I pull in front of the place and see the sign. “Closed?” It’s Saturday. The store should be open. Sonofabit… I hope she didn’t make good on her threat to go on a long vacation, but I’m suspecting she did. Why else would they be closed today? That sneaky little shit.
Unsure of what else to do, I call one more time and leave a message. “Hi, it’s Ginnie Angelico. You told me to call after I looked up that name. Well, I did, and I want to talk to him. Please call me back so I know you got the message?” I leave my number and end the call. If I don’t hear back, I’ll show up again tomorrow. Sooner or later, they have to reopen the store.
Can’t hide forever. But do I know that for sure? I believe that there’s a reason for everything, and Mr. Wish has gone to extreme measures to start a new life.
I’m almost home when my phone rings. I press the Bluetooth button on my steering wheel. “Hello?”
“Ginnie, it’s Rebecca McMillan. I heard you’re trying to get in touch with my brother.”
The blood drains from my face. Is this really his sister? “Yes…um…” I have no idea what to say.
“Well, don’t. Mason is dead, and the world is a better place because of it. Just take the money. Live your life. Don’t make problems for yourself, because that’s exactly what you’ll get if you keep it up.” The call ends just as I’m pulling into my driveway.
A shiver runs down my spine. Fuck. Okay. I think that was a warning shot across my bow. This is some crazy-ass stuff. The thrift store lady isn’t answering calls, and her store is closed on a Saturday. A wealthy guy faked his death and is running around giving away his fortune. Dead guy’s sister finds out that I know who Mr. Wish is and calls to threaten me.
Maybe Olivia was right. I need to walk away before I end up in the middle of something bad. Very bad. On the other hand, there’s this man I feel inexplicably drawn to.
I don’t know what to do.
I think I need to clear my head. Somewhere I feel safe.
“Dinner was delicious. Thanks, Mom.” I get up from the table after having a very late supper with my mom, knowing I’ll have to do the cleanup. That’s always been her rule. Just like with my grandma.
“Where do you think you’re going, young lady?” my mom asks. As usual, she’s wearing her long dark hair in a ponytail. No makeup on her olive skin. I look a lot like her, especially the small nose and “Gypsy” eyes—as they’re called in my family—but I have my father’s fuller lips, so I’ve been told. Never met him or seen a picture.
“I’m going to load the dishwasher.” I grab the red checkered apron sitting on her pale yellow Formica counter and slip it over my head.
“Don’t worry about that. I’ll do them in the morning.” My mom points to the country-style dining chair across from her, indicating I should sit my butt back down.
“Are you sure?”
“I want to hear what’s been going on.”
What’s been going on is I surprised her by showing up on her doorstep here in Aurora, Colorado, about an hour ago. The plane ticket to Denver—the nearest airport—was insanely expensive since it was a last minute fare, but I needed to get out of New York. I needed to clear my head and be somewhere I felt distanced from everything. Plus, food. My mom’s home cooking is instant comfort.
“What are you running away from?” she asks as I sit back down, leaving the apron on.
“Is it that obvious?” I push my empty plate of pesto chicken toward the center of the table.
“You flew in unannounced, and your face is as pale as a ghost.”
“Ugh. Don’t say ghost.”
She stares expectantly from across the kitchen table with her dark, all-knowing eyes. No one can escape the powerful grip of the mom-eyes. Once they’ve locked in on you, you magically feel guilty and compelled to speak the truth even if you haven’t done anything wrong.
Must resist… “I can’t tell you,” I blurt out.
“Can’t or won’t?” she asks.
“Both, mixed with an ‘I shouldn’t’ chaser.”
“So you are here hiding out.” She arches one dark brow and puckers her lips.
Dammit. See. She knows!
My mom continues, “Is it that Greg again? What did he do now? Because I swear if he’s after more money, I’ll string him up by his tiny balls and—”
“It’s not Greg.”
“Well, good,” she says with an added hmph! “I still think you should file charges against him and get your money back.”
She doesn’t like the fact that I never went after him. She thinks it means I lack backbone, when really I was trying to save myself. I don’t have the energy for a court battle that will likely end up in a he-said-she-said situation. I never made Greg sign anything, and when I brought it up, right after our split, he claimed it was a gift. Not true.