Chapter 42 Hannah
Hannah
I cut the engine of my Civic and hop out, grabbing my purse and phone as I do. Once I unlock the front door, the sounds of NCIS fill my ears from upstairs, and I follow the sounds all the way up the steps until I reach the main floor.
Lovie stands at the island, her bag already packed up to head back home. The next two days, she’ll be with her husband.
And my mom is perched on her favorite spot on the living room sofa, fully entrenched in her show.
“Thank you so much for staying a few extra hours tonight,” I tell Lovie as I drop my purse down onto the kitchen island.
My new boss, William, offered up a few extra hours of overtime today, and since needing extra cash flow is the story of my life, I jumped on it once Lovie confirmed she could stay late.
“It was no problem at all, Hannah Banana,” Lovie says with a warm smile. “There’s a big container of potato soup in the fridge. I just made it this afternoon.”
“I swear, if you weren’t already married to Norm, I’d propose to you.”
She laughs. “Sherry’s been in a pretty good mood today. Don’t think you’ll have too much trouble getting her to bed tonight.”
“That’s great news because I’m hoping to call it an early night.”
“Be good, Hannah Banana,” Lovie says and gives me one of her big bear hugs. “I’ll see you in a few days.”
“Bye, Lovie.”
“Bye, Sherry Berry!” Lovie calls toward my mom, who barely offers a wave over her shoulder, the show too riveting to pull away from.
Lovie just grins and heads for the stairs, and it’s only a moment or two before I hear the front door clicking shut and the engine of her SUV cranking in the driveway.
After I toss on a pair of sweats in my bedroom, I head to the kitchen and go straight to the fridge, my stomach already growling for some potato soup. But before I can even get it in a bowl, my phone rings from inside my purse. I pull it out to find Incoming Call: Lana flashing on the screen.
“Hey, girl,” I greet her, but she bypasses a greeting entirely.
“I feel like I’ve been trying to get a hold of you all freaking day!”
“I’m sorry,” I answer as I ladle some of Lovie’s potato soup into a bowl. “I was swamped at work, picked up some extra hours, and ended up with a twelve-hour day.”
“Damn, girl,” she mutters. “Are you sure leaving CMA was the best choice? I mean, I know you’re dealing with a hell of a lot less perverts, but the hours are chef’s kiss.”
I snort. “I’m sure.” Trust me, I’m sure. The whole reason I left CMA was that I quite literally couldn’t do it anymore. I reached a point where my entire body revolted against it.
“Well, Monica and I have both decided that you’re doing lunch with us this week,” Lana says, her voice vibrating from the speaker of my phone. “No excuses, girl. What day can you fit us into your busy schedule?”
“I can probably fit lunch in on Wednesday,” I respond as I grab a spoon from the drawer.
“But it’ll have to be during my lunch break at noon.
” I have much less schedule flexibility at Progress Mutual than I did at CMA.
Whereas Margo lets her girls make their own schedule, ol’ Willy makes your schedule for you.
If you’re supposed to be working, your ass better be in your seat and making insurance cold calls or else you’ll end up in his office getting an earful.
I already witnessed this with my thirty-year-old coworker Doug.
Though, in Willy’s defense, Doug can’t be on time to save his life and always smells like stale weed.
“I’m certain we can make that work,” she responds. “Oh, by the way, did Monica tell you about the call she got on Friday?”
“No,” I answer and break off a piece of French bread to have with my soup. “But I’m not sure I want to hear about some weirdo wanting her to shove cucumbers up his ass or something.”
“Girl. It’s nothing like that.” Lana cracks up. “It’s related to one of your old regular callers. Fred, I think?”
“Fred?” I question, racking my brain for an association to the name but coming up empty handed. “I don’t remember a Fred.”
“He’s apparently super sweet. The opposite of all the other freaks that call into CMA.”
I snort at that. But my mind keeps searching through all the Call Me Anytime callers I can remember until it lands on the one man I never actually minded talking to. “Felix, maybe?”
“Yes!” Lana exclaims. “Felix! That’s the guy.”
“Oh yeah, I do remember him. He was actually really sweet.”
“Well, his wife called in the other day with a very interesting request for Monica,” she explains. “It’s their anniversary, and she’s planning this sexy, special evening for him and wants Mon to meet them at the Swan at ten o’clock tonight dressed to the nines.”
“They want her to meet them at the Swan?” The Swan is a fancy-schmancy hotel in downtown Nashville. If you’re staying there, you’re shelling out four figures a night. “Nice digs, but that sounds a little sketch.”
“Well, the amount of money they offered her is so much that I don’t think I would’ve passed it up either.”
“Wait . . .” I pause and furrow my brow. “So she’s doing it?”
“Hell yeah, she’s doing it!” Lana exclaims. “Six figures, Han. Of course she’s doing it. She’d be crazy not to. Plus, she doesn’t even have to do anything crazy besides watch them have sex and, like, say sexy things to them while they do it.”
A rock of uncertainty sits heavy in my gut. “When is she doing this?”
“Tonight,” Lana answers. “She’s probably getting ready for her little voyeur gig as we speak.”
“I don’t know if this is—”
“Oh, shit! I gotta go!” Lana exclaims in a rush. “Cullen decided to take a Sharpie to the wall. I’ll text you about Wednesday! Kisses!” And then she’s gone.
Immediately, I tap the screen of my phone and pull up my texts with Monica to send her a message.
Me: Call me asap. I don’t think it’s a good idea to go to the Swan tonight.
I stare at the screen, waiting for a response, but before a new text comes in, my mom scares the ever-loving shit out of me.
“Ziva!” she shouts, even though she’s standing not even two feet away from me now.
“We gotta figure out this case,” she says and begins to pace in front of me.
“I talked to Tony earlier today about looking into the PI that investigated the victim.” She pauses to look over at me. “Did you investigate him?”
“Uh . . .” I hesitate, silently racking my brain to see if I have a clue what episode she’s referring to. I can tell by the darkness coming from the windows that it’s already nearing night outside, and generally speaking, this is the riskiest time for my mom.
On more than one occasion, I’ve gotten the case details wrong and she’s spiraled into anxiety and paranoia.
“Ziva?” she questions, putting both hands to her hips. “Did you talk to the PI?”
“Not yet,” I answer, hoping it’s just neutral enough to calm her. “But I’m going to meet with him tomorrow. Already know where to find him.”
“Good.” My mom nods. “Very good, Ziva.”
“You hungry?” I ask, nodding toward the big bowl of potato soup and bread that Lovie made.
My mom nods again and I glance to my phone to see if Monica has texted me back before grabbing another bowl and ladling soup into it.
I put my mom’s in the microwave, and she sits down on the barstool to watch.
“When you talk to that PI tomorrow, you should probably ask him more about the wives,” she says, her fingers fiddling with a leftover napkin.
“Oh yeah?” I ask, opening the cutlery drawer to pull out a spoon. “Why’s that?”
“Because of what Tony always says.”
I quirk a brow.
“Oh, c’mon, Ziva!” She hoots and smacks her hand down onto the counter. “You know what Tony says.” She rolls her eyes on another laugh. “‘Always suspect the wife.’ Tony even said he thought that today when we were talking about the case at the kitchen table.”
My brain buffers over the whole “talking to Tony at the kitchen table today” comment, but before I can fixate on it, another comment resonates in my head—always suspect the wife.
Instantly, Lana’s words fill my head. “It’s their anniversary, and she’s planning this sexy, special evening for him and wants Mon to meet them at the Swan at ten o’clock tonight dressed to the nines.”
Followed by Dom’s warning all those weeks ago: “No hotels. No houses. No anything that anyone invites you to on this phone line.”
Shit.
Instantly, I snag my phone off the kitchen counter, checking to see if Monica has texted me back, but my message is still the last one inside our chat. I unlock the screen and try to call her.
It rings and rings without any answer before going straight to voicemail.
I shoot her another text.
Me: Don’t go to the Swan. Call me back. It’s urgent.
I wait and I wait and I call and text her another three times.
But no response comes in, and when I see it’s 9:25 p.m., I can’t shake the feeling that something really horrible is about to happen.
I can’t shake it at all.
Immediately, I go to snag my keys and purse off the kitchen island, but when I look up and see my mom sitting there, looking at me curiously, I stop mid-step.
Son of a bitch. Of all the nights for Lovie to be off, this isn’t a good one.
I try to call Monica again. Send her another five text messages, all of them a variation of don’t go to that fucking hotel, but when another ten minutes go by without a word from her, I meet my mother’s eyes and hate myself for what I’m about to do.
What I feel like I have to do.
“We need to go out for a bit,” I tell her, fear already clutching my chest over the reality that nighttime is never my mother’s best time.
“We going to meet with that PI, Ziva?”
“Yep,” I answer, even though it all feels wrong.
My mom hops off the barstool and jogs into the bedroom to grab her shoes before I can think twice about this whole messed-up situation.
And then she’s back, her favorite bedroom slippers on her feet and a big ol’ smile on her face. “Let’s go, Ziva.”
God help us all.