Page 60 of The Devil She Knows
S
Her mind raced, thoughts spinning out wildly in every direction as she sank to her knees on the rug.
Shewrote this? And she sent it? To Coco? Whose name was actually Courtney? And Sam knew all this because she’d hired a private investigator to dig up dirt on her so that she could blackmail her into silence? Because Coco was telling people that Sam stole her recipes?
None of it made any more sense the second, third, or fourth times Sam read the email than it had upon her first read.
She backed out, then clicked on the other five emails in the folder, starting with the first, the oldest. All professional correspondence between her and a Roman Poirot of Poirot Investigations, the private investigator she had hired to dig into Coco’s past. Sam’s initial inquiry and his acceptance of the job, the payment transaction details, a full background check with a photocopy of Coco/Courtney’s birth certificate attached—the proof was all there.
Sam chewed on her bottom lip and read the first email again, hoping that between now and the last time she’d read it, it would say something different. Exonerate her of wrongdoing.
It didn’t.
Innocent people didn’t resort to blackmail. Innocent people didn’thaveto resort to blackmail. Innocent people didn’t and Sam had. Short of actual possession, she couldn’t fathom what would possess her to do a thing like this. This wasn’t just mean; this was immoral. And if you had asked her yesterday, it wasn’t who she was.
The taste of rust filled Sam’s mouth. She needed to get out of here. She needed air. She rose to her feet, knees weak, knuckles white as she gripped the edge of the desk so she wouldn’t fall.
Leaving Glut was a blur. She found herself standing in front of Father Fagan Park, at the corner of Prince Street and Sixth Avenue, several blocks from the restaurant, a little triangulargreen space with benches. She took a seat, feet on the bench, knees drawn to her chin, face tucked away against the blustery wind that nipped at her nose.
This life of theirs, hers and Hannah’s, the life they’d built together, seemed, by all conventional measures, as close to perfect as a life could get. Hannah seemed happy and Sam had everything she’d ever wanted, but—what good was a life, even one as seemingly perfect as theirs, built with stolen bricks?
The person looking back at her in the mirror, the one smiling in all those pictures, Sam didn’t know who she was. If what she’d just learned was true, she wasn’t sure she wanted to.
Be it for the better or not, everything had changed overnight, and Sam … Sam just needed a minute. She needed familiar.
“Cooper residence, Renée speaking.”
Sam scrunched her eyes shut and sucked in a shallow breath, tears sneaking up on her, pricking at the corners of her eyes.
“Hello? Is someone there?”
Sam swallowed hard. “Hi, Momma.”
“Samantha?” She sounded surprised. “Is that you?”
Sam had to laugh. “Don’t you check your caller ID?”
Sam knew she didn’t, knew her mom had a bad habit of answering the phone each time it rang, then bitchin’ afterward when it turned out to be a telemarketer or some cousin she didn’t want to talk to.
Thiswas familiar. This was what Sam needed, even if for just a moment. To get her head screwed on straight.
“Is everything okay?” Mom asked instead of fussing at Sam to mind her mouth.
Sam covered the receiver when she coughed, clearing her throat. “Yeah. I’m—I’m okay. How are you doing?”
There was a beat of silence before Mom said, “I’m all right. Just surprised to hear your voice is all.”
A foreboding chill ran down her spine. “Surprised?”
“Sammie, baby, we haven’t heard from you in six months.”
“What?” She exhaled sharply, breath escaping in a misty puff. “I—six months?”
That couldn’t be right. It couldn’t.
“Going on seven,” she said, and Sam’s heart sank. “But your daddy and I, everybody, we all know you’re busy. I suppose it is what it is.”
No, there was noit is what it isabout it. On no planet would Sameverbe too busy to call her mom for six days, let alone six months. Seven.
