“Cory. He didn’t give me a last name. He had a British accent.”
Tim scribbles furiously for another minute, then asks, “How do you communicate with him?”
“Text message. He tells me when he needs me to look after Munchkin. I let him know how Munchkin is doing while he’s away.” There’s no way I’m going to tell him about the call last night. I’m still trying to process it myself.
“Do you talk about anything besides work?”
“Occasionally.” Tim raises an eyebrow when I hesitate. “Just friendly stuff. He wanted to know why I answered a text that he sent at midnight.” That gets a wide-eyed expression from Tim, and now I’m glad I haven’t mentioned the phone call. “It was just a bad night with Austin, and I was missing Steve. Sam knows I’m a widow. I got the sense that he really understood about alone.”
“Have you told him about Austin?”
“Not much. It’s none of his business and it hasn’t affected how I look after Munchkin. So, I haven’t given any details.”
“And how does he pay you?”
“Cheque.”
“Has one ever bounced?”
“I’ve only received two so far, but no, neither of them bounced.” Tim’s questions are so clinical, like he’s taking a witness statement for a crime. I feel the need to defend Sam. “He pays me very well. And he takes really good care of Munchkin. I’ve never felt uneasy when we text each other.”
Tim caps his pen and puts his notebook away. “Still, I want to check him out. Call me paranoid, but I’d rather be safe than sorry.”
“I appreciate that you’re looking out for me,” I say, because I am. As much as I wish I didn’t, I need a few people in my corner who live close by. My mother and sister are both great supporters, but they’re in California. They know I have a second job, but they never ask too many questions. Their main concern is that I’m financially stable. They have sent me money in the past, and I know that they’ll send more if they think I’m struggling, but they’re content knowing that Tim, as Steve’s best friend, is keeping me out of trouble. “Interrogation over?” I ask.
“It wasn’t…” He sighs, knowing I’m right to feel set upon. “For now. I might have more questions down the line.”
“If it helps you, I’ll arrange to meet Sam when he gets backs from Europe.”
“It does, but I want to be there too.” The expression on Tim’s face says that under no circumstance am I to see Samuel Foster without him being present.
I concede. “Okay.” He’s probably right. And if he’s not right, at least he’s being cautious for me.
“And you’ll phone me if anything makes you feel uneasy when you go over there?”
“Yes Dad,” I tease him.
He rolls his eyes. “Thank you. Now, let’s enjoy our morning out in the fresh air.”
We sit together, sipping coffee and people-watching for a few hours. Austin doesn’t move from his swing until he’s hungry. Tim makes the morning a real treat when he buys lunch at a nearby hot dog stand and brings them back to our table with an order of fries and cokes for everyone. It’s one of the few places that I can take Austin to eat. When I take him to a restaurant for a meal, he usually has a meltdown because of all the unfamiliar sights, sounds, and smells before I can even place an order. By the time Austin is ready to go home, it’s almost time for me to get back to Munchkin, so Tim offers to babysit.
“But only if you promise to bring home pizza when you’re done,” he says.
“Deal,” I agree.
Chapter 15
Trouble Ahead
Samuel Foster
Iwake up with a dry mouth and a thumping head, and I groan. I hadn’t drawn the drapes the previous evening and the light filtering through the windows makes me squint. It’s ridiculous, because the gray winter day is hardly bright enough to be blinding. I shift myself up until I’m propped against my pillows, and rub my face. I’ve slept right through the night, which is unusual, even when booze is involved. Particularly since it couldn’t have been more than 6pm when I drifted off.
Was I really that drunk? I’m pretty sure there’s more to it than that. The trip has been exhausting. I’ve barely had a few hours to myself since we left Vegas. I sit up straighter and rest my elbows on my raised knees, glancing sideways as my phone slides off the covers.
Oh, crap!
The memory of my call to Arielle comes rushing back, and I groan. What the fuck was I thinking? She must be convinced I’m a raving lunatic. As the words of our conversation come back to me, I feel mortification sinking in. Not just a lunatic, but some sort of pervert. Asking if she wanted a lover?
