Page 92 of The Love Bandits

Part of me has been waiting for this like a child sitting by the Christmas tree at the end of November, waiting for Santa to come.

Mrs. Rosings glowers at me as the phone buzzes on the table beside the gargantuan stack of horrible gifts. “It’s that boy, isn’t it? He’s already keeping tabs on you.”

I shake my head. “It’s my roommate.”

She waves for me to go, and I answer Damien’s call as I head toward the front door.

“It’s about time,” Nicole says as soon as I click on.

“Nicole?”

“I conferenced in both of you,” Damien says. “I had an interesting morning.”

“Where are you, anyway?” I ask.

“I’m in Connecticut. I found the old man with the watch. He never declared it stolen, but it’s definitely him.”

My pulse pounds faster as I step out into the crisp but sunny day. I make my way to one of the rocking chairs and lower into it.

“How’d you find him?” I say softly.

“Jake said it was registered with the Sons of the American Revolution. There were only a few possibilities, so I followed up on all of them. This guy recognized Jake’s photo.”

The same one Cleo showed me a few weeks ago—the one she must have taken while he was falling down drunk, a thought that makes me sick.

“You’re killing it with the dramatic timing, hot stuff,” Nicole says. “But it’s way too early for this shit.”

“It’s nearly four o’clock,” I say, the words dry in my mouth. Three hours. Jake and I have three hours until we’re supposed to break into Anthony’s house.

“Yeah, you try waking up at four after going shot for shot with that woman.”

Damn. I’ve seen Nicole drink, so Emma Rosings Smith must be some kind of machine. But I have to admit I don’t really care about Emma Rosings Smith or her ability to drink Nicole under the table, or even what Nicole might have learned from her, because I have no doubt Damien called us for a reason.

Still, part of me doesn’t want to hear it.

“Did you get anything from her?” I ask, my voice distant, as if it’s someone else’s.

She snorts. “No. Only that she doesn’t want her brother to get married either. If they let people take objections at the ceremony, it’ll be longer than one of your stories about your mother.”

“Damien?” I ask.

“Jake told you the old man offered to give him the watch, and he turned him down.”

“Yeah,” I say, my heart thumping. “And then the guy who kidnapped his brother sent someone else to steal it.”

“That didn’t happen,” he says, his tone regretful. “I’m sorry, Lainey, I liked the guy too, but he’s been straight up lying to you.”

“What did this older gentleman tell you?” I ask stiffly, trying to sound like all of the fears that have been chasing me haven’tjust bitten down and I’m not metaphorically bleeding out here on Mrs. Rosings’s front porch.

Jake’s a liar.

He’s been lying to me from the start.

Chasing around those thoughts is another one: don’t I deserve it? Isn’t this exactly what I deserve for the lies I myself have told?

“Dale. His name’s Dale. I showed him that photo of Jake,” Damien says, “and he knew him as Jack Ryerson. He said he met Jack at an AA meeting—”

Shit, pretending to be an alcoholic to dupe an old man is bad. Really bad. The hits keep coming, slapping me in the face and telling me I’ve been a fool.

---