Page 40 of Pulse
The man leans down to see me more clearly. “Thank you, young lady.” He hands Troy the blue paper. “Do you know where you’re going?”
“I do,” Troy says.
“Very well. Enjoy your visit.”
“Thank you,” I say, giving him a friendly wave.
Troy shakes his head as we pull through the gate.
“What are you shaking your head about?” I ask.
“We’re here quietly, meaning the idea is to stay hidden in plain sight. That doesn’t really work when you’re chatting with the pilot on the plane, exchanging Black Friday tips with the lady at the airport, and complimenting a guy on his fucking mustache.”
“Well, that mustache was cool as hell. The pilot was nice. And I don’t gatekeep shopping tips.” I cross my arms over my chest and admire the luscious green golf course on either side of the road. “Just so you know, I was going to ask how much longer until we’re there, but I stopped myself.”
We approach another guard shack, and the blue paper process is repeated. This time, I don’t mention the guy’s neat silver-y beard.
We enter what appears to be a neighborhood full of very,veryexpensive homes. Trees tower over the road, casting shade on the car and instantly bringing the temperature down a few degrees.
Troy’s forearm flexes as he turns the steering wheel into the driveway of the largest home at the end of the narrow street. Foliage from the trees and shrubs blocks a direct view of the house from the road. But as we pull farther into the driveway, all breath leaves my body.
My jaw drops. “Oh, my gosh. We’re stayinghere?”
“Lincoln Landry does nothing small.”
“You know, I’ve always suspected that.”
Troy glares at me as he parks the car, but I’m too preoccupied with the house to care.
A two-story, villa-style home sits proudly in front of us. The light brown stucco is accented with a deep chocolatey color around the windows and trim. It somehow feels quaint and majestic at the same time.
The garage door opens, and we pull inside. It closes behind us.
“I guess if we have to leave our homes, at least we get to stay here, right?” I ask, climbing out of the car.
“It could be worse.”
Troy types in a code onto a keypad. I smile at him as we step inside.
A small foyer is bright with cream-colored stone floors and almost pink-hued plaster walls that give the room a Mediterranean feel. Straight ahead is an arched doorway that leads to a patio. We turn to the left and enter the main living area.
Troy heads straight for a small room off the kitchen while I pause to take in the grandeur.
Windows line the wall facing me, showcasing a lush backyard full of tropical green plants and a pool. A chandelier hangs from the trayed ceiling over the center of a long table with leather bench-style chairs. The room opens on the left into a living area with oversized blue sofas and a ridiculous television. Pictures and baseball memorabilia are poised on built-in cabinets on either side and below the screen.
“Look at this kitchen,” I say, running my fingertips along the island countertop. “Is Lincoln’s wife a chef?”
“No clue,” Troy says from around the corner.
“What are you doing?”
He comes back into view. “Checking the security system.”
“Are we good?”
“We’re good.”
His shoulders drop, and he exhales slowly. For the first time today, I think he relaxes.
