“That won’t be necessary.” My voice is just as flat. “I don’t plan to take much with me.”
I want nothing that reminds me of this place.
“Tomorrow, the boat maintenance man will come to deal with your father’s Hinckley and secure the boathouse. You will be here to let him in, I presume?”
“Sure, I’ll be here.”
“Excellent.” She nods. There’s a long pause. “There’s just one more matter then…”
My brows lift. “What is it?”
“I gather the closing of Cormorant House has something to do with Mr. Beaufort’s rather abrupt departure.” She pauses. “It seems, in his haste, he left behind a rather personal item…”
“Ah. The ring.” I pinch the bridge of my nose. “Of course. I’d forgotten.”
“No matter. If you’ll bring it to me, I will see it delivered back to the proper hands.”
“It’s in my bedroom. I’ll go get it.”
I quickly retrieve the ring from its hidden spot in my desk, and return to the kitchen. Mrs. Granger is waiting there with her purse clutched in her hands so tightly, I doubt she has any blood circulation in her fingers.
“Here,” I say, passing her the small velvet box. I feel not even the slightest twinge of regret as it slips from my fingers. “Thank you for handling this.”
“Very well, Miss Valentine.” After tucking the box into her purse, Mrs. Granger pauses. “For what it’s worth, I think you’re making a grave mistake — letting a gentleman like Mr. Beaufort slip through your fingers.”
“For what it’s worth? I don’t particularly care about your opinion, Mrs. Granger.”
“Your mother was right — you are a willful girl.”
“I’m sure she meant that as an insult. But I think I’ll take it as a compliment.” My mouth tugs up at one side. “Thanks for all your help with the house. You can go, now. I’ll take it from here.”
THIRTY-TWO
archer
Despite the calmassurances I made to Tomlinson at the ballpark this morning, when the DEA agents call me in ten hours later, I find I’m far more nervous than anticipated. We’ve walked through the plan multiple times, going over every possible contingency. It’s simple enough, on paper.
Head down to the commercial docks after dark.
Approach the old trawler slowly, so they know I’m not a threat.
Ask to talk to my brother.
Get onboard, if possible.
Get confession, if possible.
Get pictures, if possible.
Get out cleanly, if possible.
Frankly, there are a few too manyif possiblesfor my liking. But agents Pomroy and Stanhope don’t seem ruffled. They both emit an unflappable energy, staring at me through flat eyes that have seen too much. Even now, crouched in an unmarked black van six blocks from the harbor, surrounded by surveillance equipment and government-issue weaponry, they don’t seem at all nervous about the myriad ways this could go wrong.
“Okay, Reyes. Our teams are in place. Coast Guard is standing by to move in and block the harbor, if we need them. We’ve triple-checked the tech. Signal is clear as a whistle.”
I try not to fidget at the mention of the recording device I’m wearing. I’d pictured something like I’d seen on old reruns of Law and Order — a wire taped to my chest, a bulky recorder box strapped to the small of my back. The reality is far more technologically advanced. I hadn’t even realized, when they handed me a plain gray button-down to layer over my plain white t-shirt twenty minutes ago, that the top button is not a button at all. It’s a camera. The device is so cleverly hidden in the fabric, you’d never know it was there — recording your every word, automatically snapping photographs every twenty seconds. The wires are stitched in the seams, invisible to the casual observer.
I’m counting on that.