scalp is still tender from the hair-pulling yesterday. “Anyway, what’s going on?”
“I found them,” he says simply.
I sit up abruptly in the bed. “Where? Are they all right?”
“They’re at my apartment, above the bookstore, for now. They’re shook up, but they’re unharmed,” Riley says. “Listen, how soon can you get here?”
I’m already shimmying into a pair of jeans. “Ten minutes.”
“Good,” Riley says. I’m about to hang up the phone when he adds, “And April?”
“What is it?”
“Make sure no one follows you.”
Gulp.
“You can count on me,” I promise. “I’ll see you soon.”
I yank on a fresh t-shirt and quickly gather my things, checking them twice before I leave: keys, cell phone, wallet, and a notepad and pen to take notes.
On second thought, better make that two , I think, and pluck another stationary pad off the desk before finally hurrying of the room. I don’t know how much the Benzes will be willing to talk, but I’m feeling optimistic. It’s too bad I hadn’t thought to bring an audio recorder with me for this trip back home.
But then again, you weren’t planning for any of this , I consider. Originally, back when I first returned to New Orleans, the job seemed simple: not-so-accidentally cross paths with Mr. and Mrs. Hawthorne and make pleasant conversation, warming myself to them until they let their guard down. Nick the wallet out of Mr. Hawthorne’s back pocket, or maybe Mrs. Hawthorne’s purse—whoever was the easier mark. Bring the credit cards back to Miranda. Then make the score.
I think about this as I drive the few short blocks to Riley’s bookstore. I wonder: at what point, exactly, did this all get so complicated? When Liam slid his business card toward me during the country club’s Mardi Gras party? When Miranda declared that seducing Liam would be a more efficient way of reaching our goal?
Or was it later—when I learned the Benzes were victims too, or when I realized that, when it comes to Liam, there’s more than meets the eye? Is it possible, throughout all of this, to pinpoint a single moment when our plan began to unravel?
Eric and Kimberly are sitting on the edge of Riley’s couch when I arrive. They clutch tall glasses of water; the surface of the water in Kimberly’s glass is rippling gently—a result of the slight tremor in her hand.
“How’d you find them? Were they with your parents?” I whisper to Riley as we linger by the doorway.
Riley shakes his head. “My parents didn’t know where they were, and the Benzes weren’t answering their cell phones. But my parents made about a thousand calls, trying everyone they could think of who knows Eric or Kim. Eventually they got a lead.”
“So where were they?”
“In an empty apartment in Bywater. It belongs to one of Eric’s former colleagues from the plant. He has an extra apartment he rents out to tourists, and was willing to put them up for a few days,” Riley says. He crosses his arms and leans against the doorframe. “Smart idea, really. I had guessed they’d be with their daughter and her family, or with friends. But the apartment was better. Eric and Kim didn’t have to risk putting anyone they cared about in harm’s way.”
“So you decided to put yourself at risk, then, by bringing them to your house?” I ask faintly.
He seems surprisingly fearless for someone who’s essentially just drawn a bull’s eye onto his forehead.
“They’re only here to talk. And that was after a lot of convincing,” he says. He points to his watch. “They gave us an hour before they have to head back.”
“Right,” I say.
Without wasting another moment, I walk into the living room, with Riley hot on my heels. Eric and Kimberly look up fearfully when I approach them.
“I’m so sorry about what happened to your house,” I tell them earnestly. “I was in the neighborhood when it happened. I saw the flames.”
“Thank you,” Kimberly says
“I found them,” he says simply.
I sit up abruptly in the bed. “Where? Are they all right?”
“They’re at my apartment, above the bookstore, for now. They’re shook up, but they’re unharmed,” Riley says. “Listen, how soon can you get here?”
I’m already shimmying into a pair of jeans. “Ten minutes.”
“Good,” Riley says. I’m about to hang up the phone when he adds, “And April?”
“What is it?”
“Make sure no one follows you.”
Gulp.
“You can count on me,” I promise. “I’ll see you soon.”
I yank on a fresh t-shirt and quickly gather my things, checking them twice before I leave: keys, cell phone, wallet, and a notepad and pen to take notes.
On second thought, better make that two , I think, and pluck another stationary pad off the desk before finally hurrying of the room. I don’t know how much the Benzes will be willing to talk, but I’m feeling optimistic. It’s too bad I hadn’t thought to bring an audio recorder with me for this trip back home.
But then again, you weren’t planning for any of this , I consider. Originally, back when I first returned to New Orleans, the job seemed simple: not-so-accidentally cross paths with Mr. and Mrs. Hawthorne and make pleasant conversation, warming myself to them until they let their guard down. Nick the wallet out of Mr. Hawthorne’s back pocket, or maybe Mrs. Hawthorne’s purse—whoever was the easier mark. Bring the credit cards back to Miranda. Then make the score.
I think about this as I drive the few short blocks to Riley’s bookstore. I wonder: at what point, exactly, did this all get so complicated? When Liam slid his business card toward me during the country club’s Mardi Gras party? When Miranda declared that seducing Liam would be a more efficient way of reaching our goal?
Or was it later—when I learned the Benzes were victims too, or when I realized that, when it comes to Liam, there’s more than meets the eye? Is it possible, throughout all of this, to pinpoint a single moment when our plan began to unravel?
Eric and Kimberly are sitting on the edge of Riley’s couch when I arrive. They clutch tall glasses of water; the surface of the water in Kimberly’s glass is rippling gently—a result of the slight tremor in her hand.
“How’d you find them? Were they with your parents?” I whisper to Riley as we linger by the doorway.
Riley shakes his head. “My parents didn’t know where they were, and the Benzes weren’t answering their cell phones. But my parents made about a thousand calls, trying everyone they could think of who knows Eric or Kim. Eventually they got a lead.”
“So where were they?”
“In an empty apartment in Bywater. It belongs to one of Eric’s former colleagues from the plant. He has an extra apartment he rents out to tourists, and was willing to put them up for a few days,” Riley says. He crosses his arms and leans against the doorframe. “Smart idea, really. I had guessed they’d be with their daughter and her family, or with friends. But the apartment was better. Eric and Kim didn’t have to risk putting anyone they cared about in harm’s way.”
“So you decided to put yourself at risk, then, by bringing them to your house?” I ask faintly.
He seems surprisingly fearless for someone who’s essentially just drawn a bull’s eye onto his forehead.
“They’re only here to talk. And that was after a lot of convincing,” he says. He points to his watch. “They gave us an hour before they have to head back.”
“Right,” I say.
Without wasting another moment, I walk into the living room, with Riley hot on my heels. Eric and Kimberly look up fearfully when I approach them.
“I’m so sorry about what happened to your house,” I tell them earnestly. “I was in the neighborhood when it happened. I saw the flames.”
“Thank you,” Kimberly says
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