of rain on the tent—surrounds Oliver and me again.
“They seem nice,” Oliver says.
“Absolute best,” I whisper back.
He hugs me tighter. “Daph?—”
“I need to call Margot.”
“Daphne.”
I fall silent.
