Page 97 of How To Plot a Payback

“Oh, I have no doubt I’ll be getting messages within ten minutes. An irate one because I hadn’t clued her in; one asking what happened to Jonathan, that bloke I went out with the other day; one telling me to text back the code phrase if I need saving—it’s ‘Zinnias always save the day’ if you want to know; and one insisting on every detail the moment I get home.”

Honestly, I’m like a bucket for her secrets.

“D’you realize that makes at least five secrets you’ve told me?” I blurt. “You know, Lavender, they really aren’t secrets if you share them with everyone.”

“I don’t share them with everyone.” She pauses. Tweaks her brow. Her eyes dance a little as she cocks her head. “So. You’re keeping count then?”

I shrug in an it’s-hardly-important manner.

“Does it . . . make you feel good?” she says, leaning deeper into my side. “Is it nice to know I find you trustworthy?”

Her eyes are doing a full-on jig now, and I find my chest tightening under the compliment. Although, it’s not fair to accept, is it? When I’ve actually just recently attempted to stab her in the back?

Despite myself, I feel the need to puncture the helium balloon that is my heart. To sabotage myself against hope. “So who is this Jonathan?”

“Oh, he’s the forty-year-old I went out with the other day. Hates karaoke, though. There is no future for me with a man who hates karaoke.”

“Too bad,” I say wryly. “I hate karaoke.”

“Extraordinarily good news for you then. Because for chaps who can keep five secrets, I can make exceptions.” She pats my arm with her free hand, then reaches down for her purse—taking me, I note, along with her instead of letting go. I bend with the tiniest resistance and hold on as a fresh wave of her hair tosses over my shoulder as she stands back up. She calls over her shoulder, “C’mon, Bernie.”

“Where are you going, really?” I ask, letting her walk us toward the park gate.

“Are you really dining with your neighbor tonight?”

“Yes.”

“And is she really a fan?”

“Three of her cats are named Lavender. But to be fair, she owns a lot of cats.”

“Well then, it’s settled, isn’t it? I’m your plus-one.”

* * *

“This is your flat?”

There’s shock in her voice and I turn around, pausing with keys in hand, dry cleaning over one shoulder.

She’s holding a bottle of wine and a bag of knafeh in her hands, and the bag with the bottle is drooping as she stares up at the old building.

“Yes,” I say, unsurprised by her reaction.

The building is pretty well-known. Built in the early 1920s by the renowned architects Arthur and Nina Zwebell, Casa Laguna may be old, and less convenient than the modern high-rises with their fancy amenities, but it’s well loved.

Eighteen Andalusian-style flats circle a courtyard, where a tired but functional pool sits among palm trees and terra-cotta pots brimming with succulents.

“You’ll have to look out,” I say, opening the door to let her and Miles walk through. “Mrs. Teaberry has gotten the gang started on a carnivorous garden club.”

“Oh,” she says, cautiously stepping around several pots and beginning down the herringbone brick path leading to the center of the courtyard. “Like that one?” she says, pointing to a vibrant plant trailing up one wall.

“No, like that Venus flytrap by your foot. She keeps telling me they only eat flies, but I’m certain I felt one snapping at my ankle last week. This way.”

I unleash Miles and step gently around Lavender. The brick path is narrow, and I find myself touching her shoulder lightly as I pass.

She bristles, her reaction just a flicker beneath my palm.

Not that I care—of course I don’t care—but why does she bristle?