Page 9 of The Suitcase Swap

Instead of enjoying the sweet scene before her, Sophie was nailed in place by a sharp jab of panic as she remembered what was in her bag. ‘Oh no. No, no, no, no, no.’

A slow grin unfurled on Tom’s face. ‘Now I’m wondering what’s inyourbag.’

‘Smuggled marmosets, mostly,’ Sophie replied absently, her mind circling with worry. Maybe she would get lucky. Maybe Michael Tremblay wouldn’t open it at all. Surely he would just read the tag andknow.Except . . . she hadn’t, had she? She could say it to herself all she wanted, but she didn’t believe it. She simply didn’t have that kind of luck.

She’d been so looking forward to a shower, too. Oh, she could take one, but the idea of putting on the same clothes didn’t sit well.

‘Since he’s the most boring man in England, he’s probably going to turn you in for smuggling, but I’m sure it’s just a fine,’ Tom said. ‘No jail time needed. Which is good. I don’t think you’d do well in prison.’

Marisa shook her head. ‘That’s where you’re wrong. Your mom’s got steel in her spine. I bet she’ll start her own gang and have an underground trading ring of highly sought-after prison wine. And think of the ratings for your blog when you get out.’ Marisa patted her shoulder. ‘You’ll be like Martha Stewart.’

Sophie considered this. ‘I wouldn’t mind being friends with Snoop Dogg.’

‘He makes wine,’ Marisa offered. ‘Like, actual wine that you can buy and not the kind made in a prison toilet.’

Tom tilted his head. ‘I can’t tell if I want you to go to prison now or not. I don’t want to see you behind bars, but I would love to see photos of you and Snoop Dogg spread all over your socials.’ His expression went flat, his tone turning dry. ‘I’d absolutely love to forward those along.’

He didn’t say to whom, but they all knew, nonetheless. Andrew’s name hung in the air like a particularly aggressive spectre. It took a long minute for Sophie to banish him from her mind, but she eventually managed. She refused to let him ruin her post-marriage life by spending her days angry. Not that she wouldn’t feel that way sometimes, but she’d already devoted so much of her time to that man, and she refused to give him a minute more of it.

She clicked open her phone and typed in Michael Tremblay’s number.

‘You’re not going to call him, are you?’ Marisa asked, the tone of horror in her voice not unlike the one people reserved for things like stabbings or not ordering enough food for a dinner party. ‘Haven’t you ever seenDateline?’

Sophie frowned at her. ‘No. What’sDateline?’

‘It’s a true crime show,’ Tom said. ‘Full of murders.’

‘Sounds very American,’ Sophie said, not unkindly.

Marisa sighed. ‘I’d love to argue with you, but you’re right.’

Tom’s brow furrowed. ‘I’m not sure calling a strange man is a good idea. He could be a serial killer.’ He waved at the plain luggage. ‘The more I think about it, the more his neatly folded clothing has sinister undertones. What if he’s in a cult? A murder cult?’

‘You’ve been here too long,’ Sophie said. ‘Not everyone is in a murder cult.’

‘Oh, like we don’t have those at home,’ Tom said. ‘It’s just not safe, giving a stranger your phone number.’ He put his hands on his hips and blew out a breath. ‘You could use my phone.’

‘What if I’m not his type and he needs young men for his murder cult?’ Sophie asked with a grin. He scowled at her instead of laughing as she’d expected. Perplexed, Sophie turned to Marisa with a wordless question.

Marisa put her hands out flat in a sort of shrug. ‘He’s been a bit in overdrive lately because . . .’ She made a face, waving at her own stomach. ‘Protective with occasional slides into bossiness.’

‘I see,’ Sophie said neutrally. She placed a hand on her son’s arm. ‘My darling boy, light of my life. I’m going to text a man about his luggage, not sign up for a blood sacrifice.’

‘No one knows they’re signing up for that, Mum,’ Tom said ominously. ‘People work up to that sort of thing.’

Marisa grabbed him by the shoulders, herding him out of the room. ‘I’ll manage this one and remind him that you’re a grown-up who can make their own choices. You text the most boring serial killer in London.’

‘Thank you, love,’ Sophie said. ‘You’re an angel.’ She tapped out a message to Michael Tremblay.Hello, Mr Tremblay. I’m afraid there was a mix-up and I seem to have your luggage. Hoping we can exchange soon?

Mike had only just picked up his phone from its awkward position against the vase – Rahul having signed off to deal with a fussy Archie – when the text came through.

Hello, Mr Tremblay. I’m afraid there was a mix-up and I seem to have your luggage. Hoping we can exchange soon?

He stared at her open suitcase guiltily for only a moment before replying.This must be Mrs Swann. I was just about to message you. I’m afraid my schedule is full for the next few hours. Possible to meet up after?

Mike had already been annoyed at his schedule – no one should have a meeting directly after arriving – but that was hardly anyone’s fault as his original flight had been for the night before. His plan of meeting, dinner, nap, however, had been thoroughly derailed. Now he was going to have to venture off to some far-flung corner of the city instead.

He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. Nothing he could do about it. It had probably been his fault in the first place. He’d been tired after the long flight, and somewhat overloaded by the sensory overwhelm that was JFK Airport. His mind hadn’t exactly been on the task, or really anything it should have been on. It had been on the woman he’d found resting against the wall.

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