Page 46 of Faking the Pass
By the time we finished eating, I hadn’t come up with anything.
She checked the time on her phone. “We should go. Randy just sent another text warning me I’d better show up and not be late. He wants to send a car to pick me up.”
“Tell him you alreadyhavea ride,” I growled.
She typed out a response I couldn’t see. I hoped it began with “fuck” and ended with “you,” but she was probably being more diplomatic about it than I would have been.
When she was done, she looked up and said, “Okay. I guess it’s time to go face the music.”
“Okay here’s the plan…”
I walked over to the coat closet and pulled out a long overcoat.
“You can drape this over you in the car if you don’t want them taking any pictures of you.”
As for myself, I put on a ball cap and pulled it as low as it would go then grabbed my sunglasses from a basket on the entryway table. Not exactly a foolproof disguise, but they were going to see my license plate and figure it out pretty quickly anyway.
Not sure how Randy the spin-meister was going to explain my role in this scenario, but whatever. That was his problem now.
“The car’s in the garage, right through here.”
Rosie followed me to the garage door and paused just before stepping through it. Looking back at the kitchen and living area, she took in a breath, letting it out in a whoosh.
“I love your house,” she said. “It’s been peaceful in spite of… everything.”
Then she turned to me. “And you’ve been amazing. I don’t even know how to thank you, Presley.”
For some reason, a feeling of guilt sucker-punched me, like I hadn’t done enough or something.
“Nothing I wouldn’t do for any friend in need,” I said, but the words didn’t ring true, even to me.
The mass of cars waiting at the end of my private drive seemed to have increased, if that was even possible.
As my Bugatti approached the automatic gate, there was a commotion of car doors opening and people jumping out to snap photos.
So this was it. Now they knew Rosie hadn’t been in the house alone.
Good.I was getting a little perverse pleasure out of the fact that it might poke some holes in Randy’s cover story.
No. I shouldn’t.
Because it was Rosie’s cover story too. The one she believed was going to save her career and keep her from financial ruin.
As soon as the gate opened, I pulled my car through and put the pedal down, eager to leave those bloodsuckers in the dust.
Predictably, some of them jumped back into their cars to pursue us.
It took only ten minutes to reach Bellevue Manor. Atlantic Avenue connected to Oceanview Avenue where all the historicGilded Age mansions sat on huge lots between the street and the water.
The Bluff Walk ran behind them all, offering incredible ocean vistas on one side of the path and on the other, tantalizing peeks at the rear of the stately homes. It was a popular walking spot for locals as well as visitors who streamed to Eastport Bay from all over the world.
As I drove, Rosie stared out the window, fiddling with her fingernails.
“Nervous?”
She darted a glance over at me. “Yeah. I’ve always hated press conferences. I never know what to do with my hands, and my voice shakes. Also, I get tongue-tied.”
That surprised me.
