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I sense it all, plus the warmth, the sticky humidity, the twinge in my left hamstring which says I need to stretch this evening if I want to stay on top form.
I do want to stay on top form. Ineedto.
Betty’s counting on me. And not just Betty—not anymore.
I find my wife exactly where I left her ten minutes ago: resting on a sun-lounger a short distance from the beach bar, hands cupping her bump, eyes closed. A drained glass of cranberry juice stands on the little table next to her, ice cubes melting to slush, the glass sweating beads of condensation. The music thrums.
I stroll closer, but she doesn’t move. Alarm spikes. My pace quickens, and I check our surroundings before kneeling at her side.
“Betty.” I take her hand, checking her pulse. Normal. That makes one of us. “Sweetheart. Are you alright?”
“I’mnapping,” she says, grouchy from tiredness, but her mouth twists into a wry smile when her eyes open. “Ever heard of it, Agent Dawes?”
Nope. One of us needs to stay alert, sweeping the perimeter for signs of trouble. Obviously that’s me, and it’s always going to be me, but that’s fine. I’m glad to do it.
Betty’s doing a much more important job. Spreading one hand over her bump, I try to feel something—anything—through the cotton of her sundress. “Is everything okay?”
“Yep.” Betty taps my nose. “And with you, Mystery Man?”
“Yes.”
No signs of the agency. Since we disappeared with no trace, there have never been any signs—but I don’t take chances and I never will. The stakes are too high.
Good thing we have lock boxes full of cash and jewels and other supplies, squirreled away in various cities around the world. We’ll never have to fret about money, and we can focus on what matters.
On Betty.
On her bump.
“I think it’s a boy,” she says, tracing patterns over her belly. “He’s really manspreading in there.”
A boy? “You’ll have to send Miriam a postcard and ask her. Bet she knows.”
Betty’s old coworker from the coffee shop makes eerily accurate guesses about our lives—and we know, because whichever secret location we move to every few months, Miriam somehow magically knows our new address and sends us packages.
She gives us code names, at least. She’s discreet in her own way. Her last letter was addressed to Dr and Mrs Carbinkle. So there’s that.
The old River would have wiped her out—deemed her too much of a risk. Snipped that loose thread and moved on, ruthless and cold.
But the new me only cares about making Betty happy. And offing Miriam? Not a winning proposition.
I’ll keep an eye on her. I already hacked her phone and computer and the security cameras on her street, so it’s fine.
“Want another cranberry juice?”
My wife yawns so hard her jaw cracks. She shakes her head, fumbling for my hand. “No, let’s go home. I’ve had enough adventure for one night.”
Somehow I doubt that. Whenever we lock the door of our beachside cottage behind us, Betty magically gets her second wind, and suddenly she wants me to bend her over a whole new piece of furniture that we’ve never screwed on before. We’re gonna need to move again soon, just to get her a fresh supply of sofas and bookcases.
“Have you thought about where you want to live next?”
Our feet sink into the sand as we stroll away, fingers knotted together. She can’t move fast these days, but I don’t mind. The breeze coming off the sea is fresh, tugging at our hair.
Betty shoots me a mischievous smile. “I have a few ideas.”
Translation: coastal, hot, constant sand in my ass crack. I raise my eyes heavenward, but I don’t really mind.
Betty thinks beaches are good luck for us. And you know what?
