Four Seconds to Lose

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chapter eighteen * * * CHARLIE

“Charlie!” I hear Ginger’s voice yell out over my hair dryer.

“Yeah?” I yell back, turning to see her holding a phone out.

The new burner phone I picked up from the extended-stay hotel this morning.

Switching off my hair dryer, I smooth my expression as I take it from her. By the lit-up screen displaying “unknown caller,” someone has called and Ginger has answered.

I feel the blood drain from my face.

Oh no . . .

“It was ringing, so I got it,” Ginger explains, though by her drawn brow and hesitant tone, I think she’s wondering if maybe that was a mistake.

I’d love to tell her that she sure as hell shouldn’t have gone into my purse to answer it, but now is not the time. Swallowing the rising bubble of panic, I say, “Thanks, Ginger. I’ll be out in a second.”

She opens her mouth but then pauses as if in thought. She must have decided it’s better left unsaid. Spinning on her heels, she walks back over to my couch and dives into it.

I take a deep breath as I pull the door almost shut but not quite—to ensure Ginger doesn’t scurry back over to press her ear up and eavesdrop. She’d be the type to do that. Holding the phone up to my ear, I say with a slight wobble in my voice, “Hello.”

“Hello, Little Mouse.” It’s the standard greeting, only there’s the tightness in Sam’s voice that I hear when he’s displeased with me. “Who is Ginger?”

Shit.

He knows her name.

That means they talked.

What did he say to her? What did she tell him? Does he know I have a job? That I’m working at a strip club? That I moved? My hand finds its way to clutch my throat and I can feel my racing pulse beneath my fingertips as I swallow once, twice, three times. Dammit, Ginger! In only minutes, she may have just unraveled my life, my plan!

Swallowing the crippling lump in my throat, I explain, “A friend.”

“A friend who answers this phone?”

“I was in the bathroom and she heard the ring.”

There’s an unnaturally long pause. That’s how Sam typically shows his irritation. Silence. I think he believes the mounting anxiety is more effective than yelling.

I think he’s right.

“Is your friend Ginger going to be answering your phone from now on?”

“No. Definitely not.”

There’s another long pause. “I told you to lay low down there. Making friends is not laying low.”

Okay, deep breaths. It doesn’t sound like she’s told him anything. “I’m sorry. It’s really nothing . . . she’s just a neighbor who comes over for coffee sometimes.”

“A neighbor who you let answer that phone?” My stomach muscles spasm as I peek out at Ginger, still stretched out on my couch, flipping through a magazine. “Do I need to come down there to check on you?”

I bite back the scream, keeping my teeth gritted until I can manage to get out in a relatively calm tone, “No. It’s all good.” He hasn’t been keeping tabs on me so far, from the sounds of it, and I sure as hell don’t want him to start now. The very idea of Sam infiltrating my little make-believe life causes me chest pains. I don’t need him coming down here. Finding out that I’ve moved.

Finding out that I’ve been lying to him.

Finding Ginger.

God knows what he’d do to her then.

“This isn’t a game. Get rid of her and check your email right away,” Sam demands in a clipped tone.

“Okay.” I don’t hesitate, not for a split second. Even though I wasn’t expecting a call for another week or two and I really don’t want to do a drop today. But I guess business is good for Sam.

For us.

The phone goes dead and I shut the bathroom door before taking a seat on the toilet, clutching my nauseous stomach with my arms. Stupid, stupid Charlie! What was I thinking? I need to be smarter about this. This is all pretend. A pretend life, pretend friends, pretend laughter.

Pretend feelings.

I’m getting comfortable here, and that’s a bad move. It’s too risky. I can slip up too easily. One simple phone call just proved that if I’m not careful, Sam will become suspicious.

And having Sam suspicious can’t possibly end well.

Pulling out my other phone—of course, I remembered to keep that one close to me!—I quickly find his instructions. Bob and Eddie again. Today at three p.m. I sigh. Today is Monday, our day off. Ginger and I were going shopping this afternoon. I was actually looking forward to it. I needed another outfit for the stage.

I guess I’ll have to ditch her.

Bitterness swells inside my chest over the prospect. He’s a thousand miles away, but Sam continues to keep me firmly pressed under his thumb. What kind of father wouldn’t want his child to have a friend? Just one!

Checking my face in the mirror, I see that my complexion is still sickly pale. That should help my cause.

Ginger is on me the second I get out. “Why do you have two phones?”

I open my mouth to answer but falter. My prepared answer has always been simple. Work. Only I can’t use that excuse now.

Ginger has her own ideas, though. “Are you an undercover cop?”

The very suggestion has me bursting out with laughter. If you only knew how far off you really are! Thankfully, the laugh is what I needed to jog my mind into what I hope is a plausible answer. “That carrier has a better long-distance plan on it, so I use it to call my parents.”

“Oh . . .” Her lips twist. “That was your dad?”

I nod.

Making a point of flipping her magazine closed and tossing it on the coffee table, Ginger announces, “Well, sorry to say, but your dad’s not very nice.”

“What’d he say to you?”

“Besides the interrogation? Not much.”

I fight to keep calm as another bubble of panic bursts inside my throat and the blood drains from my face once again. Oh no . . . “What did you tell him, Ginger?”

“Nothing, other than my name. He wouldn’t tell me who he was, so I wasn’t offering him any more info. He probably told you I was a bitch.”

The sigh of relief escapes my lips before I can control myself. I know I shouldn’t say it. I know it will only raise suspicion, but I can’t risk the alternative. “Ginger, please don’t ever answer my phone again.”

She sits up straight, her frown back, only deeper. “I was only trying to help.”

“I know.” Ginger is generally easygoing, but I’ve seen her get bent out of shape when criticized for doing something she thinks is helpful. “Just . . . next time, bring the phone to me, rather than answer it.”

Flopping back onto my couch, she mutters, “Fine. Whatever.” There’s a pause as she stares at me. “Are you okay? You’re looking a little pale.”

That played out nicely . . . “Actually, I’m not feeling great, Ginger. I think that yogurt I ate may have been bad. My stomach’s acting up.”