Ben gave Lynne a painting that may have been worth thousands of dollars?
I’m sitting here gobsmacked.
I don’t even know what a gob is. But if I ever felt like I was suddenly smacked by one, it’s right now.
CHAPTER 70
AS I’M SITTING IN FRONT of the laptop, I hear a car in the driveway.
The dogs start barking and rush to the door. Could it be Carlos again? Or my phantom tailgater, here to finish the job?
Before I have time to panic, I hear a key in the door. And—surprise! Amber and Lily are back! No fanfare. No advance notice. The dogs are as happy as I am. They gather around the two of them, jumping up, wagging their tails. I get it. If I had a tail, I’d be wagging it too.
“Oh my gosh. Just look at you, Lily!” I say, falling into every baby cliché ever written. “Look how big you’ve gotten! What a big girl you are!”
It seems like she’s been away for months. And she’s learned how to wave hello! It’s possibly the cutest thing I’ve ever seen. But I think she’s forgotten how to say “Ca.” Oh, well. I guess her short-term memory is as bad as mine.
Then she gives me a big smile—maybe she does remember me after all—and I see something truly wonderful: her first baby tooth. Either that or the world’s smallest Chiclet. As for Amber, she looks better than ever. Relaxed. Smiling. But I’m really concentrating on Lily. I want to grab her from Amber and hug her, but I know my job. First, I have to help with the luggage.
“How was it?” I ask Amber as I lug her Briggs and Riley leather suitcase up the stairs to her bedroom.
“Fine,” she says. Then we swap—she gets the suitcase, and I get to hug Lily. Finally.
“Has she eaten?” I ask, still hugging Lily, making up for lost time.
“Yes. Breakfast, and a few nibbles of Cheerios on the train,” Amber says. “She’s ready for a bottle.”
But I can’t stop hugging her. I should probably put her down at some point before she needs to be surgically removed.
“How were things here?” Amber wants to know.
“Okay,” I say. I decide to wait a bit before telling her she missed a good party and a bad car accident.
“And Hailey?” she asks as she unpacks. I see a lot of new clothes. “Behaving herself?”
“Very much so,” I say. (What luck! You couldn’t ask for a better opening.) “Actually, Hailey’s been spending a lotof time with her friend Alison. I picked her up there yesterday. Nice house. And nice mother,” I add, trying to sound casual. “I think she said her name was, uh, Lynne?”
“Yes,” Amber says, folding a bunch of new cashmere sweaters. “I’ve met her once or twice at school functions.”
Only once or twice? I want to press further, but I decide to hold off. I remember what Cove said about animals in the wild: This is definitely not “nothing.” It’s clearlysomething. Something I need time to figure out.
So for now, I play with Lily—peekaboo on the carpet, upsy-daisy on the nursery couch. Then I give her a bottle, which she can now grip with her own little hands. So sweet. I read to her in the rocking chair—The Runaway Bunny,followed by a few pages ofChicka Chicka Boom Boom. Just as we get to the part where D, E, F, and G are racing to the top of the coconut tree, Lily puts her fingers in her mouth. That means she’s ready for a nap.
As I put her down in the crib and cover her with her yellow Baby Shark blanket, my mind is racing.
If Lynne is to be believed, Ben gave her an expensive painting. But why? Amber doesn’t seem to know about it. Are Lynne and Ben having an affair? My gut says no; Lynne doesn’t seem the type. Ben doesn’t either.
But if there’s one thing FBI work has taught me, it’s that nobody ever knows what goes on behind closed doors. And you won’t know for sure until you bust in. You might open a door and find the small family-run meth lab you were tipped off about. Or it could just be two people having sex.
Amber could be lying. Maybe she and Lynne are really dear friends. But why keep it a secret?
Or—wait. If Ben is involved in something illegal, could Lynne be part of it? Sure, she seemed nice when she stopped Austen’s bleeding, got me a glass of water, and asked me to stay over. But what if, underneath all that niceness, she’s the wife of a cartel kingpin? Or the female head of one? I guess that would make her aqueenpin.
I could call Lynne and ask her out for lunch, saying I’d like to thank her and get to know her better, but why would she want to get to knowmebetter? When all is said and done, I’m still just the help. And not evenherhelp—someone else’s.
Amber might be hiding something. Benishiding everything. And I’ve got to hide all this from Vicky, who’s already furious that I’m still here.
Then there’s Metcalf, my so-called handler, who’s been ghosting me and keeping me out of the loop. I keep trying to reach him, but he isn’t responding. Oh, well. He’d probably just remind me to stay in my lane. Last time I did that, I was almost killed.
