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GAGE
“Excuse me, miss. Do I know you?”
The words echo down the earpiece I wear, and I freeze at the familiar timbre. I know that voice. It’s older, and a slightly different pitch, but the entire family sounds the same—snotty and self-entitled. Arnold Taylor is easy to recognise.
We’re halfway down the next street, separate so as not to be suspicious, but close enough that I know the others hear the same thing I do. I’m frozen, listening to the voices on the other side of the earpiece. In front of me, Archer glances over his shoulder, his expression tight. Worry fills his eyes, worry for our girl and Eric. I hesitate and nearly turn back, and he must see that in my expression, because his closes down.
“Keep walking,” he commands, and deep down, I know he’s right. After all, if I go rushing in there, the chances of me being recognised are far higher. I can’t go in and bash the asshole’s head in, but Genevieve is far too silent on the other side.
“But she—” I start to say, but Archer curls up his lip.
“Eric is with her. She’ll be fine. Stick to the plan.” The order is sharp, leaving no room for argument.
Everything in me demands I turn around and ride into that pompous, overpriced house like a knight in shining armour, which is fucking stupid. I’m certainly not some white knight out to save damsels, and Genevieve can take care of herself. She’s strong, but if word gets out that she’s not only alive, but robbing the other elite, they’ll string her up by her toes.
Two seconds.
It takes me two long seconds before I’m taking another step again, following the plan and putting more distance between us.
Fuck. Fuck!
Finally, in my ear, I hear Genevieve answer.
“I’m afraid I don’t know you,” she responds, her tone nasally and her pitch higher than normal. The accent is off, like she’s trying her best to seem like she’s from a different part of the country, and relief flashes through me. It’s convincing. Damn, is it convincing. “Oh, wait! Perhaps, you work at the pub my dear friend owns?”
I can practically hear the disdain in my ear at the assumption that Arnold Taylor works in a pub.
“Now, baby. This man’s suit is worth more than two pubs,” Eric adds, a false chastisement. “Clearly, he’s here to buy the house.”
“Selling it, actually,” Taylor replies, but there’s still a hint of suspicion in his voice.
Genevieve giggles, the sound lacking the depth of her real laugh, but it’s perfect for some socialite Barbie. “Silly me.”
“Have a good evening,” Eric says, and then there’s the sound of the two moving, followed by a door opening, and the tension in my shoulders eases just a little. A breath I didn’t realise I was holding escapes as a whistle between my parted lips.
They are out, but fuck, that was close. Despite her disguise, Genevieve is clearly recognisable. Why wouldn’t she be? She’s beautiful. But the sudden gravity of the situation isn’t lost on me. We’ve been playing a game while hiding in our little paradise of a farmhouse, planning hits like some Bonnie and Clyde act, but we can’t keep doing this forever.
At some point, someone is going to look into Genevieve’s eyes and know exactly who she is, despite the news reporting the chances of her still being alive are slim. It’s been months since the glittering Genevieve Dalton went missing. Hell, even fucking Chaz has been shown “mourning” the death of his fiancée and planning some sort of stupid fucking charity event. The charity isn’t even something Genevieve would care about, just another false organisation that does nothing but line the richest pockets.
Knowing that something has to change, that we need to reveal everything and discuss this, I sigh as I climb into the Jeep.
“When we get back, we need a family meeting,” I say, knowing everyone will hear it whether they are here with me or not because of the earpieces.
It’s time to let it all out. It’s time to reveal what we know.
I just hope we don’t lose our glittering trophy because of it.
* * *
The moment we walk into the farmhouse, I watch as Genevieve and Eric start jerking their disguises off. My mouth goes dry when she pulls the small wig and cap off, and her hair comes tumbling down. The contacts are next before she’s quickly grabbing a pack of makeup remover wipes and cleaning her face with a muttered swear. It’s strange to watch her slowly reveal herself, even more so with the dress and weird shapewear underneath, but I wait patiently as she does so.
Eric does the same, shrugging out of the suit jacket and tossing it aside before loosening the buttons and untucking his shirt. Booker is over at the fridge after having dropped the bag of loot by the counter, grabbing a beer from inside before going over to the table. Archer is scrolling through his phone.
“Do I have time for a shower?” Genevieve asks. “Or are we sitting down right now?”
“Now,” I say with a grunt. It could probably wait, but I need to get what I want to say off my chest before it eats me alive. I see the situation, and I need to address it. I don’t think I’m alone. Archer glances up at me knowingly.
We all heard the near recognition.
