Page 10 of Building What's Meant to Be

Harrison shakes his head. “What can you tell me about Silas William Fallon? Sounds like a white-collar felon if there ever was one.”

“You got that right.” I outline the ex-military, present defense contractor’s involvement along with the governor and his daughter, Dandy. Now, I can add the guy who fancies himself a musician and calls himself Puma, aka Harold Jerrold Pumanowksi, to the roster. I’d like to say this case just keeps getting more interesting. In reality, it’s tiring.

Usually, I ride an ongoing adrenalin rush during an investigation. This one has me wanting to sit on my back deck, kick up my feet, and watch the sunset.

Good thing I’m getting back to my roots.

“So you asked what’s next? I’m going to steal a cat.” I wink.

Harrison does a spit-take, showering coffee all over the desk.

We both start laughing.

I abruptly stop, and deadpan, I say, “I’m not kidding.”

“Are you going to steal a puma? You’re known for pranks and shenanigans. George Wilson said you left the guy who ran thatinternational designer brand shoplifting ring with little more to wear than a plastic bag. Rumor has it Puma took an actual puma on tour with him, and would bring it out onstage when he made his grand entrance.”

“His name is Harold,” I correct. “And I’ll be sure to look into that to make sure it wasn’t mistreated. Also, it was a paper bag.”

“Your quest for justice is impressive.”

“It better be.”

“So you’re really going to steal a cat?”

Giving a lazy salute, I start toward the door. “Yep. Right now, Twinky is our number one asset.”

Chapter Three

TINSLEY

I’d like to say my friends and family have called to check in on me. Instead, I get a telemarketer or prankster with a bad connection. With my brother staring me down like a stray dog he’d like to remove from his property, I finally hang up and give John a sassy little snarl followed by a, “Woof.”

Without so much as a flinch of recognition or remorse, he closes himself inside the estate, sealing me off from my family.

I have no idea what’s in the cardboard box printed with my name, but I may as well take it. All of my belongings, including my favorite Christian Louboutin Desert Silk ankle-tie high-heel sandals are scattered all over the country with my so-called friends. Ones who still haven’t called or texted. Did the events with Puma make them afraid to catch trouble like I’m contagious? A social pariah?

I gaze skyward. “Okay, fine. I’ve learned my lesson. I’ll never date a musician or celebrity again. Definitely not a bad boy,” I mutter.

I pick up the box and walk to the car. Without a backward glance, I wind down the long driveway and onto the road. I just have to lie low. But where? How? With what?

I go back the way I came and drive until I see the signs counting down the miles for New York City.

I’ve spent years being the guest at friends’ houses along with their second and third homes in faraway locations, accompanied them on trips as part of an entourage, and spent more time than seems reasonable in hotels.

I could use one right now...or a friend. But as the exits skip by and the reality that I’ve skipped from friend to friend takes root, I realize I don’t truly have any—certainly not a ride-or-die bestie for life or one who’d ask,Where do we bury the body? if I appeared with one. Not that I would. As mentioned, I am not a criminal.

I mentally catalog who I could call right now. Unless I’m looking for a good time or know where to find one, I don’t think my sob story would be welcome. The people I associated with aren’t the long-term, meaningful, memory-building kind that know much more about me than that my last name is Humber and there is a significant amount of money associated with it.

Money my father earned with my mother’s support. Money that I spent without thinking. Money that I believed would someday be mine. Money that is no longer available. Well, except for my credit card.

A bottomless account. Unfortunately, I’m the one who feels like I’ve fallen into a pit. One of loneliness and misery.

I stop and get gas as commuters flurry to work, as kids go to school, as people carry on with their lives and as mine slips out of my hand like a dog’s leash.

But who was walking who?

I thought by living my carefree, celeb lifestyle, I was free, but I was tethered to the whims of my so-called friends. I’ve repeatedly confirmed that my phone is charged and has service, yet no one checks on me. Not even to gossip. Then again, the connection at the estate was lousy.

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