Accidental Shield (Marriage Mistake #6)(120)

Still, I’ve always felt like I’m waiting for the other shoe to drop. Like I know something dark and sinister is going to happen.

Someday, it won’t matter, I tell myself again. Probably whenever I’m finally rich enough to lock myself inside and finish writing a book. A damn good one that will have me hitting the charts right alongside Mom.

I kick off my shoes, leave them by the door, and walk across the plush new carpet. Mom had the place re-carpeted before I moved in, all beige because it doesn’t show traffic like white does.

That’s my mother, though, and I love her. Drama and all.

Before I reach the kitchen, my purse buzzes like an angry hornet found its way inside. It’s not my phone. That’s a guarantee.

The number of people who have my phone number is next to nil, and most of them are far too busy to light up my screen at eight o’clock at night.

Real trepidation crawls up my spine as I pull out the cheap phone and set my purse on the counter. I take a deep breath and hold it, glancing at the text displayed on the screen.

Will she be there?

Forget the trepidation. Now, it’s a full-on shiver.

She? She who? A she hasn’t entered Manny’s office since I started there.

What have I confirmed? Manny’s not married, and he doesn’t have any daughters or sisters that I’m aware of.

Crud.

This must be one of his side gigs. Secretive, under-the-table projects that don’t leave much of a trail. Probably for good legal reason.

But I just know they’re how Manny keeps making money outside his skeletal client base. Far more than any lawyer makes writing up wills and settling small-time estate feuds.

I set the phone down and back away from it slowly.

The phone can’t hurt me. It’s ninety percent plastic. I have no good reason to be afraid of it. So why are my hands shaking?

Because deep down, I know this might be Manny’s Pandora’s Box, and I just opened it.

“Get a grip!”

My own voice makes me jump.

“Sheesh!” I head for the fridge and grab a bottle of water, downing half of it without coming up for air.

Better. At least I’m no longer shaking like a leaf.

Deep breath. I go through it in my head.

Manny is a snake, but he’s more like a gardener than a rattler. It’s not like he’s in the business of killing people. Or shacking weirdo Unknowns up with shes for a price.

Eat something, I tell myself.

That’ll help. I haven’t eaten since noon, when I wolfed down the leftover pasta salad I’d taken to the office yesterday.

Listening to my small amount of common sense, I pull out more deli food, and tear open a container of fresh salad. It’s some sort of spring greens mix with chicken and seeds and avocado and raspberry vinaigrette dressing. I put away the rest and plop down at the small breakfast bar to savor a few bites.

I don’t get far before the phone buzzes again.

Oh, crap.

I don’t glance at it, but that doesn’t stop my mind from conjuring up a thousand different scenarios. The mind of a writer is never silent. It’s always working on overtime, creating what-ifs and heroes and bad guys that’ll grab you by the throat and scream read me.

It’s worse for me, though.

Because I was trained from an early age to observe the simplest things with intense scrutiny ever since Mom realized I had an interest in her craft. One time, in her pre-millionaire days, she kept me occupied describing the nacho cheese machine at a gas station in such gory orange detail, I’ve never been able to eat the stuff since.

Add in the fact my mother told me I should write thrillers because it would cure my fear of the dark, and, well, I’m screwed.

That’s all there is to it. I always imagine the worst, never the best.

Like whoever’s texting right now just has to be a serial killer or a sicko looking to put some poor lady on an auction block to pay off Manny’s debts.

Ugh.

It’s exhausting, I know, but in my hamster wheel brain, it’s too real.

The phone goes off again three times before I’m done with my salad. The food helps. I’m no longer thinking the absolute worst.

Well, serial killer is still in the back of my mind, but I’m also pissed at myself for grabbing the damn phone out of Manny’s desk.

But I made my choice. It’s my responsibility. So now what?

Grabbing the phone off the counter, I read the messages, all asking if she’ll be there. Before I lose my nerve, I stab back at the keys on the screen.

I’ll have to confirm that. Hold on.

Smiling, satisfied I’ve bought some precious time, I set the phone down, rinse my dishes, and put them in the dishwasher. Then I go upstairs, change into a pair of yoga pants and t-shirt, and take my hair out of the tight bun that keeps it halfway manageable most days.

Another text comes in hot, making the phone jump against the counter as I’m heading back downstairs.

My eyes suddenly itch. I probably should just ignore it, but, of course, I can’t. There’re three new messages.

Confirm what?

What sort of shitshow is SS&A? I don’t have time for this BS.

You guaranteed your end of this deal. Guaranteed. And I’m paying out the ass.

Whoa. At least I’ve managed to confirm there’s something majorly hinky here.