Page 16 of Married to the Enemy

“Of course she was,” he hissed, then transformed his expression into smooth professionalism.

Barry sighed loudly, as though the entire world existed only to bore him. “So what?” he muttered, making a lazy checkmark on the clipboard before ambling toward the stairs. He’d pretend to “inspect” the kitchens next. Not that he gave a damn.

Nutrition? Cleanliness? None of that mattered to him. If one of the geezers complained that the food was tasteless or the peas were still frozen in the middle, he’d handle it the same way he handled every complaint—ignore it until the complainer shut up or “accidentally” lost their dentures. Barry didn’t have to eat the swill himself, so why would he care if it was powdered potatoes and reheated slop?

Matthew cleared his throat. “So, Ms. Santini isn’t coming back. She was checked out this morning for her guardianship hearing.” He hesitated, eyes darting away. Nobody liked holding Barry’s gaze for long—it was like staring down a rabid rat. “Mia Calvino called to say she’s stopping by for her grandmother’s things.”

That made Barry stop dead on the stairwell.

Evangeline Santini. One of his richest residents. The woman had no idea Barry had been cashing her dividend checks every month, pocketing thousands while feeding her sedative-laced milk to keep her quiet and oblivious. He’d been bleeding her dry with phony invoices—wheelchair repairs that never happened, “therapy fees” for therapists who didn’t exist, medical invoices for services that never happened. It had been perfect. Easy.

And now she was leaving? Just like that?

“She can’t leave,” Barry croaked, a flicker of panic clawing at his chest. If she left for good, those invoices and payments would stop. His little gravy train would screech to a halt, not to mention, Vito Calvino—Minneapolis’s shiny new mob boss—would be up Barry’s ass demanding answers for how Evangeline was allowed to leave. Barry had promised to keep the old bat docile, tucked neatly out of the way, while Vito schemed for her fortune.

No, no, this couldn’t be happening.

But then he forced his breathing to slow. He reminded himself that he had connections. He was working with Vito Calvino, after all. The man might be a mobster, but he knew how to make problems disappear.

Barry pretended to focus on the clipboard in his hands, skimming down the long checklist. Worthless, of course. He never checked anything. But people respected clipboards. He’d read that somewhere. All a person had to do was carry one around and suddenly you looked official. Professional. The truth was, he’d rather die than bend over to inspect a furnace filter or a freezer temperature gauge.

“Assign Marta to pack up Ms. Santini’s things,” he said at last, his tone dismissive, “but leave the room unoccupied.” He chuckled dryly, shaking his head. “She’ll be back. Old bats like her always come crawling back before too long.”

With that, he trundled up the stairs, already thinking about what the kitchen was butchering for lunch. Not that he cared. He’d cut the food budget yet again this month, and the menu showed it. Gray meatloaf, watered-down soup, maybe some slimy vegetables from a can.

The kitchen manager had quit last week in protest, which Barry had celebrated. It gave him the perfect opportunity to shove one of the hourly line cooks into the job without a raise. Another salary saved, another win for his ledger.

“Save, save, save,” Barry hummed under his breath, his lips twitching. The private equity firm that owned this dump didn’t care about the health outcomes or resident happiness. All they cared about was the profit margins.

And Barry? Well, Barry was an investor too. He liked those profits. He liked them a lot.

Chapter 9

Raffe followed the old sedan for three miles, keeping just far enough back that Mia wouldn’t notice him in her rearview mirror. He was ready to follow her onto the highway when his cell phone rang. The display lit up with a name he knew too well. Jenny, Jeremy’s caseworker.

He tapped the button. “What’s up, Jenny?”

“The police picked Freddy up last night,” she announced, her voice tight with fatigue.

Raffe’s grip on the wheel tightened until his knuckles whitened. His jaw locked. “What did he do?” Freddy was in a wheelchair. How much harm could a kid in a chair really do?

Jenny sighed, and he could almost see her pinching the bridge of her nose, trying to hold back her frustration. “He stole food from the convenience store two blocks from his foster mom’s house.”

Raffe’s chest constricted. Food. Of course it was food.

“Kid’s got straight A’s, never mouths off to a teacher, helps the younger ones with their homework,” Jenny continued softly. “And then he’s stealing potato chips and beef jerky because his foster mom ‘forgets’ to feed them dinner half the time.” Her voice thickened, and Raffe knew if she wasn’t so damn tough, she’d be sobbing right then.

“Damn it,” he muttered, running a hand over his jaw. Freddy didn’t even like junk food. Raffe had watched him push away candy bars, saying he preferred apples or yogurt. The boy wasn’t looking for a thrill. He was hungry.

Jenny pushed on, her voice steadier now. “A little birdy told the judge about Freddy’s home life,” she added, and this time Raffe heard the faint smile in her voice. He knew who that bird was. Jenny had whispered in the correct ear, planting just enough information. “The judge wants to see Jim and Katy Fuller in his courtroom.”

“When?” Raffe asked sharply, narrowing his eyes as he saw the sedan up ahead slow down. Why was she turning? He tracked the car’s indicator. A fried chicken joint. His frown deepened. Fried chicken for the frail old woman? What she needed was fresh vegetables, lean protein—hell, even a bowl of soup would’ve been better than so much grease. But what the hell did he know about senior nutrition? He was a field agent, not a dietician.

“In an hour,” Jenny replied.

Raffe swore under his breath, low enough that he hoped she wouldn’t hear.

“I heard that,” Jenny muttered, a tired laugh coloring her voice. She probably cursed the same way when another child-in-crisis phone call came in at midnight.