Jill shot me a perplexed look, then followed my gaze. Fortunately, she caught on and gave an earnest nod. “Right! Wow. Ruthie was ruthless. Sucks for them because that place is great.” Okay, maybe a bit too earnest.
To my relief Pellini didn’t seem to notice Jill’s terrible improv skills, and continued to read his newspaper. I rolled my eyes at her in exasperation, but she grinned and continued toward the kitchen. “I’m stealing your butter,” she informed me. “I want to make cookies and—” She stopped as we drew even with the open bathroom door. Steeev leaned close to the mirror above the sink and peered intently at his reflection. “Um, Steeev? What gives, dude?”
He turned to her, forehead wrinkled and mouth pursed. “Kara Gillian observed that I have a pained expression on my face at all times. I wish to rectify this, yet I do not perceive this appearance of agony.”
Jill pressed her lips together to control her laugh. “C’mon, big guy,” she said, tucking her arm through his. “You can help me make cookies, and I’ll explain Kara’s unique brand of humor.”
? ? ?
After Jill left with the butter, I grabbed a carton of orange juice from the fridge and poured a glass.
Pellini looked up from the newspaper, brows drawn together and face serious. “You changed gears midsentence with Jill as soon as you saw me.”
Crap. Busted. I stuck the juice carton back in the door and closed the fridge. “Trying to preserve your plausible deniability,” I said. “You know the deal. Once you know, you know.”
The furrows between his brows deepened. “But I need to know, don’t I. Even if it associates me.”
“I won’t lie. It would help if you could, ah, participate fully.” I took a sip of my juice then sank into a chair at the table. “However, I don’t want to associate you without your clear consent and understanding.”
He leaned back in his chair and regarded me. “This is serious shit,” he said after a moment. “Gimme a few to think it over.” He dropped the paper onto the table, called for Sammy and headed to the back door. Sammy galloped through the kitchen in his eagerness to get outside.
Serious shit indeed. Once Pellini came on board and learned the full story—including all the pesky illegal parts—he’d be duty bound as a law enforcement officer to report all law-breaking activities to the appropriate authorities. Failure to do so would be . . . what was the term? Oh, yeah: Malfeasance in Office. Otherwise known as Dirty Cop. We could bleat all day that our cause was right and just and worth a few bent laws here and there, but at the end of the day it had to be Pellini’s decision to wade into our particular flavor of dirt. No way would I yank him in against his will.
After finishing my juice, I pulled out my phone and sent a quick text to Bryce.
<FYI might be filling Pellini in re BM crap> I couldn’t help but smile after I hit send. Paul used to call Farouche “Big Mack” or BM for short, and now it served as a useful code phrase on the off chance our calls or texts were being monitored.
His response came in less than a minute. <Gotcha. I trust your judgment>
I snorted. <Appreciate that. But not gonna out you w/o permission> It was one thing to tell Pellini about our role in the events at the Farouche Plantation. It was another to tell him Bryce was the one who put two bullets in BM’s head.
This reply took longer.
<Trust you. And thanks. Yes, you have permission to out me>
I exhaled in relief. Would’ve been tough to skirt that whole issue, but I’d been prepared to figure out a way. <Cuz you’re fabulous>
<You know it. ETA thirty minutes>
I put my phone away then snuck a peek out the kitchen window. No sign of Pellini. Restless, I pulled the newspaper to me and flipped through it, then stopped and stared at a photo on the third page. Amaryllis Castlebrook. I knew that face all too well because a few weeks ago I’d impersonated her. She’d been targeted for abduction by Farouche, but my posse intervened.
Yet sick horror filled me at the sight of the headline. Beaulac Woman Missing Since Thursday. I skimmed the article, frustrated by the lack of details. She’d been last seen as she left work. No suspects at this time. Anyone with information was asked to contact the sheriff’s office.
“Son of a bitch,” I muttered. My gut told me it was no coincidence that she went missing after being previously targeted. Had someone picked up the human trafficking right where Farouche left off?
Before I could retrieve the laptop to check for updates on the case, Sammy bounded in and collapsed into a tongue-lolling heap on the rug by the kitchen sink. Pellini followed at a more sedate pace and dropped into the chair opposite me.
I set the paper down and did my best not to appear impatient for his decision. While I very much hoped he’d choose to hear me out regarding my posse’s dicey history, I wouldn’t blame him if he dodged the whole guilt-by-association bullet.