“You’re just letting her go?” Brooks asked as Georgia disappeared, followed a few beats later by Alden. “To who knows where? Some mysterious place?”
Scout turned back to the bar. For a second, worry marred her face. But then she smoothed it away, picking up her empty beer can and rolling her eyes. “Georgia’s in college now. She’s a big girl. She doesn’t need me playing big sister.”
I nodded. “She can take care of herself.”
“Woof.” Scout exhaled, waving her hand around at the bar. “God knows I’m trying to be a feminist, but these bitches make it so hard.”
Chapter 30Isabel, the Assistant
PRESENT DAY
When I dropped the name “Lila Baumgarten,” the hostess at the Agoura Hills Country Club jolted like she’d been electrocuted. She waved at us to skip the line of people waiting to be seated, offering a muted, “Of course—right this way.”
“Wow. Either Lila’s tipping her like crazy or she’s one scary bitch,” Scout whispered, as we followed the hostess. She was wearing an upgraded version of her disguise: massive black sunglasses, a red wig, and a woven hat so wide-brimmed I had trouble walking beside her.
Brooks and I both tried to step through the door to the deck at the same time and froze. A tingling sensation trailed my arm where he’d brushed it. Boyfriend, enemy, or ally, it didn’t seem to matter: My body had one response to Brooks.
“Sorry,” he said stiffly. “After you.”
Once we were seated at what the hostess assured us was Ms. Baumgarten’s favorite table, I relaxed enough to take in our surroundings. The city of Agoura Hills was miles north of LA and higher in the mountains, which made it shadier, with an ever-present breeze that wafted hints of Brooks’s spicy cologne across the table. The scent must’ve been new, because I didn’t recognize it. I studied him under my lashes as he unfolded his napkin. How many women had buried their faces in his neck, felt his arms wrap around them, and associated that cologne with safety and home since me? He was too handsome, too magnetic, to have spent the last ten years alone.
None of your business, I reminded myself. But I could feel the echo of his arms around me nonetheless, taste his skin against my lips. Icleared my throat and resettled in my seat. Too much time around him was starting to get to me.
“So,” Brooks said, taking in the scene with his sharp law enforcement eyes. “This is where Hollywood’s rich and famous come to spend their golden years.” The country club was situated on a small man-made lake overlooking miles of rolling green hills dotted with a golf course. It was buzzing with well-heeled people who looked like they could model for AARP. Retirement paradise. “Is this what you’re doing it all for? To end up here?”
I was surprised to find Brooks was talking to me.
“I—” I blinked. “What?”
Did Brooks think I’d ended things with him and stuck by Scout’s side for something as shallow as money? Maybe the old Isabel would’ve considered it, but the woman I’d become after Georgia died was different. For ten years, I’d devoted my life to one mission: building our network of protection so no woman would end up like our lost little sister. Scout might be the face of it, but I was the figure behind the scenes making everything happen. Every part of our strategy, right down to Scout’s image—convincing her to adopt the mask of an airhead with a heart of gold who no one would suspect of depth, let alone vengeance—that was all me. I was the counselor at Scout’s elbow, whispering in her ear.
And Brooks thought I’d done all of that to retire at a country club? For the first time in ten years, I ached to take off my veil and reveal my true face.
But before I could do anything rash, Lila Baumgarten appeared in a cloud of Chanel No. 5. “My lunch dates.” She gave a theatrical wave at Brooks, in his golf shirt and chinos, perfect country club cosplay. “The leading man. The girl next door. And—” She paused to look over Scout’s disguise. “The starlet on the lam. At least the harlot at the hostess station gave you the right table. That’s one good thing she’s done this year.”
Well. Ridley had called Lila old-school and power-hungry. I guess she came as advertised.
We all stood and shook hands. Lila was even more petite than me, with a shock of white hair, brick-red lipstick, and head-to-toeChanel. After Brooks pulled out her chair, she told us she refused to talk business until after we’d ordered a round of ice-cold martinis.
“All right,” she said, once the drinks were sweating on the table. She gave hers an expert swirl and I caught the scent of lemon peel. “Now that you’ve ginned me up properly, tell me why we’re here. It’s not every day I get such a mysterious request for a meeting.” She winked at Scout. “And from such notorious company. Even out here, we get the news.”
“We were hoping you would tell us everything you know about an old colleague,” Scout said. “Easton Banks.”
Lila snorted and lowered her sunglasses. She had the shrewdest eyes I’d ever seen. “What has that man done now?”
On instinct, Brooks and I looked at each other, a spark of excitement sizzling between us.
“Are you implying Easton has a history of bad behavior?” he asked. “Like I said on the phone, anything you tell us would be an enormous service to an ongoing investigation.”
Lila drummed her nails on her martini glass, looking pensive. “Well, there’s the official story that we fed the trades, and then there’s the truth that never made it out of the chairman’s office. But screw it. I’m retired. No more toeing the company line.” She lifted her martini. “I planned to save this for my memoir, but I suppose playing the hero to the FBI has a certain ring.”
“How well did you know Easton?” I took a small sip of my drink, mostly to have something to do, and almost gagged. Pure gin.
“He was my boss for eleven years.” Lila sipped between words. “And I know what you’re thinking—Lila, that man’s many years your junior, how could he have been your boss? And yes, even though I had more experience and talent than Easton, he had the one thing I lacked.” She dabbed at her mouth with her napkin. “A dick.”
I coughed.
“ABS was a boys’ club back then,” she said. “Probably still is. And Easton was a climber. His wife hated it, I remember that. She came from one of those original Los Angeles railroad families. Thought working for a living was beneath them.”
