Page 47 of The Love Losers

My mother has been…better.

I’ve had cameras installed outside of her house too.

Normally, she’d balk at that kind of “invasion,” but she just firmed her lips and said,“That brat next door has been stealing my paper for months. We’ll see what he does when I have video evidence.”

The brat in question is a thirty-year-old man.

The paper in question is a local publication no one reads.

Living at Smith House for the past week has been…

Well, it’s definitely been something. Mother and I have fallen into a routine. We have breakfast together every morning and dinner together every evening, after which we play cards and have an after-dinner drink in the drawing room.

The exception was on Wednesday evening, after which she interrogated me.

“Why were you in that warehouse?”

“Who was with you?”

She’s worried and on edge, and I’ve caught her checking the countdown website multiple times. I’ve done the same, and it hasn’t changed other than the hours and minutes at the top. It’s like the person who set it up triggered a bomb and then walked away to leave someone else to deal with the fallout.

Maybe itisSimon.

He’s certainly a man who prefers to throw grenades rather than catch them, but then again, I can’t think of any reasonable motivation for him to do such a thing.

I’d prefer to believe it’s someone’s idea of a joke, or that the aim is merely to keep us uncomfortable and on edge, but then there’s the question of who called the police on Wednesday night…

I clear my throat. “Mother’s doing well. Have a very merry Christmas.”

“But Anthony… The wedding…”

“I trust you’ve contacted my mother with your RSVP,” I say.

“Of course. But I’d like a guarantee that it’s actually going to happen, dammit.”

“So would I.” I force a grin and clap him on the back.

“But Rachel—”

“I hope you both have a merry Christmas.”

And then I leave.

But I don’t make it any farther than The Peanut Bar.

I haven’t finished my bucket list yet, and it seems more likely that I’ll get it done there than if I’m hanging out at my house with my mother peering over my shoulder.

Or that was the idea, anyway.

As Dom passes me a beer over the counter, he lifts his eyebrows and says, “I’ll bet it was the Illuminati who called the cops on you, man. Did you know they used to use this building for their meetings?”

“I don’t think that’s true.” I glance at my usual booth but then settle onto a stool across from him. “The Illuminati own a building downtown.”

“Sure,” Dom says, tapping the side of his nose. “But why would the Illuminati meet in such an obvious place? They’re tricky. That’s their whole thing.” He returns to his own stool. “It’s too bad we were busy the other night, huh, Gene?”

Gene, who’s in his usual booth, grunts, which could be assent or dissent.

“See? Gene knows what’s up. We would have kicked some Illuminati ass with you.”

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