Page 198 of Bad Attitude
Maybe I won’t need to. Maybe Declan’s been lying to her, too. She might even tell me what she knows as soon as I explain what he’s done.
Footsteps approaching, and the door opens. A half-second as she runs her eyes over me. “Yes?”
She’s in her late twenties, her blond hair tied in a loose pony, slacks and a shirt. Her phone held in one hand, the screen dark when I glance at it. An intelligent, kind face. Puzzlement growing while I still haven’t moved or said anything.
“I… uh…” I clear my throat. “I’m here about Declan. May I come in?”
Her face drains of color. A hand covers her mouth. Her eyes flick past me to the street, then meet my gaze. “Of… of course.”
A guilty reaction if ever I saw one. She knows I’m theother woman.
Points for courage for letting me enter. Points lost for the way her hands tremble.
And don’t I feel like shit.
She steps back, opening the door. I release my hold on the gun, and step over the threshold.
Into her house. Declan’s house. Whatever.
“Uh… kitchen is this way.”
She leads me through the house. It’s bigger than I thought it would be. Nicely furnished with a cream décor. Marble top surfaces in the kitchen. Tasteful. Declan’s doing well for himself.
It’s quiet. Just the two of us. All the privacy I need.
She walks to the kettle and flips it on, hands trembling still. I take a stool at the island counter, watching her. It takes her a moment to summon up the strength to turn and look at me. Waiting for me to speak.
Fine.
“A trade of information,” I begin. “I want to know everything you know, and I’ll reciprocate.”
She goes still. Blinks slowly. “What I know?”
“Yes.”
“About what?” Her question sounds genuinely curious, and not a little surprised.
“About your husband.”
For the second time in as many minutes her face turns pale. It had barely recovered any color, and it’s all gone now. She doesn’t say anything, just stares at me in utter shock. Her hand twitches on her phone. The other grabs at the counter for support. She carefully sets her phone face-down beside the kettle, then clutches her hands together.
“My husband?”
Her habit of echoing everything is getting irritating. “Declan.”
“Declan?” Astonishment tinged with… what is that… horror? “Please, I’m not going to cause any trouble.”
I frown, trying to work out what that means. It’s like she doesn’t know what I’m talking about. Have I somehow got the wrong goddamn house? “This is his house, isn’t it?”
“No,” she says.
“What?”
“It used to be,” she adds hastily, eyes wide with fear. “He gave it to me after the divorce.”
Strange way of phrasing it.
So they’re divorced. That’s… better, I suppose.
