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“Visitor?” Uncle François is in rehab. Who else would visit her?
“Was it a woman around our age?” Yannick asks.
“With two little boys?” I add.
“Yes. Her name was Angel or Angela or something like that. And the boys were adorable.”
I suppress a growl. “How long did she stay?”
“Not long, a few minutes. Your mother fussed over the children, but then the woman asked for something and started crying when your mother refused.”
Tension starts to ebb. “Then what.”
“She said something like, ‘I can’t believe you chose him over me. You don’t really think of me as your daughter after all.’ The boys looked nervous, and your mother started having breathing issues, so we made her leave.”
Furious, I want to have it out with Angélique, but I won’t. She’ll be out of our lives tomorrow.
ChapterThirty-Two
The English language has 112 words for deception, according to one count, each with a different shade of meaning: collusion, fakery, malingering, self-deception, confabulation, prevarication, exaggeration, denial.—Robin Marantz Henig
Micki
Impatience makes things happen.Reining in my own is hard. Sam doesn’t bother. When I turn my phone back on, text message notifications scroll past like marathon runners. Some are from “Fred Lanscombe.” Others from Unknown Caller. I laugh when I see the ones from Tom Collins and Margarita Screwdriver.
Max sips Grant whisky and stares into space. When my message tone goes off wildly, he puts the glass down and walks over. “Don’t open them,” he warns. “Just hand me your phone. We’ll take care of this.”
“Are you planning to flush him out?”
“We’ll try.” Jarvis’ mouth turns down, and he almost looks like a killer rather than a geek.
“I’m supposed to have a call with JL at nine. Can I do that?”
“Not a problem,” Jarvis assures me. “I can give you a burner. I’ll text him the number. That way, we can spend as much time as we need to set up our trap.”
They disappear up the stairs to Max’s office with a platter of nachos and my cell.
“Cyber widows,” Cress remarks, taking an eggplant bruschetta.
“Speak for yourself,” I tell her.
Time drags. I stare at the phone Jarvis gave me, run my fingers over the glass, push some keys. The device lights up. A message appears on the screen. “Connect here to make phone operable.”
I stare at the letters, trying to make sense of the words. Wouldn’t Jarvis have set up the phone for me? Then again, maybe this is extra security. I glance in Cress’ direction. She’s sipping tea, absorbed in something on her phone. Should I check with the guys? I don’t want to disturb them. The message keeps blinking at me, so I hit the connect button.
“Phone is now usable.” The message lingers for a few seconds, then disappears. That’s all right then. I lay the phone down on the side table and go to the kitchen for some hot chocolate. Dorothy hops onto my lap as soon as I sit down.
The guys haven’t reappeared or even given us an update. I try to read but my attention wanders. Cress turns on the playoff game but that doesn’t keep our attention either. I go up to my room and stretch out on the bed, phone on the pillow, next to my ear.
Right at nine, the burner I’ve fiddled with all evening trills, startling me even though I expect it. My top teeth bite into my bottom lip as I push accept. “JL?”
“Micki? You sound, uh, …”
The phone drops to my lap. My right hand massages a sudden tightness in my chest and my left index finger rubs against my bottom lip. Stickiness tells me I am bleeding. Guess I bit down too hard. I run my tongue along the injury, hoping that will staunch the blood. “I’m okay,” I manage to choke out.
“Sam has reemerged?”
“Not exactly. I’m getting lots of messages. Max and Jarvis have the phone and they’re trying to set a trap.”
