Page 31 of Fake Dating My Billionaire Boss

I roll my eyes. “You see conspiracies everywhere, Fizzy. That might make for excellent blog articles, but it’s not helpful when it comes to practical, real-life stuff.”

He reaches over and flips open the folder. “This is practical. This is real life. Look.”

So, I look. And what I see makes my heartbeat skip.

I pinch my brow as I peer down at the black-and-white photograph on display. It’s been blown up to letter-paper size, and there’s a digital date and time printed on the bottom. “Is that…? That’s my mom.”

“Exactly. This is what I’m trying to tell you. Recognize the building behind her?”

“It’s the old textile factory. The one on North Street…”

The run-down brick building that I saw Damian’s car parked in front of.

“Right again. The only thing that’s been in that old building is the Historical Society Museum, on the second floor. See that, in her hand?”

I examine the photo. The image is zoomed in on my mother, Sophia Sinclair. She’s standing in front of the backdrop of bricks, wearing a silk scarf over her head and dark sunglasses. Her head is turned to the left, as if she’s looking down the sidewalk. In her right hand, there’s a padded envelope.

“It’s one of those padded mailers,” I say. Curious, I flip to the next photograph. It’s almost identical to the first, except inthis one, she’s glancing to the right. To me, it looks like she’s checking the sidewalk in the other direction.

I flip to the next image in the stack. Now she’s heading for the factory’s front double doors, with the bulky envelope still clutched in her hand. She pulls one side open. Looks over her shoulder. Steps in.

Then, she steps back out—and both her hands are empty. No envelope.

I become aware that Fizzy’s watching me. “See?” he says, leaning back in his seat. “I told you.”

Confusion clouds my mind. I knit my eyebrows together as I look at the date printed on the bottom. “But these were taken in August, seven years ago. Mom was sick then. That was four months before she passed away. What was she doing in town?”

“That’s what we have to figure out.”

I shake my head, still lost in confusion. “This doesn’t make sense. I talked to her on the phone almost every night that summer. She was living in California with Dad. If she traveled all the way here to Silver Springs, she would’ve told me.”

“This is photographic evidence that she did travel to Silver Springs. So, what we have to ask ourselves is: Why did she want to keep the visit a secret? Why did she visit the Historical Society Museum? And, most importantly, if you ask me: What is in that envelope?”

“That’s a lot of questions.”

“So, we need a lot of answers. Soon. If you hurry, you might be able to catch Damian while he’s packing up boxes.”

“At that factory building?”

Fizzy’s eyes sparkle with excitement. “Yes, yes! Bella, keep up. It’s perfect. You go to the factory, snoop around, and try to find that envelope your mother must have delivered. Whatever is in it must have to do with why she and your dad moved out of town so abruptly. We’ll finally solve the mystery. But if we waittoo long, all those boxes will get stashed away and we’ll never get to the bottom of this.”

I’ve either let Fizzy’s conspiracy-minded thinking brainwash me, or he has a point. In case it’s the latter, I pick up my cup and get to my feet. “Okay, okay. I’ll go. You really think that envelope is connected to our move to California?’

“Call it a hunch,” he says with a nod. “I’ve been at this for a long time, Bella. It’s about patterns. Looking at patterns. You have one weird, incongruent, suspicious thing, and then another. The first is almost always connected to the second.”

“Okay…” I close the folder and hand it back to him.

“Call me right away, when you find it.” He rubs his hands together. “This is exciting, isn’t it? I love being hot on the trail of some good, old-fashioned, soul-stirring answers. The truth… ah. I can almost taste it. It’s like a double fudge sundae with a cherry on top. Or a hot, ham-and-cheese melt on nice rye bread, with a big, juicy dill pickle on the side. Or… oh, my. I think I may be hungry for lunch.”

“I’ll call you,” I promise. Then I head for my car, coffee cup in my hand.

When I whistle, Bo hustles after me. We load up together and head for the old textile factory.

Chapter 11

Damian

I’m covered in dust, hot, sweaty, and elbow-deep in a box of old newspapers when I hear floorboards creak.

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