I put an onion and a cutting board in front of him, practically shove a knife into his hand.
“Do I cut this?” he asks, knife in one hand, onion in the other.
I open a refrigerator and heave a stockpot out, put it on a burner, and turn it on.
“Just look like you could,” I tell him.
The kitchen doors open, and the security guard steps through, followed by two cops.
“Didn’t realize you were here,” he says. “Late-night cooking?”
Grady grips the knife and frowns at the onion, concentrating ten times harder than he did at the computer. I have no idea where Silas is right now. I haven’t seen him since he abandoned his golf cart at the edge of the forest, so hopefully he’s alive and not being eaten by a mountain lion or something.
“Forgot to put something in the consommé for tomorrow’s event,” I tell them, smiling. “Just need to add a touch of seasoning to this, let it simmer for a bit longer and while it’s doing that, I may as well start proofing the rolls, right?”
Grady cuts into the onion, right through the middle. The skin is still on, and he’s holding the knife like he’s going to stab someone with it.
“Right,” the guard agrees. “Sorry to bother you.”
“Smells great,” one of the cops says.
They turn and leave. Grady looks over at me. I touch my pocket where the thumb drives are, just making sure for the thirtieth time that I’ve still got them.
“Have you ever seen an onion before?” I ask.* * *Silas is sitting in my Bronco. I don’t bother asking how he got in, because it can’t possibly be that hard to break into a twenty-year-old piece of junk.
He grins when he sees us, looking for all the world like a kid who’s just been on a roller coaster for the first time. I touch the thumb drives in my pocket yet again, reassuring myself.
“Told you they’d come in handy,” he says, holding up the goggles.
“Thanks,” I say. “You all right?”
“That was the most fun I’ve had in months,” he says. “Eli, anytime you need me to come do a covert op at your workplace—"
“I’m hoping that never happens, actually,” I say.
“—just let me know because I am all in,” he says. “You get what you need?”
“Yup,” says Grady, and hands him a thumb drive. “Keep that just in case.”
Silas just nods and puts it in a pocket. Grady and I shake hands.
Silas pulls me in for a hard, solid hug.
“Good luck, kid,” he says. “Now go get her back.”Chapter Forty-FourVioletI rub my eyes, stretching my arms over my head, seated in my office chair. For at least the tenth time that morning, I dig my right hand into the left side of my neck, trying to work out the kink that’s in there.
For at least the tenth time, it doesn’t work.
I should probably stop sleeping on Adeline’s couch, but I hate being in my trailer. I threw away his toothbrush and washed my sheets, but everything still reminds me of Eli and how unimportant I was in the end.
It reminds me that I liked him. I really, really did. I told him I liked him. I opened myself to him — of all people, him — in ways that I never have with anyone else. I trusted him.
And he used it against me. For twenty thousand dollars.
I can’t look Montgomery in the eye. I’ve been skipping meetings, making excuses, because I can’t look anyone in the eye.
I feel naked. I feel like everyone’s seen me topless and drunk in the wedding barn, and it’s an awful, crawling feeling like I’m trapped in a swamp and can’t get out. Obviously, I’ve already started looking for a new job but Sprucevale is small and there aren’t a ton of opportunities.
Just as I turn back to my computer, figuring that I should probably concentrate on something productive, Lydia runs in to my office.
She’s out of breath. Half a second later, Kevin nearly collides with her back.
“What happ—”
“Martin’s getting fired,” she says.
I shoot out of my chair.
“For the turtles?” I say.
They come in and close the door.
“We don’t know,” Kevin says. “But Montgomery called him in this morning and when Martin left his office he was super pissed and then he went to his own office and started putting stuff in a box and there was a security guard by the door.”
I start smiling, maybe for the first time in days. I cover my mouth with my fist, because I still have enough decency to feel slightly bad that I’m delighted at someone’s misfortune.
Only slightly bad, though.
“Brandon tried asking what happened but he wouldn’t say anything,” Kevin says, walking through my office to join Lydia, who’s already posted by my window, looking out at the parking lot.
“Of course he didn’t say anything,” Lydia says. “He’s a slimy scumbag who got what he deserved.”