Page 50 of Winning Bid

“I googled non-extradition countries in the bathroom earlier, so yeah, I know. Pretty far from Boston.”

The muscle on the side of his neck that pops out when he’s stressed has been popped out since he figured out it was Moss at the door. Poor thing. “That’s the idea. Far from Boston. You’re sure you want to go back?”

No. Yes. Maybe. “I’d like to know what we’re facing before we figure out if we want to give up on our lives here. But if things feel off in any way, we’ll bounce. Okay?”

It’s the same thing we decided to do in Vermont. But it bears repeating.

He nods. “I know, I know. And even though Moss says it’s not likely that we’re bugged, I think we should keep acting as if we are. Any important conversations happen in the park. Agreed?”

“Agreed. No sense in taking unnecessary risks when we have options.” Just another half an hour before Boston. Feels like every minute ratchets up the tension in us both. But I have to trust that everything is going to be okay. We will have our normal life at some point. It’s just going to take a lot of work and some patience. But we will get there.

Anderson is a West, and that means, despite his father’s enemies, he also has his father’s friends in high places who can help us. We have Otto Pym helping us, and there is no better defense attorney on the East Coast. I’m still amazed he was available for us on such short notice. There’s Moss, who, no matter my personal feelings about the man, is someone I like having in my corner. It’s like owning a rowdy pit bull who likes you and only you. We are not without resources.

And, break glass in case of emergency, I have Andre Moeller. He might be my boss and some kind of an underworld criminal, but that only means he, too, has resources that might come in handy. I don’t want to have to lean on him. But he did kidnap me, so the guy kind of owes me. Plus, he likes me, as he’s brought up time and time again. I don’t want to lean on him—he’s a sociopath—but if it means saving me and Anderson, I’ll do it.

Walking into our apartment does not feel like coming home. I don’t get that sense of relief I used to when I walked into my apartment. It’s more like the calm before the storm. Since we called everyone and said we were sick, it would be weird if we just bounced back in a day, so we agreed to spend the rest of the day at home, eating too much Chinese food and enjoying a sick day. It’s as relaxing as it could be, which isn’t saying much.

I keep waiting for the other shoe to fall. A call or a text from the detectives, or god forbid, a hearty knock at the door. Although, at this point, I’ve been tense for so long, I could almost believe it would be a relief for them to contact us. Sort of letting the steam out of the pressure cooker.

When night comes, neither of us initiates sex.

In the morning, we get ready and go to work like it’s any other day. Back to pretending life is normal and we didn’t kill a guy and improperly dispose of his body, and the police are not circling like buzzards.

As soon as I get into my office, things feel fishy. I get strange looks from the paralegals on my way to my office, and I want to stop and ask why, but if I do that, isn’t that an admission of guilt? Doesn’t it make me look suspicious if I’m asking why everyone is looking at me suspiciously?

Maybe I’m overthinking it.

I get into my office, close the door, drop the curtains, and keep the lights low. When I get my laptop open, there are over a hundred new emails. I’m glad I have everything shut down and dark, because I could use some peace and quiet while I pretend to work. And it will be pretending because now that I’m back, I have zero concentration. I just keep waiting for another paralegal to knock and announce I have detectives here to see?—

Knock, knock.

Oh my hell, seriously? Already? I haven’t even gotten my coffee. I wonder how prison coffee is. Oh god, is there prison coffee?

I clear my throat. “Come in.”

But it’s not the police. It’s Carlos. Of fucking course, it’s Carlos. He saunters in, all swagger, no couth. “Good morning. I heard you were unwell, but you look fine to me.”

That’s either an accusation or a flirtation, and I don’t care which it is. “What do you want, Carlos?”

“I thought I made that clear the first day you arrived.” He peers down my blouse for a moment. “Your office.”

I roll my eyes. “Why are you here now?”

“So testy?—"

“Carlos, I have a sinus headache from being sick. Can you just get on with it?”

He winces in false sincerity. “My apologies. I did not realize you were not up for our usual repartee. Andre wants to see you in his office. Now.”

“Why didn’t he just shoot me an email?”

“I would never be so bold as to assume I understand how his mind works.”

“Fine. Thanks. Message received.”

He smiles curtly, then leaves, and I’m grateful for the silence, but I better get moving. Never a good idea to leave a sociopath waiting.

As I pass by the breakroom, I give a longing sigh toward the coffee machine before the elevator whisks me up to the top floor. It’s funny how I have been able to block out what happened in Andre’s office the other day. With all the discussions of running away from home and what that might entail, I couldn’t bear to mention that Andre is scheming to upend West Media. It didn’t seem relevant to fleeing for our lives. Not even irrelevant—it felt small and meaningless, truthfully. But now that I’m going back to his office, it feels like that should have been the first thing out of my mouth the moment I saw Anderson.

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