Page 75 of Bottles & Blades
Tiff and I walk Chrissy and Rory inside then wait while Pascal does a check of the interior and exterior.
He tilts his head to the front door and I follow him out onto the porch. “Taps on five of the external cameras,” he mutters, jerking his chin toward the pile of dismantled electronics.
“Angelawas putting them on?” I ask aghast.
That’s not something I would expect to be in my ex’s skill set.
“Apparently,” he says. “We don’t do live monitoring any longer at Chrissy’s request, but it looks like there was an interruption in the feed a couple of hours ago. Technicians flagged it to come over and check it out in the morning. Still, it’s a good thing you showed up when you did so they didn’t get anything useful.”
I scrub a hand over my face.
If I hadn’t gone to dinner with the girls…
“Jesus Christ,” I mutter.
Pascal claps a hand on my shoulder. “The team and I will be out first thing to do a full work up. We’ll make sure she’s good, yeah?”
I nod. “The interior’s clear?” I ask. “And the panic buttons are functional?”
“Yes,” he says. “All the feeds are secure and I tested the panic buttons. But just in case, I’ll have men stay over—one inside and another monitoring the exterior.”
Relief flows through me. Still, “Chrissy’s not going to like that.”
Pascal grins. “Luckily, Chrissy likes me.”
This is not a lie.
I exhale, shove down the worry for my daughter. Precautions are in place, and I’ll just be a phone call away. “Then I’ll let you break the news.”
A ghost of a smile. “I’ll charge it to your account.”
“Totally worth every penny.”
He grins, tilts his head toward the door, and I follow him back inside.
Tiff’s eyes immediately come to mine.
I’m gratified she found the courage to stand by me, to ignore the venom Angela was spitting and stay there. But I know the gleam in Angela’s eyes before she climbed into her car the second time means that Tiff has put herself firmly into the center of her crosshairs.
So, I’m also pissed.
Not at her. At myself—because I didn’t protect her.
She comes over and takes my hand, the rage swirling through my insides quieting at the contact. “You okay?” she whispers.
“Fine, buttercup,” I say even though I feel anything but.
“You’re not.”
I inhale. Exhale. “You’re right. I’m not.”
“Do you need to stay awhile?” she asks. “Make sure they’re okay?”
Christ, she’s sweet.
I draw her close, settle my forehead on hers for a moment then exhale again. “I’m fine.”
“Jean-Mi?—”
