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I hate this. I wish I had a choice…but I can’t pass up this opportunity.
Shoving down my niggle of reluctance, I fling open her suitcases, checking the side pockets and zippered compartments first to avoid ruffling her carefully folded clothes. They’re empty. Other than a collection of shorts and T-shirts, I find nothing of note in the rest of her luggage. A few dresses and a couple of light sweaters hang from the overhead rack.
Next, I yank open the dresser on the far side of the bed. Panties in muted colors—some lacy and downright sweat-inducing—line the bottom. Delicate matching bras are nested and stacked beside them. The rest of the drawers net a collection of bikinis, socks, scarves, and tanks. No papers. No thumb drives. No files of any kind. Of course, it doesn’t help that I don’t know what I’m looking for other than something that tells me whether Bethany Banks is guilty.
She doesn’t have a computer that I can see. Maybe she left it in San Diego. Maybe the feds confiscated it. I don’t know. But damn it, the clock is ticking, so I keep moving.
Quickly, I sweep the bathroom. She keeps the counter clear of personal items. In the cabinet, I find nothing out of the ordinary—makeup, deodorant, shampoo, shower gel, and the like. There’s no incriminating evidence, unless you count tampons and birth control pills.
Darting back to the main room, I visually sweep the cottage again and spot her purse on the kitchenette counter. The display on my phone tells me she’s been gone four minutes.
Stop or keep searching? I don’t want to be caught, but if I quit now, will I get another chance to inspect her personal space again?
Biting back a curse, I reach for the magnetic closure on her quilted pale pink purse. The golden logo across the front proclaims the bag is Chanel. Inside, there’s one main compartment containing mints, a mini hairbrush, a few tubes of lipstick, and a compact—but nothing incriminating, nothing that gives me a reason to mentally convict her.
I also find a small ring with two keys. One I saw her use to let us into this unit. The other… I don’t know what it opens, but I know what it doesn’t: any sort of safe deposit or strong box. My best guess is that it unlocks her apartment in San Diego.
Next, I troll through her matching Chanel wallet, feeling guiltier by the moment for invading her privacy because it’s seeming more and more like she’s done nothing…except make me second-guess everything I thought I knew.
Her driver’s license, ATM card, and credit cards galore take up all the slots. She doesn’t have a lot of cash on hand—mostly small, wrinkled bills people have left as tips, but her posh purse tells me she must have money somewhere. Same with all the plastic. But I keep coming back to the fundamental question: why the fuck is she working as a cocktail waitress when she’s way too educated for the job? Either she’s hiding here while maintaining a low profile to ensure people cool down and look the other way before she hits up her stolen stash and starts living her bougie life, or she’s innocent, the feds and her father have stripped her of everything, and she’s just trying to survive.
Which fucking possibility is the right one?
Tucked inside a compartment I nearly missed is a card from an FBI agent, Trevor Forsythe. I’ve never heard of this guy, but I whip out my phone, take a picture of his digits, then slide it back into place. I’ll pursue that later. But there’s nothing else of note here, and I have the same damn questions I did before I invaded her personal belongings without her consent.
Finally, I reach for her phone. It’s password protected, no surprise. Bethany isn’t stupid, and I’m at another dead end.
When I hear soft footsteps making their way up the stairs, I shove everything in her bag once more. I’m not going to make it back to the sofa in time, so I’ll have to lie to her. Again. This is really bugging the shit out of me.
Behind me, the door opens. Wincing, I peek in the nearest cabinet. “Hey, I was just seeing if there was a glass I could pour the beer into. Found one.”
When I turn, she’s looking at me suspiciously. I don’t blame her. What self-respecting beer drinker wants their cold beer poured into a room temperature mug?
“Let me put it in the freezer for you, at least for a few minutes.” She takes it from my hand.
There she is again, thinking of others. “Thanks.”
As I settle back onto the sofa, she handles the mug, then sets a plate of cheese and crackers, along with some fresh pineapple, grapes, and mangos, in front of us. “Help yourself.”
