@yorkiedork123: Sure thing. Anything else?
@muttmama: Any hits on Dwayne Johnson?
@yorkiedork123: Still MIA. You’ll be the first to know if I hear anything.
I sighed in completely expected disappointment. I’d asked her to keep her ear to the digital dark web ground, in case any chatter about the diamond cropped up; maybe it had been found, maybe it had been sold. So far, no luck. We’d dubbed it Dwayne Johnson in a stealth nod to the Rock. The nickname used to make me smile, back when I had hope of her helping to find it, but now it fell flat.
@yorkiedork123: Anything else? Need any actual dog grooming tips?
@muttmama: Ha, if only. Still flying sans canine, unfortunately.
@yorkiedork123: Your day will come, girl.
The reality that having a dog was a remote chance, if not impossibility, slapped me in the face once more, but I didn’t feel the need to darken her day with my sorrow.
@muttmama:?See you next time, Yorkiedork.
@yorkiedork123: Happy trails, Muttmama.
I closed my laptop and sighed. I lifted my phone to text Bray an update right when the doorbell rang.
Evening had fallen, and I couldn’t imagine who was calling.
I instantly tensed and reached for the bat. My heart rate shot through the roof as I paused the movie still playing on TV. With one hand on my phone and one on my makeshift weapon, I rose to stand and managed to remind myself the people wanting to kill me would not ring the doorbell. They would bust down the door or shatter a window.
I hobbled across the living room using the bat as a small crutch. I held my breath as I leaned close to the slit in my curtains to peek out the window. Bray’s patrol still sat down the street in an unmarked car, which miraculously blended in. I’d half expected him to send a black van with DSA blazing in yellow print. Instead, he’d sent a man in a nondescript SUV. I could see him in the driver’s seat sitting up and looking my way with interest. Given he hadn’t left the vehicle or otherwise flipped on a siren and floored it to my driveway to intervene, I had to assume whoever was on the porch didn’t look like a threat from his vantage point.
I angled my body for as good a look as I could get of my doorstep, and saw a pale blue skirt fluttering in the breeze.
I exhaled with an ounce of relief.
When I worked up the courage to look out the peephole, I saw none other than Melanie Browning holding a casserole.
I quickly recomposed myself and leaned the bat out of sight. I opened the door with a smile. “Melanie! What a surprise,” I greeted.
Melanie’s pretty face froze on a discerning expression I couldn’t identify before it split into a warm smile. She wore an effortless A-line dress, which looked right for skipping through the countryside and braiding bracelets out of wildflowers with her children. The golden-hour light seemed to set her aglow from within. She was the perfect picture of domestic tranquility.
The urge to blurtHow much money do you owe Montrose and why?danced on my tongue.
“Lauren, honey, how are you doing?” she asked with a sympathetic lilt.
I mentally stumbled over how Melanie could know about my injury. I’d slipped inside as quickly as I could when my rideshare dropped me off, and even if she had been watching, was baking a casserole over a twisted ankle really the going rate in Del Rio?
She clucked her tongue and softly shook her head. “I’m sorry. Of course this is hard on you. I trust you got our flowers yesterday?”
And then it clicked.
“Oh!” I said, suddenly remembering the moms thought my uncle had passed away and I was holed up in my apartment mourning. The casserole—which smelled delicious—made sense. Flowers, food: things people gave to other people when someone died. Our house had been buried in both when my mother died.
I gave my head a small, discreet shake to bring my senses back online. I was off my game to have forgotten my cover story. What had done it? The blast from the past, surely. But also, maybe …
I shook away the mental image of Bray carrying me up the stairs, the way he’d laid me on the couch and taken care of me. For every on-screen kiss I’d watched that afternoon, I’d wondered anew what his lips felt like.
I had to stop thinking about him because, obviously, it was messing with my mind.
“Right, thank you,” I told Melanie. “This is so kind of you.”
“Oh, don’t worry about it,” she said and handed over the casserole. “I know cooking is the last thing anyone wants to think about at times like these. This is my famous enchilada casserole,” she said and peeled back a corner of the foil layering the top. A waft of spicy, saucy cheese hit my nose, and I realized I’d made no plans for dinner. “Neighborhood favorite!” Melanie gushed. She said it like the dish had won a prize, and I would not have been surprised to learn there was in fact a Del Rio casserole cook-off.
