36. Meg
36
MEG
C oming back to the apartment was a mistake. The place felt empty, and the loneliness echoed off the walls. I almost called Uber again to take me to the family home.
But I didn’t. Hold the applause.
Instead, I put on my big girl panties, brewed a pot of coffee, fired up my laptop and slipped into my fuzzy red pajamas.
Everything that happened today, including the stupid fortune teller, was put on the back burner. I was not letting any of that fog up my brain. Even if I desperately wanted to believe that what Giz told me about Isabel was true.
An idea hit me. Roman wanted some of the Amex card money to go to Isabel. And now, the convent in Chatoise was about to get a generous donation. All I had to do was make sure Roman never found out where it went, because he’d have Andy track the credit card statements, and Isabel’s hideaway would be exposed.
I slumped onto the worn-out couch that would now serve as the makeshift office I’d be calling home. Once the donation, smoothly funneled through my freshly-opened bank account, cleared, I slipped the small red flash drive Roman gave me into the port and got to work.
Soon, I was deep in the weeds of one of the questionable contracts the Belmont Trust lawyers had clearly overlooked.
But as I dug deeper, a pattern was starting to emerge. A name kept appearing, again and again, always tied to the shoddiest amendments, the most questionable clauses. Lincoln Taylor, the main culprit behind this contract mess.
He’d been at the Belmont Trust for approximately 200 years. It was time for this guy to retire, like yesterday. I made a note to Roman, and just then my phone beeped a text.
Hoping it was Isabel, I immediately checked.
BB: Is this Meg Belfiore? We met some time ago at The Pig’s Tail. Thought I’d get in touch.
Usually, I would ignore a text from a strange number and send it straight to the junk folder. But this one got my attention. For more than one reason.
First of all, the initials BB as his profile pic?
Secondly, I didn’t give my number to just any guy. Even if I was a bit zonked from too much booze, he had to be a viable contestant for my affections.
Thirdly, The Pig’s Tail ? That was definitely the cool type of bar in which a guy I’d give my number to would hang out.
Lastly, and again, B effing B?
What were the chances? Apparently pretty good. It was stupid to think Byron was the only man in the world with the initials, BB.
Now, if it wasn’t for the psychic’s bullshit today, I wouldn’t even bother texting back. But at this juncture, I was clutching at straws. Anything for Byron not to be the ONE.
I slid my laptop onto the couch and got comfortable, and decided to chat with a complete stranger in the hopes that maybe it would get me out of my funky mood.