Chapter Two
In fifteen minutes, Amanda manages to pack everything up in two rolling suitcases and a diaper bag. She hugs Nia and Harlow, both of whom glare suspiciously. Now that I’m hustling Amanda out the door, they’re obviously skeptical that calling me was a good idea. I’m not trying to be an asshole, but they don’t understand. A nut job willing to break in and kill with a knife is far more serious than a chanting, flower-trampling mob.
“Is this everything?” I ask, taking hold of Amanda’s luggage.
She hoists her son against her chest. He’s obviously going to be a big boy. Against her small frame, he looks massive. “Yes.”
“Then let’s go.”
When I turn, Nia grabs my sleeve. “Where are you taking her?”
“Someplace temporary.”
“You need to be more forthcoming. I can’t let you just take her wherever when there’s someone out to kill her.”
“With all due respect, if this would-be killer comes for her again, he’ll come here first. If he thinks you know where she is, he’ll threaten you. Since Amanda thwarted him the first time, he’ll come more prepared. Trace says your husband is in London.”
“Yes.”
Nia clearly doesn’t like what I’m saying. Too bad. That won’t change my message.
“Then I suggest you find somewhere else to stay until he comes home. You’re not safe, either.” Then I reach for Amanda, put a guiding hand to the small of her back, and nudge her toward the Mustang.
“Be careful. I’ll call you,” she promises Nia over her shoulder.
“Please. I’ll be worried. We’re supposed to have lunch with Skye and Stephen today. What do you want me to tell them?”
“Damn it. Um, tell them Oliver has the sniffles.” She turns to me. “Is the car seat set up?”
Trace said he’d do it before he left. I assume he knows how. I sure as hell don’t. “Should be.”
A minute later, Amanda straps in her sleepy son, then slips into the front seat. As I get behind the wheel, she sticks her head out the window at Nia, now standing on the porch, watching us. “I forgot my purse. Will you grab it for me? It’s in the kitchen.”
“Getting it.” She darts back in the house, white robe swishing behind her.
She emerges a minute later, absently caressing her belly and carrying a small shoulder bag. She approaches Amanda and hands her the purse.
Then she bends to glare at me. “If anything happens to her, I’ll be pissed as hell. But if you hurt one hair on her head, they’ll need tweezers to find all the parts of your body.” Then she turns to her half-sister. They might look like polar opposites, but they clearly have strong backbones in common. “Take care, honey. Call me if you need anything.”
“I will.” Amanda squeezes her hand. “Please don’t worry about me. I don’t want you stressed and upsetting your little one.”
“Bye.”
Finally, I drive off. As we leave Nia’s neighborhood, the sun begins climbing the sky. If anyone is watching the house, they’ll see me taking Amanda away. In a car like this, we won’t be hard to follow.
I’m going to need to stash this vehicle quickly.
“Now what?” she asks over my music as she rolls up her window.
“For now, we go to the apartment where I’ve been staying. I need to pack up. While we’re there, I’ll see if I can find a safe house. Trace is looking, too. As soon as something pops, we’ll get over there and hunker down.”
“Fine. Can you turn that—I guess you’d call it music—down?” She glances back at Oliver. The poor kid is so worn out he’s sleeping through every note.
I adjust the volume. “You don’t like ‘Heart-Shaped Box’? Or are you objecting to Kurt Cobain?”
“I’ve never heard this song, and I don’t know who you’re talking about.”
Is she kidding right now? “Kurt Cobain, lead singer of Nirvana?”
She shrugs. “Sorry.”
“No. I didn’t realize…” But it makes sense once I think about it. Was she even alive when he died?
There’s roughly a dozen years that form the chasm between our ages. This is a shitty reminder. With a shake of my head, I sigh.
“How do you listen to that stuff?” she asks. “It’s depressing.”
“I grew up with it. Since today is the anniversary of Cobain’s death, it felt apropos to play some Nirvana, but…who are you into? Charlie Puth? Or are you more of a Taylor Swift type?”
She looks at me like I’m somewhere between crazy and insulting. “I’m not sixteen anymore.”
“So what do you like?”
“Luke Combs. Dierks Bentley.” She sighs and pats her heart. “Jake Owen and Blake Shelton.”
Aren’t those guys more my age? “You like…country music?”
“A lot of people do.” She’s defensive, and I never meant to make her feel that way.
“Sure.” Even though I grew up in Colorado, and folks I knew who worked on ranches played it, I never listened to it much myself.
“But I grew up with classical music,” she goes on. “My mother had anxiety issues, and that helped to calm her.”
“If you grew up in New York, where did you first hear country?”
“In grade school, I had a friend originally from Texas. Katie loved it, so I started listening to it with her. She moved away again a few years later, but my parents hated the ‘twangy’ stuff. So I kept listening. And”—she shrugs—“I just never stopped.”
Under her buttoned-up façade, she’s a bit of a rebel. That doesn’t surprise me, but I would have never guessed that little Miss Privileged was into songs about pickup trucks, breakups, and beer. “Is there even a country station on the island?”
“I haven’t been here long enough to find out.”
“When did you leave LA?” I ask, navigating the thin Sunday morning traffic back to the north side.
“Four days ago.”
She doesn’t say more, and the subject is closed. It’s for the best. We need to get down to business.
“Had you received death threats back in Cali?”
“Of course. More than one.”
Fuck. “Had anyone broken into your place?”
“They couldn’t. I lived in a high-security building. You
