Say Goodbye (Romantic Suspense #25) - Karen Rose Page 0,147

rooms, but Sinclair noticed. “Apologies,” Liza said. “I’m not trying to be nosy. I’d like a feel for the layout and the kind of equipment you’re using here.”

“We have all the equipment you’ll find in any other facility,” Sinclair said proudly. “And if a patient needs what we don’t have, we get it.”

“Wow,” Liza murmured.

“Indeed. Well, here is the lobby, Miss Barkley. I hope you have a delightful afternoon.”

“Thank you.”

Liza walked to the visitors’ lot, where she’d parked Karl’s SUV, noting the cameras pointed in her direction. There were a number of them. There was also a tall iron fence with a gate behind it, which, according to Sinclair, was parking for employees and the families of their patients.

The atmosphere was every bit as oppressive and severe as the army base outside Kabul.

She pulled out of the parking lot, noticing a dark sedan pull into traffic behind her. It followed her all the way back to her apartment, not seeming to care that she noticed it.

It could be DJ, she thought. That would be bad.

Or it could be Sunnyside Oaks’s security staff, checking to see that she lived where she said she did.

Or it could even be the FBI. She hadn’t seen Tom in the sedan, but she wouldn’t put it past him to have followed her.

Regardless, she was glad for the relative anonymity of the apartment and Karl’s SUV. As soon as she was back in her apartment, she flopped onto the sofa and heaved out a relieved breath.

“So far, so good,” she muttered.

She checked her texts, expecting one from Tom, but seeing one from Mercy. Or, rather, from Abigail, who had used Mercy’s phone. It was an invitation to a sleepover tonight at Mercy’s. There would be nail painting, hair braiding, and makeovers. And ice cream.

The sleepover had been Mercy’s idea. Her friend had called her the night before when she’d been crying and eating rocky road. Mercy had floated the idea then.

Except that last night, she hadn’t been a part of a potential undercover operation. But if she backed out of this party, not only would she disappoint Mercy and Abigail but she’d raise a lot of questions that she didn’t want to answer. This had just gotten complicated.

Except . . . this apartment was for Karl’s clients. Many who wanted anonymity. It was why the ownership of the unit and the registration on the SUV were—hopefully—untraceable.

She opened a text window to Karl. All is well. Am at apt. Do you have disguises here?

Okaaaay. Why? was Karl’s immediate reply.

Going to Mercy’s tonight. Don’t want to lead anyone there if someone is watching. Paranoid maybe but want to be safe.

Are you claustrophobic?

Liza frowned at the question. No. Why?

Her phone rang a moment later with a call from Karl. “I hate texting,” he said. “We sometimes have to transport celebrities who do our commercials. There’s a large box in one of the bedrooms. Big enough to sit in. It’s a nice box, and has its own chair. You get in, the driver takes you out on a dolly, and once you’re loaded in his delivery truck and he’s on the road, you can get out. Sound like something you can do?”

“Yes, I can handle a box. I should leave by five p.m. if that works. Thank you.”

“Five p.m. will work, and you’re welcome. Be careful,” he said and ended the call.

With a satisfied smile, Liza switched back to her conversation with Abigail. I’ll bring nail polish and scrunchies. See you soon, Shrimpkin.

She had a life. She had friends. She had a family in Chicago who cared about her. She had a new family in Sacramento who cared about her, too.

And if she didn’t have Tom Hunter? She’d cope. She always did.

EDEN, CALIFORNIA

FRIDAY, MAY 26, 2:00 P.M.

Graham crouched next to Hayley’s pallet, a plate in his hands. “How’re you?”

“Ready to pop,” Hayley grumbled, curled up on her side, grateful that at this time of day the other wives were elsewhere doing chores. She needed to talk to Graham about their mother. She’d been worried sick about him since he’d splashed their mother’s shoes with piss. “Like a huge pus-filled zit.”

Graham snorted. “I’m gonna rename Jellybean. From here on out, she’s Zit.”

Hayley shoved herself to a sitting position, patting her stomach. “I won’t let him call you Zit.” She eyed the plate, then sighed. “Jerky again, huh?”

“Sorry.” He dipped his head closer. “There’s a little bit of chicken hidden underneath.”

She frowned. “Hidden?”

“Nobody knows what’s going on right now,” he whispered. “Pastor’s