Page 7 of Broken Princess
Mom’s lips tightened, and she returned to her spot on the sofa. “A week. Maybe two.”
“That long?” I said, brows shooting up.
“She said she called a couple of her friends to vent tonight, and they convinced her that it was a good idea to take a vacation. Apparently one of them has a luxury yacht in Miami. They want to take it down to the Caribbean and sail around there for a while.”
I frowned. “Are you kidding?”
“Just think about it,” she said, forehead creasing. “Willow’s had a terrible time lately, and all this winter doom and gloom isn’t helping. I think it’s a wonderful idea for her to get some sun. She needs it.”
“I guess so.” I gritted my teeth. There was no doubt in my mind that a week or two from now, the world would be informed of a freak yachting accident down in the Caribbean; one which tragically claimed the life of Willow Rhoades.
Fuck.
My only comfort right now was that I actually had some time to find Willow. Mom wouldn’t kill her immediately. That would be too suspicious. Besides, she’d need a few days to have her associates set up the whole thing and pay off—or threaten—some of Willow’s friends to make them play along with the so-called yacht vacation.
I was willing to bet she’d also take some time to make it seem as if Willow was happy and keeping in touch with everyone while she sunned herself in the Caribbean. I’d probably receive a call or voicemail from her at some stage in the next few days where she would claim to be fine and talk about how much she was enjoying her vacation.
Several other people would probably receive similar messages from her. That way no one would get suspicious about where she really was or how she really died once the news of her demise came out. No one would know that the messages they received were forced out of her, probably under threat of torture. No one would know that she was never actually in the Caribbean.
Mom let out a soft sigh and rubbed my forearm. “She made it very clear that it’s not your fault, darling. She’s been considering this vacation for a while now, and she would’ve gone whether you two argued tonight or not.”
“I get it,” I muttered. “She needs a break after all the shit that’s gone down. I just wish I could hear it from her, you know?”
She smiled again. “She promised she’d call you in a few days when she’s all settled on the yacht.”
There it is.A few days from now, I’d receive that coerced phone call or voicemail.
“That’s good.” I pasted on a faint smile of my own. “Thanks for supporting her so much, Mom. She deserves it.”
“Of course! I love Willow, and I love how happy she makes you,” she said, clasping her hands together. Her eyes took on a dreamy expression. “I can’t wait for your wedding.”
Christ, she was a good actress.
“Me neither,” I said, acting my ass off just as much. “Maybe we should start planning it while she’s away.”
“What a lovely idea.”
She started prattling on about venues and floral arrangements, and I nodded every few seconds, pretending she had my full attention even though my mind was elsewhere.
I needed to get a look at her phone log. Find out who she really called a few minutes ago.
I cut into her excited chatter a moment later, pressing a palm against my forehead. “Shit, I completely forgot. The Capitals were meant to play the Ducks tonight. I was going to watch the game, but we ended up going to the party instead. Do you mind if I use your phone to check the final score? Mine’s dead from trying to call Willow so many times.”
Mom’s smile wavered for a split second. “Of course,” she said, holding out her phone.
Even though she was offering it up to me, she didn’t let go of it. She obviously wanted to make sure she was in control. Wanted to make sure I didn’t see anything I wasn’t supposed to.
I would have to be very careful how I played this.
I leaned forward, one finger hovering over the phone. “I can never remember how to use Androids,” I muttered. “It’s this green button for the internet, right?” I clicked on a button on the home screen and brought up the call log. “Nope, that’s not it,” I went on, immediately swiping out of it. “Blue button?”
Mom nodded. “Yes, that one there.”
I opened the browser and searched for recent ice hockey scores. “Dammit,” I said, blowing out a short, frustrated breath, as if I actually gave a fuck about the results of tonight’s game. “The Ducks came from 5-1 down with only five minutes of the second period left. They won 6-5.”
“Oh, well,” Mom replied, tilting her head to one side. “Remember, darling, it’s just a game.”
I stared at the fireplace, nostrils flaring slightly. “Yeah. Just a game.”
