6

THE CALL

(Present Day)

Despite my best efforts, figuring out the motives of a highly suspicious FBI agent turns out to be no easy task.

On the first day of surveillance, all I get from Riker is a text informing me that he can see straight into our living room from the tree across the street, prompting me to install new blinds and consider chopping down the oak for firewood. The second day is equally unproductive since I don’t hear from Riker at all. In a panic, I call Jordan, thinking he’s been caught and is currently in FBI holding, but she assures me that all is well.

“He told us to sit tight. He thinks he might have a lead.”

“What kind of lead?”

“He wouldn’t say.”

Which isn’t surprising, considering how much Riker loves to be mysterious. It matches his dark hair and broody outlook. That man was a magician in a past life, I’m sure of it.

Unfortunately, day three isn’t proving itself all that helpful, either. Riker refuses to pick up his phone, and Grant has been the soul of cheerful husbandly ardor, present in body but distant in mind.

“Hey, Pen?” Marta, the woman who runs the activities department at the dance studio where I work, pokes her head through the door. Since I have to stick to my regular routine as much as possible, I’m currently in the middle of one of my sessions teaching beginners’ ballet to a bunch of four-year-olds in multicolored tutus. And by beginners, I mean the hyperactive kids who mostly need a place with four walls and a semiresponsible adult until their parents get out of work. No one else cares for this job, which is the primary reason I’m allowed to do it, but I also like the disorganized chaos. These little princess terrors are my kind of people.

I should probably mention that I don’t get paid to work here. My position is and always has been done on a strictly volunteer basis—though I do use their printer to make fake pay stubs every month. I’m nothing if not thorough.

“What’s up?” I ask. “If it’s about my foot, I promise I’m not putting any more weight on it than necessary. There will be no lawsuits or workman’s comp claims, on my honor.”

Marta, a thin-lipped woman whose face always seems to be pulled back as tightly as her hair, doesn’t smile. My charm has never had much effect on her. “Very funny. You have a phone call. It’s your husband.”

An adorable pixie of a girl wearing a neon-green tutu swirls past me, and I find myself transfixed by the revolutions of that unearthly color over the faded wood floor.

“My husband?” I ask. “Are you sure?”

“Well, that’s what he called himself. Do you want me to take a message?”

It’s a simple question—and an even simpler situation—but I have no idea how to respond. I never get phone calls at work. In fact, I’ve made a point to reinforce that the rec center’s budget is so low that they rarely pay the phone bill. The last thing I need is one of those relationships where Grant and I regularly check in with each other at work. Sorry, dear. Can’t talk now. Jordan’s about to choke a security guard with a smoke bomb. Want me to grab some Thai for later?

“Hello? Pen?”

“Sorry. Of course. I’ll go talk to him.” I blink myself into focus, suddenly struck with the thought that maybe I should grab some Thai for later. Grant’s been working almost nonstop since our failed anniversary night, and in my panic about the necklace, I haven’t had a chance to get him a gift. “Would you mind watching the kids for a few minutes?” I ask.

Marta waves me off, her face relaxing as she claps the girls into a semblance of order. Poor dears. Like most of the people in my life, they’d be better off having someone skilled and, you know, noncriminal to depend on. I slip out quietly so as not to disturb the lesson.

Even though the front desk isn’t the most private place to have a conversation, no one seems to notice or care when I pick up the beige plastic receiver with a tentative, “Hello?”

“Oh, good. You’re there.”

In terms of romantic effusion, Grant’s greeting could use a little work, but the subtext—that he wasn’t sure I could be trusted to appear at work during my regular hours—gave my heart enough of a pitter-patter to make up for it. “Yes, I’m here. Is everything okay? Have you been shot or something?”

“Is that the only reason I can call you?”

“You have, haven’t you? You took a bullet.” I’m only half joking—I can’t think of any other reason for this unprecedented phone call unless it’s part of this sneaky test of his to see if I’ll take the necklace. “How long do you have to live?”

He hesitates. “If I were to tell you I only have five minutes, what would you do?”

“Five minutes exactly, or five minutes ballpark figure?”

“It doesn’t matter. I’m dying. What would you say to me if you knew it was the last thing I’d ever hear?”

Romance might not be my forte, but I know the answer to that question. It’s I love you. No matter what’s happening or whose life is on the line, a wife should always send her husband to the great beyond with at least that much.

But Grant isn’t dying, and I’m not sure I care to deal with the repercussions of that claim. In all our time together, that’s the one lie we’ve both managed to avoid. “Um…I promise to wear black every day for a year after you’re gone?”

“You already wear black every day.”

“I’ll add a veil.”

He sighs. “You would, too, just so you could say you held up your end of the bargain.”

I open and close my mouth, unsure how to proceed. He actually sounds hurt that I didn’t follow the script.

Fortunately—or not—there’s no time to backtrack. “I know you’re busy today, but do you know where my passport is?” he asks.

I do. It’s right next to my passport, the pair of them entertaining one another inside the sanctity of our safe. They’re probably discoing under the bright lights cast by the multimillion-dollar necklace.

“Um, yes? I think it’s at home where it always is.”

“Perfect. I know it’s out of your way, but can you swing it by the Bureau this afternoon?”

I pull the receiver away from my ear and stare at it, tempted to give it a shake. Is he kidding? He wants me to open the safe I’ve been studiously avoiding since Saturday and journey to the wolf’s lair?

“It’s kind of urgent, so sooner is better,” I hear him say from a distance.

I put the phone back to my ear with a start. “What? Why? Are you going somewhere?”

“No, no—nothing like that. It’s just this new thing I’m trying out.”

“What kind of thing?”

“A top secret thing.” He pauses, and I can hear a clipped voice of authority in the distance. I strain to make out the words, listening for anything that might sound like diamonds or necklace, but the voices are too far away. As usual, he gives me just enough to raise suspicion—never enough to cast it aside. “Listen, I’ve got to run, but you’ll come by later with that passport?”

“I just have to get all the way home and open the safe first…” I say, hoping he might give me more to go on.

He doesn’t. “I knew you wouldn’t let me down. Good ol’ dependable Pen.”

Good ol’ dependable Pen, my ass. I’m the least trustworthy human on the planet, and he knows it. Either he’s trying to butter me up so he can slam me with some new curveball, or there are darker forces at work. Not for the first time, I wish I had the ability to cut through his smiles and compliments, chuck aside his flattery, to see the real man below. There are times, like when he was in that jewelry store with my necklace, that I’m sure he’s my enemy.

There are also times, like this moment, when I suspect he might be more.

“Grant, before you go—”

“Yeah? Have you decided what your last words will be before I succumb to all this blood loss?”

My chest constricts at the image of Grant actually bleeding out, all that life and vitality trickling away. The stubborn man takes so many risks on the job and always with a kind of cheerful unconcern for his own well-being. It’s not that much of a stretch to picture it.

“It’s just…” My voice wavers enough that I have to take a deep breath before continuing. “Would it be okay if I stop by a little later with the passport, maybe closer to six? I was thinking I might bring takeout with me, if you think you could spare half an hour.”

Whether it’s the cheap handset or the profound silence of his hesitance, I hear nothing but buzzing for a full ten seconds.

“You want to have dinner with me tonight?” he eventually says.

He’s so surprised by the offer that I feel like I’ve accidentally announced my darkest secrets. “Only if you’re not too busy,” I rush. “I was thinking Thai sounds good.”

“Thai does sound good.” His voice is warmer than before, and even though the noises in his office pick up, he doesn’t hang up right away. “In fact, Thai sounds great.”