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1
PIPER
The last time I was in Noelle’s apartment, I had a clay mask on my face and 90s rap music was blasting through the speaker on her kitchen counter.
“Is my skin supposed to be burning?” Ashley had asked, poking at the hardened layer of green clay on her face.
I examined myself in the mirror hanging above Noelle’s couch. “Why is it drying all wrinkly? I look like a swamp monster.”
“Would you two stop complaining? Beauty is pain.” Noelle carried out a tray of fresh cut fruit and cheese with two wine bottles fitted precariously between her fingers. “Time for the monthly session of Whine and Wine to commence.”
Ashley lunged for the wine. “Be careful with these! This is the only reason I’m here. If you drop them, I’m leaving.”
She laughed, but we couldn’t quite bring ourselves to. She was “California sober,” to use one of her pet phrases, which basically meant not sober at all. Three weeks later, Ashley would have an overdose scare and end up back in rehab.
At the time, I thought it was the worst thing that could happen to any of us.
Now, I know better.
Because now, I’m standing in the center of Noelle’s dark apartment with a flashlight, and I’d kill to go back to that night. Back to bailing Ashley out of jail, rather than hunting through Noelle’s personal files for evidence that she committed a white collar crime. Back to complaining about my coworkers instead of fighting my feelings for a known criminal who, more and more, is turning out to be the only person I can trust.
I sift through the drawers of Noelle’s desk. Yellow light from the street is streaming in through the slats of her blinds. Her laptop is closed on the corner of her desk, but I leave it be. Almost everything is online these days. I highly doubt she’d use her personal email account to plot with the Albanians.
“You’re smarter than that, Noelle,” I mutter, flipping through the pages of her daily planner. “You know how to keep things hidden.”
Although, come to think of it, she didn’t really do such an amazing job at keeping this hidden; I just ignored half a dozen obvious signs. I didn’t realize the news headlines about Noelle’s company and the recent audits could have anything at all to do with her. When I saw a few articles pop up on Twitter, I didn’t even ask her about it because she only worked in a subsidiary of the larger parent corporation. It seemed so unlikely for one of my best friends to be involved in fraudulent activity—especiallyNoelle—that I never entertained the possibility for a second.
That blind faith oversight nearly killed me.
Worse, it nearly killed Timofey and Benjamin.
The thought of Benjamin in danger nearly steals my breath. I’ve only been his nanny for a few weeks, but I couldn’t help but fall in love.
With Benjamin?asks an obnoxious voice in my head.Or his adopted father?
I ignore the question from the peanut gallery and press my hand to my heart to slow its racing. “Timofey has Benjamin. He’s safe… for now.”
I do not miss the irony that I once wanted nothing more than to get Benjamin away from Timofey, and now, I’m comforted by the fact that they are together. Irony is all I’ve got left these days.
It’s just that Timofey would never let anything happen to Benjamin. He’d tear apart the world to save the people he loves.
And after everything you’ve been through, you gave up that security. You gave up Timofey.
I shake my head, trying to shake the traitorous thoughts loose once and for all. Timofey didn’t love me. Our relationship was for show. The only thing I gave up when I walked out on him was the illusion we’d created.
But my feelings for Benjamin are no illusion. I have to do whatever I can to save him from whatever Noelle and the Albanians have planned.
First things first, though: I need to find the proof.
Noelle may be one of my oldest friends, but she committed a crime and justice should be served. Honestly, that’s what’s best for her, too. Prison is going to be kinder to her than the Albanians will be.
I set Noelle’s planner aside and move to the recycling bin under her desk. Maybe she tossed something with the expectation that no one would ever see it. It’s not exactly normal for people to break in and raid your trash, after all. She couldn’t be blamed for thinking it was fine to throw something incriminating in there.
I’m separating the bin into receipts, bills, and junk when someone pounds on the door.
The knocking is so loud that I instinctively duck, expecting wooden shrapnel to start flying.
There’s a beat of silence before the knocking starts again. The window behind me rattles in the frame. The door might not explode, but whoever is on the other side will be bursting through it in a second.
