Pearl (The Pearl Series) by Arianne Richmonde

Was there was someone she was trying to avoid? I called the number back. No answer. I was tempted to set up a GPS tracking system on her phone. Something I didn’t feel good about—I hated spyware of any kind, but Elodie was eighteen years old, new in New York with limited English, and so stunning that people stared at her when she walked by, despite her sneer, her black Goth make-up and her fuck-me-fuck-you-or-I’ll-stab-you-in-the-eye-heels.
    Women. They really were a handful.
    I called Elodie back.
    “Where are you, sweetheart?” I asked. I was sitting at my desk in my apartment, looking at a framed photo of Rex. I made a mental note of going to Paris to get him ASAP.
    Elodie spluttered as if a drink had gone down the wrong way. “How did you know it was me?”
    “Only about ten people have my number and I figured that if a number comes up I don’t recognize, it has to be you. Are you okay?”
    “I’m fine. By the way, do you still have that bodyguard who works for you sometimes?”
    “Of course,” I said, my jaw ticking at her out-of-the-blue, very worrying question.
    “Can I borrow him for a while?”
    “Elodie, what’s up? Is someone following you?”
    There was a long pause. I could hear street noises, her clicking heels. Then she answered, “No. No, of course not. I’d just feel safer, you know. I don’t know this city so well.”
    “I’ll put him back on the payroll full-time, then,” I told her. “What about the new apartment? Will you be scared without a man in the house?” I had just bought her a two-bedroom apartment in Greenwich Village. She was going to get a roommate to share it with her: an old friend from Paris. “Maybe you should carry on staying at my place?” I suggested.
    “No, it’s fine. I love my new flat. Can’t wait to move in. Listen I’ve got to go. Speak later.” She ended the call and I sat there wondering what was going on. I got up and started pacing the room. I’d try and find out without compromising her privacy too much, but if my niece felt she needed a bodyguard, I sure as hell wanted to find out why.

    The week dragged on. I tried to concentrate on work but everywhere I looked I saw signs of Pearl. I hadn’t returned her gifts, mostly because I couldn’t bear to let go of her memory. I didn’t wash the shirts I’d worn because I could still smell her on the fabric. She was everywhere—even on my bloody iPad—in one of my goddamn lists.
    Being a nerd, I write lists, something I have always done to make sure I’m on top of any situation. As I said, multi-tasking has never been my strong point by nature, so all thoughts, all ideas get written down. So being as busy as I was, with so many fingers in pies (and other places), I had to be on the ball.
    I read the bullet points I had written about Pearl:
    Problems to be solved concerning Pearl: needs to reach orgasm during penetrative sex. (My big challenge).
    Needs confidence boosted—age complex due to American youth worship culture.
    Need to get her pregnant ASAP due to clock factor—need to start family.
    The list just went to show how hard I’d fallen for her and how much I had invested myself in her.
    I expected her to call and apologize, the way Indira had. Pearl was in the wrong, and yet still, each day went by with no news. It was beginning to really irk me. How dare she fuck me over and then not even say she was sorry?
    Then I started worrying about her, the way you do about members of your family. Was she alright? Had she died in some freak car accident? Then Sophie called and put my mind at rest. At least, for all of five minutes, until I started obsessing about Pearl again—pacing the room, wringing my fingers through my hair.
    Sophie was in Paris. But even from long distance, I could feel her whiskers twitching, her claws sharpened.
    “The gems are in Amsterdam,” she started off by saying. “All good. They’re with the best cutters, the best jewelers. We’re going to make a mint.