Her grin is the pure, uncomplicated joy of a kid sitting down to a banana split. But then she shakes her head. “You keep my share.”
“Really?”
“We both know I’ll just blow it. Besides, this way I’ll have something to hold over your head the next time I need something.”
“I’m not sure I like this plan.”
“You love it. You get to be in absolute control.”
“You know me too well.” I give her a moment to change her mind. “Seriously? You don’t want it?”
She scratches absently at one arm. “Tell you what. What have you got on you, right now?”
I take out my wallet. Twelve one-hundred-dollar bills nestle behind a couple of twenties.
“Yeah,” she says, taking all of it. “That seems about right.” She hands me back a twenty and shoves the rest deep into a pocket. “Throw in a week at the Four Seasons.”
“Three days.” I bargain out of habit.
“Five. And I get those forged paintings I left at your house a few years back.”
Left at your house.It sounds like she accidentally forgot her toothbrush in the guest bathroom. Not like she tried to use my home for a con that would have destabilized the international art market for decades.
“No forged paintings for you,” I say.
She pouts.
“But you can come over for dinner and see the real ones. Maybe some time next week?”
“You’ll actually let me past the gate?”
“For one meal. But you have to be with Kate or me the entire time you’re on the premises.”
“What about your Norwegian forest cat? Can’t Nilsson be one of my babysitters?”
“He’s still Swedish. And he’s still too valuable for me to inflict you on him.” I can see the gears turning inside her mind. “Take it or leave it, kid.”
“I take it,” she says.
Before I can brace myself, she throws herself at me, locking her arms behind my back. I respond by reflex, hugging her close. Her bright green hair tickles my nose.
“I love you, Cocoa Puff,” she says.
“I love you too, Nutmeg.”
She squeezes me even tighter before she finally pulls away, sniffling just a little. “I’ll be in touch about that dinner.”
Instead of waiting for the elevator, she breezes past Jacobson with a wave of her fingers, making her way to the fire-emergency stairs. The door closes behind her with a decisive clang.
Jacobson waits for the echo to die away before he asks, “Home?”
I cross the room to retrieve Kate’s duffel. As I straighten, my phone rings. I recognize the tone before I can pull it out of my pocket.
The Andersons are calling from their landline.
Mr. and Mrs. A… I thought I’d never speak to them again… I have to clear my throat twice before I can answer. “This is Cole.”
There’s a pause, and for one stomach-swooping moment I wonder if they’ll hang up without saying a word. But Mrs. A finally says, “I’ve been thinking. And praying. It’s time for us to talk.”
