“What’s the assignment?” he asks.
I tell him about everything, starting with the Russian lady who styled me, the nanny job, the agency looking for evidence of money laundering, and about life with the Harrisons. I bring in Carlos, the dead snake, the gallery party, Luis, Graham Loxton, his threats, his death, and how I was followed from the dog park and rear-ended. Then I tell him what I just discovered—that Ben apparently gave away a painting worth forty-five thousanddollars—and end with how Metcalf is ghosting me. Cove listens and doesn’t say a word. Until he does.
“Something’s not right,” he says.
That’s it? “Everything’snot right,” I say.
“No. I mean Metcalf ghosting you—that’s unacceptable. The one thing a handler must do is keep in touch with the informer.”
“I know. It’s so annoying.”
“Oh, it’s more than that.” Now his voice gets very quiet: “Ellie,your lifedepends on it.”
Of course. He’s right. Now I’m breathless for a whole other reason.
“Tell you what,” Cove says after a moment. “Let me make a few phone calls. Do a little checking. Okay?”
“Sure,” I say, still trying to process what he said.
“Is this the best number to reach you?” he asks.
“Yes,” I say. “I’m really sorry to bother you with all this, but I didn’t know who else I could talk to.”
“Of course you didn’t,” he says. I can hear the kindness in his voice. If I don’t cut this conversation short, I’m afraid I’ll start to cry.
It dawns on me after I hang up that I never asked him about his life, his wife, his kids. But maybe that’s just as well.
CHAPTER 72
AN HOUR LATER, I see on the baby monitor that Lily is awake. When I get to the crib, she smiles at me. As I lift her onto the changing table, Amber walks into the nursery. She’s wearing tennis whites.
“I hope I remember how to hit the ball,” Amber jokes. “It’s been so long, I’m out of practice.”
“I get it,” I tell her. “I hope I remember how to diaper a baby.”
Amber laughs. She thinks I’m kidding. “Oh, and by the way,” she says, “now that the weather’s cooler, I brought some winter clothes up from the basement. I put sweaters for Lily in the bottom drawer on the left.”
I hold Lily with one arm, bend down, and open the drawer. Lo and behold, I discover a fabulous assortment of baby sweaters. Cornflower blue with white stripes, hot pink with strawberry ruffles around the neck and sleeves, a kelly-green sweater with cable stitches twisted to look like leaves, and more. They’re all hand-knit. And every sweater has the same label sewn in:SPECIALLY MADE BY GRANDMA.
“Amber, these are wonderful,” I say, pulling out a candy-apple-red hoodie. “Did your mother make these?”
Amber shakes her head. “My mother died years ago. They’re from Ben’s mother.”
Ben has a mother?
“Most of them were made for Hailey,” she says. “But his mother did send some for Lily when she was born.”
Ben has a motherwho knits?
“So his mother is… still around?” I ask, trying to be as delicate as I can.
“Oh, yes. Sort of.”
“What’s she like?”
“Never met her,” Amber says. “Poor thing has been suffering from dementia for years. She wasn’t even well enough to come to our wedding.”
Can someone suffering from dementia knit? This is news.
