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Thirty
Maisy
Fox wasn’t about to let me out of his sight for the foreseeable future, but I convinced him I needed to leave his converted warehouse or go stir crazy if I didn’t get out for a bit.
The itch under my skin was killing me and I wouldn’t tame myself or hold back from what I need anymore. My usual yoga routine wasn’t helping. I needed fresh air and something normal to beat back the memories of being shot at yesterday. I promised to be careful while I hung out with Thea at her bakery. He tried to shove his gun in my purse, but since it wouldn’t fit and I refused to carry it on me, he told me with finality that I had an hour before he picked me up.
“An hour and that’s it,” he reminds me when he drops me off on the main street lined with shopping boutiques, galleries, and a coffee shop. “I don’t like leaving you here.”
“I’m grabbing smoothies with my bestie, not walking into a life and death situation.” He growls in displeasure and I bend to give him a quick kiss. “I’ll be fine. Look, see? There are yoga moms. Totally safe.”
As I gesture at the cheerful storefronts and the women I usually see in my classes pushing their kids in strollers amongst the other shoppers enjoying the summer day, his chiseled jaw works. Some people look our way, pausing to stare at him while they whisper to each other, probably spreading more lies about him.
“You should always be prepared,” he says gruffly. “Be careful and keep an eye out. We still have no idea if they know you’re with me. I’d rather no one found out if it keeps you safe.”
I point to Thea’s bakery in the middle of the block. “I’m going right there. Nothing’s going to happen.”
If I say it enough times, I’ll believe it.
He brushes my waist. “If you need me, you call right away. I’ll be back in an hour to get you.”
I nod and watch him drive off, admiring the sight of him on his motorcycle. A pair of women in LuLulemons and trendy corduroy baseball caps wave to me as I head down the sidewalk.
“We missed you in class this week,” one of them says.
“I know, sorry. I’m on a break for a while,” I offer with a smile. When they exchange a glance and tilt their heads in silent yoga mom language—aka totally judging me—I add, “Figuring out stuff for my freshman semester.”
“Oh,” they drawl in unison.
“Keep working on your crane pose, you’ll get there.” I infuse cheerfulness I don’t feel into my tone. “It’s all about practice, ladies.”
I leave them behind and keep heading for the bakery.
A familiar voice nearby stops me in my tracks. Mom. Ducking under the shaded awning of a boutique, I hide behind a rack of clothes and pretend to browse until I spot her up ahead with Mayor Taylor and another man in tow. I’ve managed to avoid my parents around Ridgeview since I left, but I didn’t think I’d run into her downtown in the middle of the day. Shouldn’t she be at her office instead of having lunch with the mayor?
Then again, Fox and I traced her to that shady abandoned warehouse when she was supposed to be at work for an important meeting. Thinking of what happened after we went there yesterday sends a shudder rolling through me. I came out here to get away from the thoughts rattling around in my head.
It’s weird to look at her now that I know she’s working with criminals.
For a moment, I wonder if the mayor is in on their scheming. The old mayor was in some way, since they got him to overlook Dad’s promotion with a bribe.
This is an opportunity I can’t waste. I take out my phone and send a quick text to Thea letting her know I’m running late. She won’t mind and this could be important to help us figure out more of what’s going on.
Keeping my movements casual, I sneak my phone through the rack and snap photos of the three of them as they talk. They’re too far to hear clearly. Mom seems tense and the guy with the mayor is frowning. I don’t recognize him and it only tugs harder at my suspicion.
They turn and head my way. Crap. I shift around the boutique’s sale
racks and fake being absorbed in a vintage red suede number that, actually, I would love to have.
“Maisy.” Not a question, barely a hint of surprise at running into me, and no trace of worry or remorse for the things she said to me the night I left.
I meet my mother’s cool gaze. “Mom.” My attention shifts over her shoulder to the mayor. “Mayor Taylor.”
The third man stands close to the mayor. He has cropped hair and looks rough, even in a cheap suit stretched to its limit by his barrel chest. His steel gaze sweeps over me, making my skin crawl. Must be a new bodyguard.
“Nice to see you, Maisy,” the mayor says. “I hope you’re feeling better. Your mother mentioned you caught a bad stomach bug when I saw you last at the steakhouse.”
“Right,” I say, glancing accusingly at Mom. Any lie she can spin to keep her from looking bad is fair game. “I was sick to my stomach.”
