Twenty-One #3
Hot Springs to thwart an attack on the capitol and nab a SIM card with evidence that might help exonerate me in the case of
a murder trial!
“Were you two about to kiss?” Phoebe asked. The girls had never seen me with a date, but they seemed more delighted than fazed.
Nate smiled at me, his eyes warm, as if to say, Your kids are pretty cool.
“How about you say something more polite to Coach Duran?” I said, pointedly.
“Thank you for the ice cream,” Alice and Phoebe said in a singsong unison that was meant to be charming, but actually had
horror-movie vibes.
Nate scratched Little Sister’s ears. “Sure thing,” he said, and for a split second, I could picture what it would be like
to have a Hollywood-movie, picture-perfect nuclear family.
I needed a minute after that near-kiss to pull myself together. “That salted caramel made me thirsty,” I said. “Anyone else
want some water?”
As I filled a plastic cup at the cooler inside, I kept an eye on the patio. Phoebe was pretending to ride the dog like a horse, with Alice holding the “reins.” Nate watched them, smiling. But then he pulled out his phone and started texting.
Suddenly, Idaho Connor’s phone vibrated in my coat. I pulled it out to read the text, as Nate slipped his phone into his back
pocket.
Natty Lite: Where the hell are you? We have work to do.
Natty Lite. Nate. A shiver went through me.
Outside, Nate had taken the dog’s leash so both twins could pretend to ride Little Sister at the same time. This sweet, goofy
man who seemed to have endless patience could not possibly be “Natty Lite.” There was no way Nate had just texted Idaho Connor
about work they needed to do together.
I must be imagining things. Stress had turned me paranoid. But I needed to be sure. I yanked on the bathroom door but it was
locked. I knocked, knocked again, pounded until a mom came out holding the hand of a little girl. “Geez,” she said. “We tried
to hurry.”
Not even apologizing, I brushed past her, locked the door behind me, and laid my cell next to Idaho Connor’s phone on the
edge of the sink. A speaker near the ceiling blared an old song about a hot-blooded guy with a fever of a hundred-and-three.
My hands shook so badly I nearly dropped my phone while opening Nate’s contact. I compared the numbers for “Nate” in my phone
and “Natty Lite” in Idaho Connor’s phone.
THEY. WERE. THE. SAME. NUMBER.
Bending over the sink, I splashed freezing water into my face. Belatedly realizing there wasn’t a paper towel dispenser, I
stuck my face under the hot blast of the hand dryer. After a quick glance in the mirror, I shoved a phone in each coat pocket
and headed back out into The STIL. Through the window, I could see Nate helping the twins teach the dog to sit.
How could it be that Nate almost kissed me and then went straight to texting the corpse I’d found in my trunk!
Who was this man out there on the patio with my kids?
He definitely might not be the person I thought he was.
Was he a criminal? A dirty fed, working with white supremacist gang members?
Was he a secret arms trafficker? Did he suspect I knew where Connor was?
This was what I got for thinking there was a hot eligible man dying to take me and my kids out for fancy ice cream. I tried to think clearly.
“I don’t go undercover myself,” Nate had said as he stood in front of a classroom of second graders. “But I provide a lot
of support to undercover agents.”
The dead guy could’ve been one of Nate’s colleagues—a federal agent, deep undercover as a white supremacist named Connor Johnson.
In which case, he probably hadn’t deserved to die. What kind of prison time would I face for stashing the remains of a federal
operative? And—infinitely worse—what if I’d killed him? Federal agent or no, Connor drugged me. He could’ve hustled me around
to the back alley behind Huckleberry’s. If he’d tried to assault me, I very well might’ve stabbed him with my scrapbooking
scissors, shoved him into my trunk somehow. Locked him in. He could have suffocated! I pushed the thoughts away. Told myself
it had to have been Errol. It was something I needed to believe right now or else I’d be paralyzed with fear. And that wouldn’t
do because—now more than ever—I needed Baylee’s SIM card. I could not become the prime suspect in the murder of an undercover
federal agent!
But first I needed to keep my cool, fake my way through the last few minutes of this date, and get my kids home and in bed.
Then I could try to make a plan. I exited the bathroom, pasted what I hoped was a chipper look on my face, and headed toward
the door to the patio.
Through the front window I saw Nate and Phoebe and Alice all petting Little Sister, probably heaping the dog with praise.
My girls looked so happy. They were drinking in the positive attention. A feeling like one of Emmylou’s crossbow bolts lanced
my heart. Because despite what was going on out there, Layna was right. I’d been a fool to think I could ask Nate to come
to my rescue. I was going to have to handle this myself.