Accidental Shield (Marriage Mistake #6)(121)

And that’s about the second the air in my lungs locks up.

I pace the small kitchen area frantically. Oh, God.

What have I started up? Whether Manny drives me nuts or not, this seems serious.

He hired me, gave me a chance, a job, when no one else would. If I screw this up, I’m screwed to the place you go where you don’t have good screwing puns anymore.

Bad news is, I need this stupid job. Even if it comes with a slight risk of major, enigmatic weirdos barking demands through cheap phones.

I swore I’d never accept another dime from Mom after college. Even if she has enough dimes in her investment account to rebuild the Tower of Babel.

Mom doesn’t owe me anything. I already owe her a lot. She covered my tuition in full, not to mention she’s letting me live here practically rent free.

But now I’ve just put my ticket to adulthood in freaking jeopardy.

Maybe worse.

Worse, meaning, I could be knocked off or arrested for being involved in...whatever this is.

Crap, crap, crap, crap. Also, crap.

I take a deep breath and hold it, contemplating my answer before I start to type carefully.

Stork, Storkley, and Associates has a sterling reputation.

Lame, but it’s the best I can come up with right now.

Within seconds, a new reply buzzes in.

Fuck your reputation. Can you deliver what I need or not?

“I don’t know what you need!” I shout at the screen, getting flustered all over again. I know if I could see my own reflection, my face would give my hair a run in the red department.

I’m mulling over how utterly frustrated I am, mostly with myself for thinking a little fun wouldn’t come back to bite my rump, when it happens.

The phone rings again. And I almost pee my pants.

“Crap!” Why the hell did I text Mr. Unknown back? Now I have to answer it. Have to!

It keeps ringing. There’s no voicemail set up. It would’ve already rolled over to it a long time ago if it were.

Taking a breath that scalds my lungs, I tap the answer button. “Stork, Storkley, and Associates,” I say.

The long silence on the other end allows my lungs to empty. For a second, I’m relieved there’s no one there. I start peeling the phone away from my ear, but then there’s thunder.

A rough, gruff voice.

“You her?”

Her? Hell no!

“Are you her?” The voice grows louder. Angrier. Mr. Unknown sounds even more pissed off than his texts.

“Excuse me?” I mutter.

“You deaf? Asked if you’re her?” He snarls again. “Lady, I don’t have time for games. There’s too much at stake. So I ask. You answer. Are. You. Her?”

I swallow a boulder in my throat. I’m not sure I’d ever know what to say.

But Unknown cuts in again before I can squeak anything.

“Look, I’ve been driving for eighteen hours already and still have to make it across North Dakota. I need to know everything’s in place. We’ll be there tomorrow.”

It’s not just fury in his voice. There’s desperation, too, but that’s not what makes me go stock-still.

Another voice in the background does.

A child’s voice, saying they have to go. Anyone who’s ever heard a kid desperate for the nearest bathroom knows the urgency I just heard.

“It’s in place,” I say. “Confirmed. I’ll talk to Mr. Stork and make sure–”

The phone goes dead before I even finish.

Holy hell. Fingers quivering, I set it on the counter again like it’s alive and might bite me.

What. Is. This?

I have no idea how long I’ve been pacing the floor, wondering if I should panic call Manny when the phone rings again.

I stare at it, my eyes ready to crawl right out of my head. Kidnapping crosses my mind. What if that’s what this is? Some soulless creeper rounding up kids for God only knows what?

But then, I remember the child said Dad. Dad, hurry up, I have to go!

Unless their dad kidnapped the boy from his mama. That happens all the time in the news.

He could still be a serial killer, and a kidnapper to boot. Or maybe she’s the big bad wolf, and he’s just trying to get the kid to safety. Or maybe...

Ugh.

Maybe that’s why Manny’s side gigs are practically classified. Child custody cases. People will pay big bucks to keep their kids – especially from psycho exes.

Picking up the phone, I click on the answer icon, and whisper a “Hello?”

“Sorry,” the gruff voice says. “It’s been a rough trip. I just need to know everything’s set. Finalized. It’s too late to—”

“It’s set,” I say impulsively. “Everything.”

“Your law office tomorrow morning?”

I close my eyes, suddenly sick to my stomach. “Yes.”

“Nine a.m.?”

I squeeze my eyes shut harder. “Yup. Nine it is.”

“Thanks. See you soon.”

There’s a bleeping sound. The line goes dead again. Cue my entire body turning to mush.

Then I’m just slinking down on the floor, wondering what I’ve done.

I always wanted to write thrillers. Not be in one.23