“And yours truly scored an invite,” Eli gloats, “from the esteemed judge himself.” He leans back against the white porch railing and crosses one foot over the other. “They want me to meet one of their business partners,” Eli says. “A banker flying in from Panama.”
“Wait—” Luisa blurts out, holding up one hand, then searching for something on her phone with the other. “Is his name Dudley Magruder?”
“The very one,” Eli confirms. “But the judge calls him ‘Mags.’ Judge says they’ve known each other since they were kids playin’ hide-and-seek on Peachtree Battle, whatever that means. Apparently, Ol’ Mags has a house down at Palmetto Bluff—really nice golf course out there, with undulating greens, lots of beautiful oaks. You have to be careful with the alligators, though,” Eli offers unhelpfully. “I told you both, I knew what I was doing. You just chose not to believe me.”
My mind races back through our fight after his big golf win. I was so mad that he refused to follow my instructions, I couldn’t even process what he was trying to explain. But I guess he was rightabout earning their trust with that bet, because this introduction is exactly what we need, and Eli has managed to get it for us.
“Dudley Magruder is our guy,” Luisa exclaims, jamming her index finger against her phone screen. “Griggs’s family foundation money is getting diverted to his bank. Then laundered via shell companies, including Peachtree Holdings—the same company that holds the Castillos’ fake deed.” She’s pacing the length of the porch. “I need to call my source at the Treasury Department, see what they have on Magruder. The man is a ghost online. I was starting to doubt he even existed in real life.”
“Judge Thacker wants me to take Virginia,” Eli says, apparently choosing to ignore Luisa’s stressed-out pacing and musing. “She already texted. Says she’s absolutelythrilledto introduce me toeveryone.”
“I’m sure she is,” Luisa grumbles under her breath, just as I’m exclaiming, “That’s amazing, Eli. You did it!”
“Does this mean we’re back on?” he asks, a puppy-dog pleading expression in his eyes. “Because I’ve already got the perfect costume in mind.”
Luisa and I glance at each other for just a beat, then nod in unison. Looks like our Tripp is going to the ball.
CHAPTER 25Luisa
Eli asks me to meet him at Fort Yargo State Park, just down the road from the Happy Hooker, where he’s making deliveries for bait ’n’ tackle and fishing supplies. It gave me an excuse to drop in on the Castillos, deliver a home-cooked meal and bilingual picture books for the kids, and quickly update Pablo and Gloria on our progress.
I wind through the park’s narrow roads, snaking my way under a lush canopy of green. I pass several families on bikes, and others readying for a hike on one of the many trails. A wrong turn lands me on a side road dotted with campers, RVs, cozy-looking cabins, and even a handful of yurts. It’s a popular state park, I realize, taking in the multiple gatherings in picnic shelters and the conference pavilion.
I find Eli by the boat ramp, where he’s teaching two freckled boys how to cast a fishing line. They look at him with a mixture of respect and admiration. Eli must say something funny, because the boys laugh, then follow his lead, pulling the rod tip back over their shoulders, then forward.
Eli sees me and smiles, beckoning me to the ramp where they’re standing. I gather the collection of Jackson Country Club and Phi Delt golf polos, and the Ole Miss Rebels driver cover I came here to deliver, then jump out of my SUV. Holly ordered them after our shopping spree, and they’ve just arrived.
“Let’s pick a nice juicy one,” Eli is saying, proffering a container full of live worms.
“Please don’t,” I yelp. All three stare back at me like I’ve lost my mind. “I can’t watch you impale a helpless worm. They feel pain.”
The boys’ expressions turn aghast.
“You said they couldn’t feel anything,” one of them reproaches.
Eli rolls his eyes, grunting in frustration. “Thanks,” he says to me sarcastically, before covering the container and storing it back in a cooler.
“You’re welcome,” I respond, matching his sarcasm.
Worms safely tucked away, he gives the boys an artificial silverfish bait, instead. The boys throw their lines into the lake, smiling back at Eli with satisfaction, and I bite my tongue, so as not to share that the fish willalsofeel pain when hooked.
“You in a hurry?” he asks, gathering his fishing supplies.
“Depends,” I say. “I have no intention of fishing, if that’s why you’re asking.” I get a second eye roll in response.
It’s sweltering hot and the air is sticky, so we leave the boys and return to Eli’s truck. We grab some cold drinks from his cooler and store the new golf gear. Eli brings down the tailgate and I sit, watching him store his fishing supplies in the bed’s metal toolbox. With his back to me—and his T-shirt drenched in sweat and practically painted on his lean body—I can appreciate the contours of his upper arms and broad shoulders, the athletic lines framing his spine.
I’m thrown back to that night on the golf course—the surprising softness of his lips, the way my body felt grounded by his solid form, and the mind-blowing sensation of his hands gripping my thighs under the skirt of my dress. What else can those capable hands do if left to their own devices? How much more can that gorgeous mouth accomplish, given the time?
I bite my lower lip, shuddering at the thought, reminding myself that I have no business thinking about Eli’s mouth, or hands, or any other body part for that matter. Not when I don’t know what Virginia expects from their upcoming date, or what Eli is willing to give.
I’ve tossed and turned all week obsessing about this thought, while also trying to do a deep dive into Dudley Magruder, even though I already knew he has virtually no digital footprint. Eli will be meeting him unprepared, and I may just get an ulcer counting all the ways their encounter can go wrong.
But without a paper trail, there’s no way to prove the link between the bank, the development, and Griggs’s family foundation. So we’ll have to settle on Eli recording a conversation of the business deal, hopefully one exposing criminal activity.
“Holly ordered the Ricky Bobby NASCAR fire suit you asked for,” I say, taking a cold Coke can from his hand, then opening it with a hiss. “If you ain’t first, you’re last? Really?”
He sits on the tailgate beside me, his voice suddenly dropping into a backwoods North Carolina drawl. “Here’s the deal. I’m the best there is. Plain and simple. I wake up in the morning and I piss excellence.” His Ricky Bobby impersonation is so on point, I can’t help but laugh.
