How did he know I was a father? It wasn’t like I wore a badge or anything. A creeping dread hit me. Was he saying I was old enough to be his father? He was only twenty years younger than me! I mean, it was possible—but really? I had to find another gym. My ego couldn’t take this.
By the time I got home, Haze had already taken Bibi to school.
I’d promised her I’d work with our lawyer to try and solve the planning permission nightmare. I hoped this would show her that I was stepping up for us as a family and pulling my weight.
The next issue to combat was who in our lives could potentially be reporting on us to The Chameleon. Haze had asked Jenny to do a deep-dive background check into Sally, something to which I had wholeheartedly agreed. And I had now made the decision to follow Jenny—something to which Haze would have wholeheartedly, and with numerous expletives, disagreed.
I didn’t believe Jenny was working for The Chameleon, but I did believe she had lied to us the other day about where she was. And considering how we were on high alert, it had to be worth checking out why our business partner, our closest confidante, our extended family member, was lying about where she’d been.
I had snuck an AirTag into her car last night.
It was not my proudest moment, but I needed answers.
Jenny had told us she was going to be busy at the station all morning. And now I had a way of checking if that was true.
It was a waiting game, and I had the house to myself. I took the opportunity to try and lose myself in my music, but it’s hard when you can only play four chords. A phrase concerning “old dogs” and “new tricks” kept coming to mind.
I plugged in the amp and tried another strum. The amp squealed with feedback. I gave it another few goes. I felt I was slowly making progress when I was interrupted by a banging on the garage door. I pressed the remote and watched it open. Standing there, arms folded, was Barry Fenton from next door. Barry was the official head of the Neighborhood Watch—and the unofficial headache of the neighborhood. A widowed pensioner with nothing to do but spend his days curtain-twitching and complaining. He’d left us alone at first. An unsmiling nod was the most significant interaction we’d had. Then one day it started. We took a few days to bring in our bin after bin day. Barry called it sloppy and said we were inviting burglars to the neighborhood.
“Barry! How are you on this fine day?”
“That noise is unacceptable.”
I held up my guitar. “This? You don’t like music?”
He shook his head. “That is not music. Keep it down!”
My phone pinged. The AirTag was on the move. I let Barry rant about how the noise was several decibels over legal requirements as I checked Jenny’s location. She was leaving the station. She’d lied again.
I halfheartedly fought back with Barry that playing music at a reasonable level on my own property at 10a.m. was definitely permissible, keeping one eye on my phone.
Jenny was heading toward Slough High Street. I zoomed in. Barry was still talking. I zoned back in to hear him saying, “It’s so rude that you can’t even give me your full attention!” He turned on his heel and stomped the few feet back to his pristine lawn.
“Bye, Barry!” I shouted after him.
Jenny’s car was now parked off a side street.
I needed to go check she hadn’t just popped out for a sandwich. I needed to find out where she was that warranted lying to us. Again.
Before I could rethink my choices, I got into the car.
It wasn’t going to be easy following a police detective. Especially one who knew me and the disguises I could use. She was after all the one who’d bought me my favorite wig. It was a very nice brunette shade with a side parting that actually really worked for me.
I parked on the street next to the one where she’d parked. I had no plan other than to hover nearby and hope to see where she was coming from. Considering where she’d parked, she must be on the high street. Perhaps she was meeting someone in one of the cafés there—or innocently hitting Boots or another shop, and proving me to be a total idiot for doubting her.
I put on a baseball cap and tucked a copy of theBerkshire Bulletinnewspaper under my arm. I took it out and stood on the street corner, and tried to scan the street.
Ten minutes went by and nothing.
My stomach was starting to rumble. The chia smoothie I’d had for breakfast was clearly not enough. I was looking at the shops up and down the high street, debating which had the best (and least-processed) snacks on offer, when I got a flash of her blue-and-white spotted coat.
The building on the other side of the road had floor-to-ceiling glass windows and doors. She was inside, shaking hands with a man in a suit. They spoke for a few minutes and then she came outside. I hovered behind the newspaper. She walked back toward her car, moving quickly. I looked up at the building she’d been in. NatWest Bank. Was she having financial trouble? Or the opposite? Had she recently come into a lot of money because she was selling us out?
I got out my phone and texted our group chat.
Busy day at the office? Any gossip?
I was just checking in, in my usual, paranoid way, to see if there’d been any update on The Chameleon.
