A Harmless Little Plan (Harmless #3)(16)

Silas doesn’t even flinch.

More proof I’ve trained him well.

“Let’s hope it’s the middle one,” he mumbles.

“Hope isn’t a strategy.”

“No, it isn’t, but there’s nothing wrong with keeping some.”

“Only if it doesn’t get in the way of the mission, Gentian.”

“Dr – I mean, Pete!” Tiffany appears, her voice dropping from a high-pitched affect to a whisper. She is done to the nines, with eyelashes that look like dead spiders attached to her eyelids.

She is wearing short shorts that make Daisy Duke look like a nun. A tight flannel shirt with breasts spilling out everywhere.

And a pink tool belt.

“Oh, my God, Drew – er, Pete! What happened to you?” Genuine concern floods her expression, making her look younger and older at the same time. Her hands fly to her mouth, perfectly manicured, with nail polish the color of sand. “You look awful! Did you get into an accident?”

One simple rule I’ve learned in my line of work: people will give you your excuse. Just pause and don’t say a word. Ninety percent of the time, they hand it to you.

“Yeah,” I say, grimacing. “Bad bike accident.”

“You ride a motorcycle?”

“No. Bicycle.”

Her face falls, as if that’s disappointing. “Oh. I’m so sorry.”

“It’s fine. Just a flesh wound, right?” I need to speed this up.

She frowns, but drops the topic. “I’m so glad you’re here, Pete. Who’s your friend?” She goes from friendly to seductive.

“Ah, this is Joey.” Joey is the name of Silas’ cat.

“Joey. Love it.” Tiffany shakes his hand. “You here for the filming?” She cranes her neck around him. “Where’s the camera crew?”

“They’re coming separately.”

“Pete is here to block the scene,” Silas adds.

“And you’re here to...”

“Leave. Joey was just leaving. He’ll be back with the crew later. I need access to the wall between our apartments, Tiffany, to do some drilling.”

“Drilling?” Her eyes fly wide with fright. “I don’t own this place. You never said anything about drilling!”

“All expenses will be covered by the production company,” I say. It’s a lie. I will definitely pay for any damage, though.

If I live.

Her body relaxes with relief. “Oh. Sure. Right. Like Extreme Home Makeover, huh?”

“Exactly,” Silas says, nodding as he gives me a sardonic look.

“Okay. As long as you have insurance or something in the contract so I don’t get sued.” Her lips pout and her eyebrows go down. “You do have a contract, right?”

“I have to go drop by legal and get them to give me the newest version,” Silas says casually, like it’s no big deal. Like he’s not lying.

“Perfect.” She looks around nervously. Her hair, long and flowing over her shoulders, moves as one piece, like a LEGO toy hair helmet. “We’re not filming now, are we?” she whispers.

“No. Camera’s not on yet,” I say smoothly, walking past her.

Limping past her. Falling down those concrete stairs at the jail didn’t do me any favors.

Lasering in on the next few action items in my sequence of events, I march into her apartment, the layout a mirror image of my own. There’s a guest bathroom I’m going for. I press my ear against the wall.

Nothing.

I go into the guest bedroom.

Nothing.

Kitchen, living room – nothing.

Master bedroom – jackpot.

Men’s voices, muffled and indistinct. They’re in the bedroom.

Is Lindsay?

And then the voices change, coming closer.

Followed by the higher-pitched tone of a woman talking.

Emotion floods me, shoving all the adrenaline out through my pores, my body turning into air and dust. She’s alive.

Alive.

Relief fills me like a balm, a cure, an antidote.

I give myself exactly five seconds to feel it all.

And then I stuff it right back in my internal box of emotion.

Feelings cannot be in charge of me right now.

Lindsay will die if I let that happen.

I pull out my toolkit and get started. Step one is simple: establish visuals.

“What am I supposed to do, Drew?” Tiffany’s hovering over me, nervous. “Do I have lines? Is this improv?” She says the word improv like she’s worshipping something.

“Yes. One hundred percent improv,” I assure her. That’s probably the only non-lie that I’ve told her. “Your first job is to go to my apartment and slip this note under the door. If someone answers the door, you’re in character.”

“In character?”

“You can’t tell them I’m here, or that this is a reality television show.”

“Won’t they notice the cameras?”

“The cameras will all be hidden.” I realize I need to be more persuasive with her. “You do understand, don’t you?” I take on an authoritarian tone. “I need to make sure we have a professional on this show. You really are in the business, right?” I up my skepticism level to an almost comic level, hating that I have to do this. One ear is perked, listening for Lindsay’s voice. So far, everything’s gone quiet on the other side.