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“I can walk without help.”
“I can protect you better if you let me.”
I shut up.
Because he has a point.
Chapter 38
After going home, showering, letting Connie fuss over me and make me a healthy, protein-packed salad, I’m sitting at the granite counter in the kitchen, picking at the pecans and unsweetened tart cherries at the bottom of my salad bowl, musing over my phone.
Jane left with a promise to check in tomorrow. Daddy and Mom texted me from D.C., telling me they loved me. And then there’s a cryptic text from someone at the Island.
It’s a text about joining a famous soft drink manufacturer’s contest, but that’s code. Our secret code. My hacker contact has learned something from the dark net, and he needs to get in touch with me to tell me. No one who reads that text will know that it’s anything more than a spam text.
But I know.
And suddenly, everything has changed yet again.
I need to get out of the Grove, out from under all this scrutiny, and somehow get the information my contact has. He’s learned important details about my attackers, and if I can get that information, I can act. I can exact my revenge.
And revenge has taken on a new importance, given their attempt to kill me.
Or—worse.
That damn text. Welcome back, Lindsay. Ready to play with us again?
I refuse to play their game.
Soon they will have no choice but to play mine.
I’m alone now.
Except Drew and Silas and five other security guys are guarding the house, and about nine other servants are working.
Which makes me almost alone.
“Three days,” I say under my breath.
“Excuse me?” Connie asks, her eyes perky and concerned.
“I’ve been home for three days.”
“You sure do know how to make an entrance,” she says, giving me an inscrutable look. “Any news on the car malfunction?”
I don’t know how much I can tell her, so I say as little as possible. “We’re waiting for some investigators to finish going over it.”
“Thank goodness no one was severely injured. Your head wound is bad enough, but without Drew’s quick thinking, this could have been much worse.” Her breathless comment makes me think she’s just a nice woman.
Those little calculated looks, though...
“Finished?” She asks, pointing to my bowl.
I nod. She takes it away, rinses it, puts it in the dishwasher, and starts the machine. I look at the clock. It’s only one o’clock. Maybe she works different hours than I thought?
“I’ve made dinner in advance,” she explains, as if she knew what I was afraid to ask. “You can heat it up. Directions are taped on top. When your parents are out of town, they ask me not to come.” Connie has a pained look on her face. “And your mother said to just make you something simple for your evening meal. Salmon and spinach and cauliflower.”
“No chocolate ganache?” I joke
