Hidden - Laura Griffin Page 0,39
at her. Neither of them had ever really answered. Both of their jobs definitely had their dark sides, not to mention crazy hours. But Bailey loved her work anyway. She wasn’t sure why she did what she did, only that she couldn’t imagine doing anything else.
Three sharp raps on the door made her heart skitter. She got up and checked the peephole. Jacob still wore his work clothes, and it looked like he hadn’t been home yet.
She opened the door. “Hi,” she said, trying for nonchalance.
“Hi.”
They simply stood there for a moment, and she stepped back to usher him in. She looked him over, noting his badge and holster. He seemed so official, and she was standing there in a tank top and running shorts, with bare feet.
“Long day?” she asked.
He raked his hand through his hair. “Yeah.”
“How about a drink? I’ve got beer, wine.”
“I’m still on call.”
“Water, Gatorade—”
“Water’s good.”
She walked into the kitchen and grabbed a bottle from the fridge. Boba Fett had vanished. He was shy with visitors.
“Thanks.” Jacob unscrewed the top from the water and watched her as he took a swig. He had that five o’clock shadow thing happening again, and she remembered how the stubble had felt under her fingertips.
She nodded at his gun. “Doesn’t that thing get heavy?”
“No.”
“I can’t imagine wearing that all the time. What about when you’re on vacation?”
“Depends. I’ve got a Glock 42 and an ankle holster when I want to travel light.” He took another swig and set his bottle on the counter. They stared at each other across her kitchen, and Bailey felt a warm pull in the pit of her stomach. He was thinking about last night—she could tell.
He sauntered into her living room and looked around at the low bookshelves lining three of the walls. She’d made them last summer out of cinder blocks and wood slats after getting tired of the milk crates she’d used in college.
“Lot of books,” he said.
“It’s my indulgence.”
“I see why you don’t want to move.” He stepped closer and tipped his head to read the titles. “Orwell, Atwood, Vonnegut.” He looked at her. “Dystopian fiction?”
“And true crime. And horror. And politics. Of course, some people would tell you that’s all the same.”
Why was she babbling? Butterflies flitted in her stomach as she watched him checking out her living room. She wondered what he thought of her home. He lived in a house, not an apartment. It was another symbol of their age difference. He was thirty-four—eight years older than she was. She’d been looking into his background. She also happened to know his address and what he’d paid for his house two years ago. Amazing the info you could dig up with a simple Internet search.
He stepped closer to a shelf with framed photos along the top and zeroed in on a picture of Bailey with her sisters and their father at the marina in front of their catamaran.
“This the Mary Alice?” He looked at her.
“Yeah.”
“You look like your dad.”
She smiled. “People say that. I don’t see it at all.”
“The eyes.”
He turned to face her, and again she felt that warm pull.
“I learned a lot today,” she said. “Some of it I wanted to run by you.”
He lifted an eyebrow. “You turn in your profile?”
“It’s on hold.”
“Why?” He looked concerned.
“There are some things I’m trying to pin down.” She stepped back into the kitchen and grabbed a water for herself. He followed her and leaned back against the counter, and he was watching her now with a look she couldn’t read.
“Let me ask you something.” She took a sip of water and set down the bottle. “You think it’s possible Dana wasn’t who she said she was?”
“How do you mean?”
“I mean . . . do you think it’s possible she misled people? Her employer, her friends, everyone.”
“What makes you think that?”
“I’ve been researching the woman for days, and it’s weird. No one can even tell me where she’s from. She has no social media presence. She didn’t drive or have a phone until Celeste Camden gave her one. She didn’t talk about her background with her employer or her co-workers—”
“What co-workers?”
“At the museum.”
His eyebrows tipped up.
“She volunteered at Villa Paloma two days a week. You didn’t know?”
“No.”
“She spent an average of eight hours a week there, but even her friends there don’t know much about her, not even where she’s from originally. Don’t you think that’s weird?” Bailey crossed her arms. “And then I was talking to Nico, our tech writer,