Page 95 of Remember Me

“Who are you meeting with?”

“Um, an old friend.”

“What’s her name?”

“Nicole.”

“That’s pretty. Can’t I come with you?”

“Sorry, sweetie. Not this time.” I inwardly shudder at the thought of my daughter finding out the truth about me fromanother. The truth that terrifies me and can put us all in harm’s way.

The tantalizing aroma of pancakes wafts in the air. Rosita hovers over the stove, fixing them for breakfast. Setting both my coffee and phone on the counter, I hop onto a stool. Maddie follows suit, taking a seat opposite me, Kangy in her lap.

Still frowning, she plants her elbows on the counter and sinks her head between her fists. The tips of her long braids dust the surface, her big, sad puppy-like eyes on me, making me feel guiltier than I already do. Averting her gaze, I take a sip of my steamy hot brew and glance down at my phone. The time: nine a.m. At last. ICM is officially open, but I bet Nicole’s agent’s assistant has been there for an hour. If not more. I know their type. Same as in a newsroom. Ambitious brown-nosers who dream of making it to the top. I know because I was one too.

“Why do you keep looking at the time, Mommy?” asks my perceptive daughter. “We don’t have school today. It’s Election Day!”

Before I can respond, Rosita brings us each a plate stacked with fluffy pancakes, along with a side of mixed berries.

“Eat,mis amores!” Smiling, she points to the maple syrup and butter already on the counter. While Maddie grabs the jar of golden syrup and drizzles it all over her pancakes, I grab my phone and google ICM. The agency’s phone number instantly pops up on my screen. I hop off my stool and pad toward the sliding doors that lead to the patio.

“Where are you going?” shouts Maddie. “Your pancakes are going to get cold!”

“I’ll be right back,” I reply, the phone pressed to my ear. It rings, and as I head outdoors, someone picks up. The nasal female voice is sing-songy, reminiscent of a commercial jingle.

“ICM.”

“Can you please connect me to Kate Howard’s office.” Kate is Nicole’s agent.

“Hold on please.”

The phone rings again and on the second ring, an effeminate male voice answers.

“Kate Howard’s office.”

My heart begins to race as I adjust the phone to my ear. “Hi. Is she in?”

“She’s unavailable.” Shit. Cryptic assistant-speak, meaning she doesn’t want to be bothered or she’s not there. Pacing, I take a steeling breath.

“When will she be back in her office?”

“She’s away until next Monday.”

Shit again. That means she’s unreachable unless there’s an emergency.

“Is there anything I can do for you?”

I’m relieved the assistant isn’t being a jerk.

“Yes. And by the way, what is your name?”

“Gene.”

“Like in Gene Kelly?” I could have said Gene Hackman or Gene Simmons, but my gut told me this Gene was a fan of old musicals.

“Yeah.” I can hear a smile in his voice. Score one for me.

“Gene, I need you or Ms. Howard to get an important message to your client, Nicole Farrell.”

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