“What did you do with it?”
She hugged herself. “Nothing,” she said, her voice suddenly small. “I just put everything in the garbage bags.”
I took a deep, slow breath and calmed the fuck down. I believed her, unfortunately.
I glanced at her stuff all spread out on the bed. Piles of papers and books she seemed to be sorting through. The half-emptied boxes strewn around as she unpacked.
The open closet had a ton of clothes hanging in it. She’d brought a hell of a lot of stuff with her… Didn’t exactly look like she was just here for the week.
“What are you doing here, anyway?”
“Working,” she said, all attitude. “If you must know.”
“What?”
“My brother’s paying me to be here.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, he hired me.”
Huh? What the fuck was she talking about?
“Hired you to do what?”
“Producer’s Assistant.” She didn’t look me in the eye when she said that. She looked defensive as fuck, her arms locked over her chest. Her shoulders tight. Kinda seemed like she had as little clue what she was doing in a job like that as I did.
Cary had never once mentioned wanting to hire his sister, or mentioned his sister wanting to work for him. The last assistant he’d hired—his first—he’d fired within a week. Said he didn’t need or want anyone all up in his private business.
And now he’d hired his little sister to be all up in his business?
Wasn’t she leaving for college in a few weeks? Pre-law at some university in Ottawa, then law school in England… wasn’t that the plan?
I glanced around at her stuff again. Maybe some girls overpacked, brought more clothes with them than they needed. But she’d already hung up some pictures over her little desk and everything, gotten out a hammer and nails to do it. Framed photos of her and her girlfriends, a couple of them from her posh girls’ school, both in and out of uniform.
Definitely looked like she was moving in, long term.
When I saw Cary on Saturday, he seemed to be doing about the same as usual. Not any better, not any worse. Hard to know how the news about Fetterman would set him back, but no doubt it could. This time of year was always tough for him as it was.
Last week was the anniversary of Gabe’s death.
I’d tried to talk to him about it, but he just avoided the whole topic.
No surprise there.
But now his sister was suddenly working for him—and moving in with him?
Not a good sign.
Was she worried about him?
Would she tell me if she was?
No. Probably fucking not.
“The poolhouse is mine,” I told her. “Just stay out.”
“Gladly,” she snapped back.