“Identify your body? Are you kidding?” she asks. “I can’t even do that now.”
CHAPTER 15
FBI Log: Day One
First impressions of Amber and Ben Harrison: Wife is beautiful, warm, not the brightest crayon in the box, and somewhat oblivious but open and honest. Either that or a great actress—can’t rule that out yet. Husband is the opposite: Morose, unfriendly. Barely registered me. (I guess that’s good.) Seems like a man obsessed or distracted. Maybe just cold.They seem civil to each other, if not wildly in love.
Their home: Elegant, tastefully done, huge, goes on forever. No chance to snoop yet. Too busy with baby tears, poops, and pees. And, Metcalf, you didn’t think to tell me there’d be two drooling dogs involved as well?
Bottom line: I’d rather be cleaning toilets.
Vicky was right. If this is the way the FBI hires people, our country is in deep shit.
Is there any better feeling after a long, exhausting day than coming home and taking off your bra? Before today, I would have said no. But that was before I felt the freedom and exhilaration of stripping out of a rubber bodysuit.
That’s also when I learn something dermatologists must have always known: Being encased in rubber for eight straight hours is not great for the skin. You get sweaty. Very sweaty, even on a nice cool day like today. If my stretch marks were getting lonely, they now have lots of new friends to keep them company—rubber marks! Long, thin pink lines from my neck to my thighs where the seams of the bodysuit rubbed against my skin. I also seeseveral small, red, angry-looking blotches where the foam compressed my flesh. And a road map of rashes dotting the rest of me.
Coating the inside of my rubber suit with powder tomorrow would probably help. Tonight, I look like a Jackson Pollock splatter painting.
I do a quick last-minute review of a couple of the baby-care manuals I downloaded. It’s like cramming the night before the SATs. But forget college admissions—this time, the stakes are much higher. A small human’s life is in my hands.
Now it’s time to pack for my new live-in position. My choices are limited. With my new bulked-up body, even my fat clothes don’t fit. I pull a duffel bag down from the top shelf and toss in the largest things I own: A few bulky sweatshirts. Some large tunic sweaters and elastic-waist skirts for my days off. A pair of enormous palazzo pants I bought in Italy when I was under the spell of the Tuscan sun. One wool poncho. One plastic poncho. A couple of stretched-out T-shirts that (full disclosure here) I had previously tossed in my ragbag. A pair of fuzzy bunny slippers. My regular underwear. And the huge flannel nightgown Amazon sent by mistake—so ugly they refunded my money but insisted I keep it.
That’s all. Nothing even remotely Spanx-related to hold in my stomach. No fancy underwire support bras for my new built-in boobs, which are currently big enough to supportme.
My cosmetic needs are just as simple: A brown eye penciland shadow to emphasize the lines and wrinkles every morning. Toothpaste, a toothbrush, a hairbrush, drugstore moisturizer, shampoo, and—just in case the Harrisons decide to throw a lavish catered holiday party for three hundred—coral lip gloss.
I have to laugh. Over the years I’ve tried hard to be a cool teenager, a sexy young single, a woman who looked good for her age at forty, forty-five, fifty… and now look where I’ve ended up. Not just invisible. Barely presentable.
True, it’s only temporary, assuming I survive. And it’s for a good cause. Once I crack this case, I will check into a spa and order all the hot stone massages and seaweed body wraps on the menu. For now, my job is to disappear into the woodwork.
If Ben Harrison’s reaction is any indication, I’ve already succeeded.
CHAPTER 16
MUSIC PLEASE, MAESTRO.
On the first day of childcare, the FBI gave to me:
One squalling kid
One nervous mom
Two drooling dogs
One pissed-off dad
On the second day—it’s even worse.
When I pull into the driveway, I hear screaming. The screamer turns out to be Hailey, age thirteen, Ben’s daughter from his first marriage—a gawky flat-chested beanpole who’s unfortunately inherited some of Ben’s worstfeatures: his wide nose, his snarly grin, and, if this morning is any indication, his nasty personality. In fact, Hailey is worse than Ben. At least Ben was civil to Amber. Hailey isn’t.
Amber herself looks like hell, yawning and exhausted. Like she’s had a rough night with Lily and doesn’t have the energy to take on a surly teenager. The kerfuffle has to do with driving Hailey to school.
“She missed the bus,” Amber tells me, trying to speak over Hailey’s screams.
“I want to take an Uber!” Hailey yells. Her bottom lip is quivering.
“Your father says no,” Amber tells her. She turns to me. “Ben says she’s been abusing his account—”
