Code Name: Nanny (SEAL and Code Name #5)(42)

Sophy’s pink gloves were back in place, Summer noted, a perfect match for pink flowered capris and pink sneakers. It was a fashion look that only a nine-year-old could carry off, Summer thought wryly.

“Everything stowed? Schoolbooks, lunch boxes, ferrets?” Summer took the muttering as assent and headed down the road to school. Cara and the senator had left an hour earlier after a hurried breakfast of oatmeal, croissants, and eggs with the girls. The senator had been joined by a secretary and a senior staffer, who were staying in Carmel to prepare for a benefit the senator was hosting for a local women’s crisis center.

Because today was a half-day at summer school, Summer was scheduled to pick up the girls before lunch and make sure they were packed by the time Cara returned at five-thirty.

As she stopped at the corner, she saw Audra’s friend waving to them.

“I forgot, Tracey needs a ride.” Audra moved over to make room, her face unreadable.

Tracey was dressed in sequined flip-flops, a midriff-baring top, and a skintight denim skirt. Interesting school uniform, Summer thought, managing a cheerful greeting as Tracey scooted in next to her friend.

“Sorry, but I missed the bus, and our BMW is in the shop. Stepfather #4 says it’s the brakes, but his car knowledge sucks, so who knows?”

Audra elbowed her friend, who shrugged, then produced a pack of cigarettes from her backpack.

Sophy’s eyes grew huge as Tracey flipped open a heavy gold lighter.

“Please don’t smoke in the car,” Summer said calmly. “Sophy has allergies, and I doubt it’s good for her ferret.”

Tracey sighed, but pocketed the lighter and studied Summer. “So you’re—what, the new nanny?”

“That’s right.”

“What happened to the old one? Susanne What’s-Her-Name, who laughs like a horse?”

“Ms. Broyland had appendicitis, so I came to fill in for a few weeks.”

“You don’t look like a nanny.” Tracey sounded querulous, like a sulky child.

Summer smiled slightly. “You never know.”

“And what’s with your hair? It looks—weird.”

Audra sighed and rolled her eyes.

“This cut? It’s all the rage,” Summer lied calmly. “Back East, anyway.” She glanced in the rearview mirror. “Tracey, isn’t it? You live one street over?”

“Yeah, that’s me.” The girl drummed red-tipped nails on the window. “You come from San Francisco?”

“No, I live near Philadelphia. I taught at a small women’s college there.”

“No shit.” Tracey frowned as Audra gave her another jab with her elbow. “What?”

“I think Audra doesn’t like your language.”

“Yeah, well, sorry and all that. So what did you teach at that college?” Tracey sniggered. “Crewelwork or something doofus like that?”

“I taught serial profiling.”

“Huh?”

“Analysis of criminal psychology for female police officers.” Summer had decided on this story with Cara. Staying close to the truth was always the best idea.

“No sh—” Tracey crossed her arms. “I mean, no kidding. So that’s like murders and stuff?”

“You got it.”

“Awesome. You dig into their minds, see what makes them tick?”

Summer nodded. “You look for patterns and try to recognize when they’ll do it again.”

“So you’ve met a lot of criminals and crazy people?”

“Enough.” Summer swung neatly around the corner, pulling into a spot at the side of the parking area while little girls skipped past in bright shorts and bigger girls slouched along in miniskirts and peasant blouses.

A California education, Summer thought. Free and energetic, full of talk and creativity. Nothing like the cold, Pine-Sol–scented halls of her schools back in Pennsylvania, dominated by the click of identical polished loafers, knife-sharp pleated skirts, and silent female hierarchies.

She passed Sophy her lunch box, and the girl took it carefully, then said good-bye to her pet ferret, who made short, chirring sounds. Audra was already outside, waiting impatiently, but Tracey was still studying Summer in the rearview mirror.

“You ever kill anyone?”

“I’m not in that kind of work,” Summer said blandly. It was a lie. She’d killed once and clawed through gasping nightmares for months afterward.

Tracey started to say something else, but a car horn sounded behind them. Her face closed down, sullen and unreadable. “Yeah, well—see you.” She closed the door and shouldered a red leather bag that probably cost a month of Summer’s wages.

The honking came again, and this time a sleek silver BMW arrowed into the spot beside Summer. A man jumped out, his baggy brown uniform distinctly out of place among the sea of bright skirts and dresses.

He called to Tracey, looking expectant, but the girl tossed back her hair and shrugged, bored as only someone who is sixteen can look. The man in brown—Tony’s Autobody, according to the back of the shirt—started to talk louder, leaning in with arms moving.

Tracey was completely unimpressed, shaking her head.

Summer rolled down her window, trying to pick up some of the conversation, but Tracey shrugged and raced off toward the front entrance, while Mr. Autobody stood glaring after her.