Total pages in book: 109
Estimated words: 102903 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 515(@200wpm)___ 412(@250wpm)___ 343(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 102903 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 515(@200wpm)___ 412(@250wpm)___ 343(@300wpm)
“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.
43
Hannah
9:58 p.m.
I drive to the Swan like a wild woman, my mother chattering in my ear from the passenger seat the whole way. Her alternate reality is flip-flopping among various episodes of NCIS but mostly fixated on whichever one has her convinced Ziva needs to get more info from some PI.
The whole time, I keep trying to call Monica via my stereo’s Bluetooth, but she never answers.
It’s nearing ten at night, and when I pull up in front of the big skyscraper that showcases the sign for The Swan above an all-glass entry, I don’t even bother with self-parking. I whip my Civic right in front of the valet booth on the right side of the building, skid to a screeching stop, and hop out of the driver’s side door with the engine still running.