“If you think GhostEye would help more…I want in.”
Because if Andy’s not lying…
Ingram is.
25
By the timeFreya laid everything out to the GhostEye team last night, I was half-in-awe and half-ready to carry her out of there in my arms. She didn’t miss a single detail. Dates, timelines, tone of voice, discrepancies. She asked smart questions and answered them like she’d been running homicide for ten years.
Ava was the only one available to take it all in. Enzo and Rio were tied up at the San Francisco offices, but when Freya turned to leave, Ava mouthed “wow” and mimed fireworks exploding over her head. Safe to say she was as impressed as I was.
And with what I’ve seen the GhostEyetools do in the past, and my redheaded hacker on the case, I’m sure they’ll have more soon.
It took everything out of Freya, though. I could see it.
As soon as we got home, she thanked me for being with her, mumbled something about self-care, and padded off toward the bathroom like a zombie. I left her to it. The last thing I want is for her to feel like she has to think about me, too.
I went out to the workshop and spent a couple of hours planing down the last edge of a crib side. Sanded the feet. It felt good to do something with my hands. Something for the baby.
It blurred yesterday, but it does nothing for today.
Morning came too fast.
Today, I’m meeting the formidable Faith Johnson.
I got up early to make food for Freya’s mom and grandma. They’d had an early flight, and I knew they wouldn’t have eaten much. The oven blasted warm air into my face as I pulled out fresh-baked chocolate muffins. I set out fruit, poured fresh juice—tried to make sure they started the day with something better than the bitter coffee and stale croissants the airlines serve.
Fresh-squeezed orange juice is now chilling in a pitcher. The table’s set. I even put out some cloth napkins that were here when I moved in, but which have never been used. I don’t know who I am anymore.
Freya bounds down the stairs and toward the door. “The guards just let in their taxi.”
She looks flustered. Nervous.
Should I be even more worried about this than I am?
Freya keeps her eyes glued to the peephole, and then I hear tires crunch on gravel, footsteps climbing the wooden porch, and Freya swings the door open.
“Heeeeeey!” she squeals.
Her mom and grandma push in, arms wrapping around Freya, the women jostle around in a group hug, and a cacophony of high-pitched noises comes from the chaos.
I linger behind, feeling very out of place but knowing I need to wait patiently to be introduced. I can’t imagine how much these ladies missed Freya.
Finally, they separate, and Freya’s mom slips off her shoes. “It’s tidy,” she says, glancing around until her gaze lands on me.
She doesn’t smile.
Her grandmother rushes over, not worrying about the shoes. Freya told me she’s a wild child in an old lady’s body.
“Well, hello there, Anton,” she says, opening her arms for a hug that smells like lavender. She embraces me, rubbing her hands over my back affectionately. “Aren’t you just a tall drink of water?”
I give her my warmest hug back. Damn, it feels good to be received this way. Finally, I pull back, and her grandma beams at me.
“Nice to meet you, Mrs. Johnson.”
“Call me Lita.” She peeks around me toward the kitchen. “Dang, it smells good in here.”
The other Mrs. Johnson steps in behind her, expression polite but unreadable. Her outfit is immaculate—pressed slacks, cardigan, expensive-looking gold chain at her throat. She is the spitting image of Freya but twenty, thirty years on, though honestly, she still looks so young, they could maybe be sisters.
