“Fucker,” Webb mutters. “Thisfucker.”
Anger ignites into white-hot rage.
I want to kill him. I really do.
Glancing at Webb, I ask tightly, “Did you get all of it?”
He looks down at his phone and hits the stop button. Then he hits play. Manny’s shaky voice fills the room.
“I thought it was my house. I… I just moved. All the houses look the same.”
Manny moans.
“You’re going to confess to the police,” I say. “But this is insurance. In case you get any ideas.”
“No,” Manny says. “The plan. It’s not done.”
I want to kill him. I do. But that’s not a part ofourplan.
“Oh, it’s done,” I tell him. Then I take my finger off the trigger and lower my gun. “And you won’t be hurting anyoneeveragain.”
CHAPTER 16
BEA
DoI have enough time to bake a batch of brownies?
I glance at my phone—face up, so I can see right away if any messages come in—and do some quick mental calculations.
If Indy said he was getting on the road an hour ago, then, in theory, he should be back any minute now. When I looked up the directions from Springdale to HQ, that’s what it said, at least.
But if he and Webb get caught in traffic, which is a distinct possibility, he might be longer.
Enough time to bake a batch of those cheesecake swirl brownies he liked so much the first time I made them?
I head over to the fridge to check for ingredients, opening the door and scanning the shelves to see if I have what I need.
Cream cheese?Check.
Eggs? Check.
Moving from the fridge to the cabinets, I find the package of semi-sweet chocolate and lift it to estimate the weight. It feelslike plenty, but if I run a little short, I know Eden always has a stash of emergency chocolate at her place.
Even if they’re not done in time, wouldn’t it be nice for Indy to come back to the scent of brownies baking in the oven? All rich and chocolaty and welcoming?
As I look between the cabinet and the fridge, debating, my gaze sweeps across the assortment of food already sitting on the kitchen island—peanut butter cookies, cranberry-brie pull apart bread, cheese crisps, and sweet potato tarts.
Hmm. Thatisa lot of food already, isn’t it?
And that’s not even taking into account the beer cheese dip, tortilla pinwheels, and mini sandwiches already waiting in the fridge. Or the pulled pork simmering in the slow cooker, ready to be served with the homemade rolls I baked earlier this morning.
So brownieswouldprobably be overkill, wouldn’t they?
But Indy said he loved them.Lovedthem. And doesn’t he deserve to be treated? Especially after everything he’s done?
Not that I think he expects anything for it. He’s not like that. He doesn’t expect repayment or even thanks for his actions—he just does them because it’s the right thing to do.
But IwantIndy to know how grateful I am. Not just that, I want him to know how happy I am that he's back.
