“For as much time as I spend here, this place suffices. And I can be blissfully happy without a hot guy. You can too.”
“True—but maybe I can be even happier with one.”
“You should go read a few books about female empowerment.”
“Hey—I’m empowered. How many women cut up dead bodies for a living, as our middle sibling so elegantly put it?”
Eve wrinkled her nose. “I’m not sure that’s empowerment. It’s kind of ghoulish if you ask me.”
“I’m blazing a trail. That’s empowerment.” Grace stuck out her tongue at Eve.
“Whatever.” Eve waved a dismissive hand at their youngest sister. “Back to the subject at hand. You’re both coming for dinner, right?”
“I am.” Grace brushed a few crumbs from the table into a neat pile.
“Are you certain Brent is on board with the plan?” Cate crossed her arms. “I mean, he’s a great guy and all, but I bet he’d rather have you to himself on New Year’s Eve.”
“He’s fine with the plan. Better than fine, to tell you the truth. He hasn’t had many family traditions in his life, so he’s looking forward to being part of one—and I have the document to prove it.” She pulled a folded sheet of paper from the pocket of her jeans and passed it across the counter to Grace with a smug look.
Grace gave it a quick scan, grinned, and held it out.
Cate returned to the table, took the paper, and read the handwritten message.
Cate and Grace—
Eve tells me you’re concerned about intruding on our New Year’s Eve celebration. Don’t be. I’m all for family gatherings. And remember—Eve and I will have the whole next day all to ourselves to welcome the new year privately.
Brent
“Satisfied?” Eve smirked at her.
Leave it to the host of a controversial radio show to anticipate and prepare for every counterargument—and secure documented proof for her position.
“Fine. I’ll come.” She handed the paper back to her sister.
Eve slid the note in her pocket. “So how are we supposed to keep in touch with you while you’re on this undercover job?”
They were back to that.
“I’ll have a handler again. As soon as I get contact information, I’ll pass it on. And FYI, my gig is being shared on a strict need-to-know basis, so keep it under wraps.”
Eve picked up the dishcloth and swiped the counter. “Is Brent in the loop?”
Logical question, since he was also a County detective.
“He may know I’m undercover, but I doubt he’ll be up to speed on the details, if that’s what you’re asking.”
“So much for my inside source.” Heaving an exaggerated sigh, Eve went back to stacking dishes.
“If there are no further questions”—Cate continued down the hall to discourage any—“I’ll get the game.”
But as she rummaged through the closet in her bedroom, the muted conversation between her sisters drifted toward her.
“. . . not telling us?” The tail end of Grace’s comment registered, and Cate tiptoed back to the door. Cocked her ear.
“. . . much as she can. But it doesn’t . . . as dangerous as the . . . earlier this year.”
It was hard to hear Eve, who was farther away, in the kitchen.
“I hope not—but she hated that other assignment. I can’t believe they talked her into doing this again.”
“I don’t know why . . . first time. She ever open up to you about . . . to do that?”
“No.”
“I think . . . complicated . . . ever shared with us.”
“That’s possible—but you know Cate. She can play her cards close to her vest.”
“Yeah, and despite her . . . I’m worried.”
“Me too. I don’t have a warm and fuzzy feeling about this whole thing.”
The murmured conversation continued, but Cate retreated, guilt nipping at her conscience. Eavesdropping was wrong, even if she was only trying to figure out how to spare her sisters further worry.
But that was going to be difficult to do, in view of Grace’s last comment.
Besides, how was she supposed to dispel her sisters’ bad feelings about this assignment when she had the same negative vibes?
Think positive, Cate. Banish pessimistic thoughts.
Excellent advice.
She reached up to the shelf in the closet for the Scrabble game and tried to look at the bright side.
It was possible they were all fretting unnecessarily.
Maybe there was nothing ominous at all going on at Ivy Hill.
Maybe whatever trouble Stephanie and her boyfriend had run into had happened off campus.
Maybe the concurrent traditional investigation would solve this case fast and she could return to her normal life.
However this played out, she’d be fine, just as she’d assured her sisters.
But her confidence wavered when she lost her grip on the Scrabble game and it fell to the floor, contents scattering all directions.
For as she dropped to her knees and began gathering up the wayward tiles, the cause of her clumsiness became apparent.
Her hands were shaking.
She closed her eyes.
This was not good.
She had to get a grip, corral the apprehension swirling through her.
Tracking down criminals was what she did, and if there were secrets in the bowels of Ivy Hill, she’d unearth them. That was her mandate, and she wouldn’t fail.
Clamping her teeth together, she tightened her ponytail and captured the last wayward tile. Threw it in the box.
In six days, when she walked into that exclusive school as a student, she’d be ready to tackle the challenge—no matter how many pep talks she had to give herself or how many psychological games she had to play between now and then.
Because two missing teens deserved her best effort—and she was not going to let them down.
Selling his soul to the devil had been the biggest mistake of his life.
And that was saying a lot, considering his track record.
“Will? Did you hear me? I need another favor.”
Will knocked back another gin and tonic, set the empty glass on the counter, and pressed the cell tighter against his ear. “I thought you said after our last arrangement we’d be done.”
“The location is working out well.” The voice had a strange timbre to it, as it had during previous calls. The person on the other end must be using a voice-changing device to disguise his—or her—identity.
“Is it? What about the student who went missing in October on one of the nights you used the facility? I’m guessing there’s a connection.”
“She ran away.”
“How do you know?”
“That’s what the police concluded.”
“Is it true?”
“Does it matter?”
Will began to sweat. “Yeah. It does.”
“It’s not your problem.”
“I don’t like being in the dark—or being used.”
“Being in the dark is safer . . . and you were happy to use my money when you were desperate for cash. Call this payback.”
More like extortion.
He balled the fingers of his free hand. “I should have come clean instead.”