Page 266 of The Billionaires

“Great idea,” he says and rushes off.

I scan the nursery again, sigh in amazement, and stroll over to my room.

On the way, I spot a door to a room he never showed me.

I peek in.

Ah. It’s his bedroom.

How wrong would it be if I went inside, took a look in the drawers, and—though I’m not sure why—smelled his pillow?

Miss Miller considers that—hopefully rhetorical—question objectionable on many grounds, with moral being just the pinnacle of them.

My phone rings.

It’s Mary.

“Hi, sis,” I say.

Forgoing any pleasantries, Mary assaults my ears with an avalanche of questions, of which I only catch, “How much do you like the place? Is it amazing? Have you unpacked all your stuff?”

“Slow down,” I say, and begin answering the best I can. As soon as I cover some of the questions, Mary produces another bunch.

Midway through all this, I get another call.

It’s Mom.

“Hey,” I say to Mary. “I’ll call you back in a few.”

When I pick up Mom’s call, she hits me with almost the same questions, but with more innuendo, or at least I assume that’s why she asks, “How big is it?”

“Put me on speaker so I don’t have to repeat myself for Mary,” I grumble.

“I’m not near her at the moment,” Mom says.

I roll my eyes. “Then can this wait until you are?”

“No chance,” Mom says. “Now, dish.”

Fine. I allow the interrogation. As soon as I hang up, my phone rings again.

Must be Mary. I forgot to call her back. Annoyed beyond measure, I accept the call, and in my snarkiest tone, I say, “If you keep this up, you’ll grow up to be an even bigger gossip than your mother.”

Someone who sounds nothing like Mary clears her throat on the other line. “My mother is deceased, and sadly, I’ve been done with growing for many years now.”

Oh, shit.

Why is that voice familiar?

“Now,” the speaker continues, “do I have the wrong number, or did you think I was someone else?”

I finally recognize who is speaking, and my feet freeze to the floor. “Mrs. Corsica?” As in, the woman from the horror show that was my library interview?

“Ah, so it is Jane Miller,” Mrs. Corsica says with a chill in her tone that matches my foot situation perfectly.

“I’m so sorry,” I say. “I thought you were my younger sister and accepted the call without looking.”

“I see,” she says, her tone not a degree warmer. “That would explain what you said—assuming your mother is a gossip.”

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