“I meant as a cover.” I lift an arm toward her but lower it when she can’t hide the flinch. “Why do you look like the idea makes you want to puke?”
“It’s not that. I just… umm… he might recognize me.” Her hands shake as she untucks her hair from behind her ear to hide behind it.
“Okay. Okay.” I relent a little in my teasing. I don’t want her to clam up again. “We’ll think of something else.”
“I’ll get there. I just need you to help me get close to him,” she says.
“I’ll do my best. Then you’ll help me figure out my stuff.”
“I’m going to need more information about all that.”
“And I’ll tell you.” I tower over her. “Once you prove you’re good.”
“Please.” She rolls her eyes. “I’m damn good at what I do.”
“Prove it.”
“I will.”
We’re facing off again. Drifting back to each other like toys floating in a pool.
“There has to be a reason,” I say without thinking. I’m distracted by the way her gaze keeps dropping to my mouth.
“Hmm?”
“There has to be a reason I can see you when you’re Under and nobody else can.”
Her eyes slant with focus. “It is… concerning.”
“We could help each other out.”
I’ve pushed too far. I can almost see her eyes shutter closed. She steps back.
“This is the deal. Help one another but then that’s it. I don’t need anybody to help me. I’m the one with the skills.”
“Fine.” I scrub a hand over my face.
“Good.”
“Great.”
She swallows the rest of her coffee in one gulp and makes a “yuck” face. “Now hurry up and take me home, Pennsyltucky. I’ve got someone waiting for me.”
6
Maggie
“Mrs. Jenkins,”I yell propping open her back door with my foot. “I brought some groceries.”
It’s Friday morning and I’m set to meet Roe to finalize a plan before he leaves tonight. I go about putting away her eggs and milk while the distinct scuffling of her walker makes its way down the hall.
The fact is there’s no way I could realistically afford to live where I do, but I got lucky with Mrs. Jenkins. I tell her time and time again I’m robbing her but she won’t have it. Mrs. J’s multiple sclerosis takes a toll, and she needs help with the day-to-day stuff. So in exchange for helping her with whatever she needs, I live in the adobe bungalow in her backyard for a fraction of what it’s worth.
She comes from old Hollywood. Her mother was a moderately successful actress I’d never heard of. Her father was supposedly some huge Hollywood screenwriter. She’s never told me who, only that that’s where all her money comes from.
Mrs. Jenkins never had the acting bug and to be honest I don’t think she ever worked a day in her life. She was a socialite in the days before celebrity heiresses were treated like royalty.
Her dog Pepper scampers from behind her to lick my ankles. Pepper’s a mix that can’t be described in terms of traditional breeds; he’s more like a mad scientist’s lab experiment gone terribly wrong. A Chihuahua’s bugged out eyes, a Pomeranian’s short body, and the long hair of I-don’t-even-know-what. Top it all off with a tongue forever spilling over the side of tiny jagged teeth and you have the abomination that is Pepper.
