Elise smiles, snuggling tighter against me and melting into my arms. “I’m glad I was here too. She looked beautiful and I think she liked the story about her mom.”
I apprise her carefully, running my hand up and down Elise’s arm, knowing I’d have to talk with her about this but hopeful there isn’t a problem. “That didn’t bother you, did it?”
“Of course not!” Elise says, sitting up and smiling. “A girl needs her mother, even if it’s only through stories. She’s lucky to have had a mother who loved her and a dad who can tell her those stories. Plus, Sarah is a great role model for her. She’s a loved girl.”
“She is. And so are you.”
Elise smiles at me, obviously pleased. “I know it’s fast, but I’m hoping that I can be . . . well, not a mom—I think Sarah’s got that role covered—but at least a good friend and role model for her too.”
“I think it’s not too early to think about that,” I reassure her, giving her another kiss, already getting lost in her sweetness. Suddenly, there’s a shrill beeping from the nearby kitchen. Sitting back, I laugh a little sorrowfully. “Goddamn phone. I’d better check it anyway in case it’s Carsen.”
Elise lets me up, and I go into the kitchen, where it’s sitting on the counter, still ringing away. I check the screen, but it says unknown number. Normally, I’d let it go to voicemail considering not many people have this number, but it could be Carsen calling from a friend’s mom’s phone or something, so I pick up. “Hello.”
There’s a moment of silence, then a man’s voice comes on, sounding muffled but still distinctly male. “Keith Perkins?”
“Who’s asking?” I reply, the hairs on the back of my neck standing up.
“Mr. Perkins, we need to meet,” a voice says, more clear now and almost . . . snooty sounding. “I’ve come into some information I think you’d be rather interested in. Write this address down. 3489 Johnson Boulevard, right off Main. Be here in one hour.”
“What?” I ask, wondering if this asshole is drunk or something. “What are you talking about? Meet for what?”
Elise steps in my field of view, a concerned look on her face. “Everything okay?” she mouths silently. I shrug, and she lifts an eyebrow.
I hold up one finger, asking her to wait a second to fire off the questions I can see in her eyes, and focus on listening to the man on the phone. “One hour. 3489 Johnson Boulevard,” he repeats. “Do not be late, Mr. Perkins. I’m certain you won’t like the consequences if someone else were to get this information before you do.”
There’s a click and the line goes dead as the man hangs up. I stare at my phone for a moment, feeling like I’ve just been punched in the gut.
“Who was that?” Elise asks as I set my phone down. “What’s wrong, Keith? You look pale as a ghost.”
“I don’t know,” I reply, trying to keep my voice level. “A guy said that he has information I’d be interested in. Gave me an address and said to be there in an hour.”
“What?” Elise asks, shocked. “What are you going to do?”
I shake my head, running my hands over my smooth dome. “I don’t know.”
I search my memories, replaying the conversation again, looking for clues what this could be about, a sinking feeling in my stomach. He said I wouldn’t like it if someone else got the information. That sounds like a threat, whatever it is. Of course, my brain leapfrogs to Carsen first, since she’s always my greatest secret, but there’s no reason for anyone to know about her.
Elise, ever the investigator, stays calm, trying to be helpful. “What’s the address? Maybe we can look it up and get a clue?”
“3489 Johnson,” I recite for her, and her jaw drops.
“Oh, my God!” she gasps, her voice trailing off into a whisper. “No way.”
“What? Do you know the address?”
She nods, her face frozen in horror. “That’s my office, Keith. That’s the address of The Daily Spot.”
Elise’s office. Okay, keep it cool . . . “We should go. Maybe it’s just about the articles?” I say hopefully, knowing I’m full of shit even as I say it. The man didn’t introduce himself like it was a professional call, and he specifically said he had information I wouldn’t like.
The truck ride into town is silent, both of us considering a million possibilities for what we’re walking into.
Pulling in, it looks like a normal office building on a weekend, empty and just waiting, recovering after a busy week before it gets swarmed again on Monday with worker ants trying to hustle a buck.
The main parking lot is empty except for one Mercedes parked up front. “Guess that’s the mystery man.”