Page 155 of Dying to Meet You
She grabs up her phone and sends another text to her mother.
Natalie: Where are you?
She checks the time and sees that it’s past seven o’clock. Her mom has literally been gone for hours. And with the dog?
A prickle of fear climbs down her spine. This isn’t ordinary behavior. Especially not now, when her mother has become the queen of locked doors and checking in with Natalie every half hour.
But hang on. She can use her mom’s favorite trick. She opens the FriendFinder app and looks for her mom. No avatar pops up. She waits, but there’s nothing. Her mom isn’t on the map.
Okay, that’s super weird.
Natalie puts her phone down and gets up off the couch. She walks away from the stacks of reports and the list of names they’d been searching for.
Suddenly it doesn’t feel like a fun little game anymore. She puts several paces between herself and the pile of research. As if that would make the whole thing less eerie.
Zoe the cat wanders into the room and brushes her sleek body against Natalie’s ankles. “Where is she?” Natalie wonders.
The cat meows.
Natalie scoops her up and carries her back to the sofa. She picks up her phone and finds her father’s number. He’s probably playing the bass right this minute.
Call for any reason, he’d said.
So she does.
60
Rowan
Beatrice paces around me, a grim, thoughtful expression on her face. “I have a couple of questions. You’re going to answer them. Did you speak to Hank today?”
“Um...” I hesitate. Should I say yes or no?
In my peripheral vision, Lickie is chewing on her leash. She used to gnaw through leashes often as a puppy, which is why I upgraded to indestructible leashes. Damn.
“Hey.” Beatrice aims a kick at my ankle. I’m ready for her, though, and I kick back.
She aims the gun right at my head. “Don’t fucking move. Did you speak to him or not?”
“Yes,” I gasp. “But I don’t remember when. He wanted to reschedule the budget meeting again. If you hadn’t destroyed my phone, you could check for yourself.”
“A voice call?”
“Yes,” I lie. It was actually just a series of texts.
“Who else?” she demands.
Think, Gallagher.
“I spoke to Tim’s ex-wife.” Another lie. “She’s a journalist writing a story about the Wincott family. If you hurt me, she’ll be first in line to ask questions. She gave me a big file of names she’s working on. People who knew Marcus Wincott and worked with him. People he paid off for years.”
And now I realize that Beatrice must be one of those people. “Did he pay you, too?” I ask. “Were you supposed to keep quiet? That would sting.” Even as I say it, I get the chills. “So you’re a Wincott, but youcan’t tell anyone? But Hank knows, right? He made you asecretaryinstead of a cousin.”
Beatrice makes a face of pure rage. “Shut up or I really will shoot you.”
My heart skips a beat. There’s something funny about the way she put that. Like she’d prefer not to. “You don’t really want to shoot me, right? Too messy. You won’t get away with it again.”
She shakes her head. “I have a better plan this time.”
