Chapter 23
Tuesday, finally the end of the workday, driving home on the 405
I t had been a long day. One of those days that was so long that she couldn’t even vaguely remember where she’d parked. Disoriented, she scanned the parking lot for her minivan before remembering that’s not who she was anymore. She hit the button on the key fob, and Darcy’s car beeped a quick hello.
In the driver’s seat, the automatic preferences went to Darcy’s settings, a quick reminder that she was driving a dead woman’s car, stepping into a dead woman’s life. Even more than that, she was filling in for a woman who liked to drive with the seat way back. Had she driven with one hand on top of the steering wheel, relaxed dad–style? In Gabby’s mind, Darcy was a 1980s action hero, casually saving the world, probably uttering one-liners. She might not have met her, but she could feel Darcy’s “yipee-ki-yea, motherfucker; hasta la vista, baby” energy. It struck Gabby that all those taglines were meant to be uttered as the bad guy took his last breath, a final goodbye. Instead, Darcy was the one who was gone.
Gabby moved the seat as close to the steering wheel as possible, as if that would give her control of the road, and gripped the wheel tightly at ten and two, her knuckles whitening at the thought of Darcy. At this time of day, it would take her at least forty-five minutes to get home, enough time to come up with a plan. As much as she wanted to bury her head in the sand and watch Nailed It! until she passed out on the couch, she couldn’t.
Smirnov had told her not to move the kids, but not moving them was just leaving them like sitting ducks, waiting to be taken hostage.
And Markus. She had given him the code to her house. Was he as trustworthy as she believed, or was he just handsome?
Emotionally unavailable alpha types were always her undoing. It would be so much easier if she could just sit with everyone, have a conversation, and figure out who the mole was. Trying to make decisions without all the stakeholders in one room was almost impossible.
She needed to move the kids.
Option one: send the kids with Phil. Smirnov didn’t even know she was divorced, so he definitely didn’t know Phil was in a hotel. Sure, she wanted the kids to live somewhere with warm beds and a kitchen, but at least Phil’s hotel didn’t have the Russian Mafia.
Option two: send the kids with her mom. This would be better in some ways. Time with grandma, who happened to live in another town. But what if Smirnov found out? Would she just be roping her mom into the danger too?
Option one was up first. “Siri, call Phil.”
“Gaaaaabby,” he answered, dragging out her name. She could just see him leaning back in his office chair and putting up his feet, getting ready to kick around her agenda like a hacky sack.
Keep control of the conversation. “Are you back from Sacramento?”
“Yeah, that was a day trip. I hate that town.”
“I was wondering if you were around this weekend. I thought you might take the kids.”
“Um, what? I don’t really know what we’d do in a tiny hotel room for a whole weekend. I mean, I thought you didn’t want them living out of suitcases.” After a pause, he said, “Maybe if I could have the house. You could have the hotel.”
She sighed. That wouldn’t solve anything. The only one out of harm’s way would be her.
“No thanks, Phil.”
“You know, that’s a new thing divorced parents are doing.”
She noticed her speedometer clicking up. She’d gone from sixty-five to eighty. Further proof that she did not make good decisions around Phil. If she gave him ground on the house, pretty soon she’d be living with him again.
“It’s just that we have a bit of a… pest problem.” Sticking with the same lie was the one way she was simplifying her life this week.
“What, are you doing a bug bomb this weekend?”
“I was thinking about it. Maybe I can call one of those humane exterminators. I’ll figure it out.” She wanted to get rid of the Mafia, but she didn’t want to see her reluctant kidnapper dead. He still had a chance to turn things around.
Phil’s voice was at maximum smugness when he said, “Gabby, if you want to stay in the house, this is the kind of thing you have to be able to handle. What is it, roaches?”
“Something like that.” Smirnov was definitely a roach.
“Just go to the hardware store. Get some of that roach spray that’s safe for pets.”
“I’ll figure it out, Phil. Have a good weekend.”
“Good luck. If you need any help with the house, you know who to call.”
Not Phil—that was for sure.
After she ended the call, her exit popped up. What had she been thinking calling Phil as option number one? The less entanglement with Phil, the better. If marriage had taught her anything, it was that. Plus, don’t ever let him have the remote, and be responsible for your own orgasm. Anyway, she’d just load up the kids and take them to her mom’s. It would be better for the kids, and Smirnov probably wasn’t going to follow her kids to Bakersfield.
She pulled up to a four-way stop a few blocks from her house, where she turned from Lemon Lane to Avocado Avenue. She hit the blinker and waited for the other cars to go.
The slow click, click, click of the blinker contrasted with her racing heartbeat, her fingers drumming on the steering wheel in a nervous tap dance. She ran through the packing list in her head: enough clothes for a week, toothbrushes—she couldn’t forget swimsuits. The kids loved her mom’s pool. Life jackets because her mom was going to be loosey-goosey about safety. She’d just run into the health food store on the way out of town so her mom didn’t have to work so hard on feeding Lucas. She’d get five of the frozen pizzas he could eat and a bunch of gluten-free chicken strips. And macarons for her mom, the really pretty box with all of the flavors.
She took a right and pulled up behind a white SUV. It was a veteran’s license plate with an American flag frame, personalized to read DOG MOM . Gabby’s heart sank. It was her mom.
No problem. This was a problem she could deal with. She’d convince her mom to have a quick dinner, and then she’d load the kids up and send them all off to safety.
“Hi, sweetie!” Her mom popped out of the driver’s seat, her freshly dyed hair glinting copper in the sun. “Where’s my Bubbles?”
On cue, Mr. Bubbles ran out, tail wagging and tongue hanging. “What a good boy,” she cooed. “Gabby, you look incredible!” Her mom stood back and took her daughter in. “Maybe divorce was a good idea.” Her mom had been a lukewarm supporter of her split from Phil: Are you doing enough for him? Remember, he’s your third child. That’s what a husband is. You’re supposed to hate them—that’s just how it goes. Even Michelle Obama said she couldn’t stand Barack. But you need to try harder. Go on a date, stop worrying so much about Lucas’s allergies and go to a hotel for a weekend. The Michelle Obama quote got to her. Phil was the one who left, though.
Before Gabby could say something righteous and offend her mom, Justin came out of the house in drag. Betty Danger was full volume and looking fine.
Betty stage-whispered, “Drag happy hour tonight. Did you forget?”
Shit. She had meant to go. If she wasn’t so busy balancing the Russian Mafia, the EOD, and kids, she would have snuck down for a drink and cheered on her bestie. The fucking Mafia was really getting in the way. “I’m sorry. I totally forgot.”
Her mom, goggle-eyed at Justin, said, “And who is this? Did you hire a Hollywood star to watch the kids?”
Betty waved her off with a dramatic “Oh, stop!”
Gabby did not have the energy to tell her mom she was talking to Justin whom she’d known for ten years. Plus Justin was clearly getting a thrill out of it.
“I’m watching the kids after school for Gabby.” Justin looked like the perfect 1950s housewife with an apron on over what looked like a cocktail dress. “And I whipped up some dinner for you all.”
He was making her look so bad. Gourmet food, glamour. It was like watching men’s figure skating after the women’s—everyone landing their jumps.
“Where did you get that dress?” her mom gushed.
“Macy’s, just last week.”
“If I wasn’t rushing out, I’d have to go look, not that it would look good on me. You must work out—”
“What? Rushing out?” Gabby’s casual annoyance with this conversation screeched to a halt. She needed her mom gone and with the kids. “I was going to ask you to take the kids with you. You know how I’m starting that new job. It’s just gotten to be more demanding than I’d expected. And I have that roach problem.”
“Gabby, you need to set boundaries so this job doesn’t turn into a permanent disaster.” Betty nodded in agreement, having given the same advice this morning.
Gabby let out a tight, anxious laugh. Little did they know.
The passenger door swung open, and Granny popped out. “I must have fallen asleep. Where’re my babies?!”
“Ohmygod.” Gabby could feel the heat rise. Avocado Avenue was tilting beneath her feet. “You brought Granny?!” She mouthed, “I told you—”
“I couldn’t change my plans, sweetie.”
Gabby stared in horror as her eighty-year-old grandma came out in a shiny pink tracksuit and a pair of Yeezys. “Gabby! I’ve missed you, sweetie. And look, your hair is finally the right color!”
She, her mom, and her grandma all had the same shade of red hair. None of them natural redheads. “It runs in the family!” Granny said.
More like shopping at Walgreens for L’Oréal intense red copper ran in the family, but c’est la vie.
“Choice is more important than genetics,” said Granny. “You’ve finally chosen to be one of us.” Granny put her hands on her hips and looked around the neighborhood, the sky tinged pink over Avocado Avenue. She yelled, “Burt, we’re home.”
“Burt?”
Her mom smiled slyly. “You’ll love him, Gabs.”
“You don’t mean…?”
Her mom kept smiling as the horror of the situation rose like a black sun. Granny opened up the door to reveal an old man in a fedora and a Hawaiian shirt sleeping with his chin on his chest. Granny hollered, “Burt, we’re here. Wake up.”
Her grandma wrapped Gabby in a bony hug. “Gabs, so good to see you. Meet your new grandpa.”
Burt let out a big snore, and Granny held out her left hand. “He proposed.”
Grandma had on a rock that would make JLo jealous. “He got it off QVC.” She whispered as if not to brag. “It’s from the Jane Seymour collection.”
When Gabby didn’t respond, she added, “You know, Dr. Quinn, Medicine Woman ?”
Gabby nodded.
“Burtie, wake up!” she shouted. With a snort, he jarred himself awake. Then he shook off the sleep and looked at Gabby and the quiet street. “The new digs. What’s for dinner?”
What’s for dinner? Gabby’s blood started to boil. Did this old asshole think he was moving in, uninvited, and she was going to make him dinner?
“Actually, Mom, can I talk to you?”
“Gabby, it’s all settled. You need the help, and they need somewhere to stay. Betty, can you help me get the bags?”
Gabby stood in the driveway paralyzed as she watched her plan go to hell. She wasn’t loading up the kids to safety. Betty Danger was moving Granny and Burt into the house. With Betty, her mom, and the kids, it looked like a house party with entertainment. When they opened the door to walk in, music filtered out.
Grandpa yelled, “Which bedroom is mine. Is it soundproof?”