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“Sure.”
I load Frozen for her to watch again and she settles on her favorite cushion, holding the doll tight.
I pass the Milk Duds box to Eileen. “Nothing special,” I tell her. “Empty of chocolate. Ingredients list, logo, barcode, all the same as any other box of Milk Duds. It’s nothing special.”
“He clearly thought otherwise.” She runs it around in her hands. “I still have no idea.”
“So I’m screwed?”
She clicks her fingers. “What about that guy who came in the other day?”
“What about him?”
“He gave you his card, right?”
“Yeah, so what?”
“So maybe he could lend you the money.”
“Are you out of your mind?”
She sits up straight, wincing as she does so. “You said his suit looked expensive. You said he looked rich. Why not give it a try?”
“Because he’s a customer waiting for a book, not a bank.”
“He said money was no object for the first edition. Why not tell him it costs ten thousand?”
“Because I’d be lying and he wouldn’t get the book he ordered. It only came out in the 90s. It’s never going to cost that much.”
“What if I tell you I have a first edition on my shelf that I don’t even read and I’ll give it to you for nothing if you man up and tell him it costs ten thousand?”
“Are you serious?”
“I’ll get it for you as soon as you call him. Do it, do it, do it.”
She slides my phone along the coffee table, still whispering, “Do it.”
“I don’t know. It feels wrong.”
“You promised your mom at her funeral that you’d run the bookstore she always dreamed of having. You want to break your promise or you want to sort this whole thing out in one phone call?”
I look at the phone, and then I find the business card in my handbag. “I can’t believe I’m doing this,” I say, punching in the number. “You’re a bad influence.”
“I know.”
It rings and rings. Just when I’m certain he will not answer, it connects.
Chapter Eight
Angelo
* * *
“Hi,” she says down the line. Her voice reminds me of why I need to stay away from her. “Is that Angelo?”
“Two minutes,” I reply, hitting the mute button before turning back to face the men in the chairs. “I’m getting tired of this,” I say to them both, ripping the gag off the nearest guy to me, getting blood on my fingers. “You were going to kill Natalie Mason. Tell me the truth about who hired you and I’ll let you live.”
He spits again, looking up at me with defiant eyes. “I swear to God, we didn’t touch nothing. We were on vacation in Centerville, that’s all—”
