If only the gift of a silver tongue hadn’t passed her by. It was obvious the professor hadn’t bought her stumbling attempt to—
“Hey. Are you listening to me?” Randy sent her an annoyed glance and turned on the radio.
A country-western tune blasted through the cab.
Her head began to pound, and she reached over and punched the dial.
Blessed silence descended.
“What’s with you?” Randy glared at her.
“I have a headache, okay?”
“You were fine on the drive out here.”
Not exactly fine, since she’d been less than thrilled about the idea of him working here even part-time. But if that bought her another week or two to wheedle her way into a live-in position with Natalie, she’d have sucked it up.
However, the incident in the study aside, the brief exchange she’d witnessed between him and Natalie before Natalie asked to speak with him alone hadn’t been promising. As far as she was concerned, her brother had bombed the interview with his tendency to brag and blow his own horn. Natalie would have seen through all that, and she wouldn’t have been impressed.
Bottom line, his chances of getting the job were lower than a snake’s belly.
And at this point, so were her chances of keeping the job she had.
Lydia closed her eyes. Swallowed.
Her one foray into a life of crime, and this was how it ended.
“Are you sick?” Randy actually sounded concerned.
“Yeah. Maybe.” Sick at heart, if nothing else.
“Roll down your window.” He opened his as he spoke.
“Why?”
“We gotta let the germs out. I can’t afford to get sick. I don’t have any sick days left for this year.”
So his concern was self-centered.
Surprise, surprise.
She lowered her window, leaned back against the seat, and angled her head to watch the passing scenery.
Nothing much to see except trees with heat-parched leaves that were waiting to drop at the first sign of frost. Spent and hanging on by a thread.
Kind of like she was, with all her plans to leave Randy’s place for cushier digs collapsing around her.
Because Natalie would discover the missing stamp. If not today, soon.
And there would be only one suspect.
Of course, admitting the theft would be stupid. Just like it would be stupid to admit she’d spiked Natalie’s wine with Ambien. And Lydia Foster wasn’t stupid. No one would ever be able to prove she’d done either of those things.
Unless the sheriff checked the stamp album for fingerprints.
Her stomach kinked.
Would he do that?
