Page 60 of Date With Danger
She nods. “The question is for how long?”
“A guy like that, probably knew the whole time.” It wouldn’t surprise me if he’s been hiring people to dress and act like him so he can escape unnoticed.
I scrub a hand down my face, feeling like this is all my fault. I should have been more discreet. I got caught up in Amelia and lost control of the situation. I let her wrap her tiny perfect fingers around my attention and drag it away from where it should have been.
Was that all part of her plan? Was the package thing last night a ploy to get me away from surveilling her partner in crime? A distraction, a decoy. I knew she was being too protective of that jewelry box.
She’s working with Liam.
That thought sits like acid in my lungs making me wish I could stop breathing. I trusted her. I’ve trusted so few people in my life, but she was one of them.
“Let’s follow Amelia,” I say, already grabbing my gear. If she’s innocent, she could be in danger. If she’s guilty, then I want to be the first to know so I can personally question her.
Cruz narrows her eyes at me. “You sure you’re not saying that because you want to flirt with her again?”
“Please,” I tsk. “Who would flirt with someone while on the job?”
She tosses a pen at me. “I hate you.”
Twenty minutes later we’re parked across the street from Amelia’s salon, Curl Up and Dye. There are skeletons in the window, which is perfectly acceptable during Halloween, but maybe a little odd for July. There are also hearts, from Valentine's Day assumedly. Either someone is lazy and prefers to keep all decor up year-round, or they have a strange sense of humor. But none of that deters me from my prime target.
Amelia’s station is right in front of the largest window and for the next hour, I watch her talk, dye hair, and talk some more.
“Is talking her preferred form of torture?” Cruz yawns. “I don’t think her mouth has stopped moving all day.”
Amelia is good at talking me in circles until I can’t remember what I’m supposed to say, or how I should push her away.
Manipulative. That’s the word for it.
After that client leaves, another shows up, then another. Three hours later, I’ve lost my fire and my mind. Watching her entrances me. She’s a ray of sunshine in a world of shadows. She talks with everyone, gives suckers to kids waiting on their moms, and hugs to the women who seem to be having a bad day.
Am I jealous of the hugs? No comment.
At one point I swear she cringed when she chopped too much hair off a poor woman’s head. She might not be the best at this job, yet she has a steady stream of clients who seem to love her.
Is it all part of a cover, or is it real? I hate that I can’t trust myself to determine the difference. Each time my dad came home I thought he’d changed; each time he left he proved he hadn’t. I haven’t seen him since my mother’s funeral. He wasn’t invited, but he showed up anyway. He said he was sorry, and then asked about the will. I wanted to punch him right there. Mom didn’t have a cent to her name. Both he and the cancer made sure of that.
I yawn. I could hardly sleep last night. Too much “past trauma” came out to play and Amelia’s fresh betrayal made the darkness agonizingly long.
I glance down the street, keeping my eyes peeled for Liam, hoping he’ll show up and prove the worst, while at the same time praying he doesn’t.
If she’s not his partner, maybe I can get her to contact him again, and set up another date...
The door to the salon opens and Amelia walks out heading north down the street. She stops at a bakery first, emerging a few minutes later with a chocolate croissant. She continues to a taco truck and gets two tacos. But she doesn’t turn around, she keeps walking.
Quietly, I get out of the car, looking back at Cruz to see if she’s coming, but she waves me on. I follow Amelia from the opposite side of the street, careful to keep my distance. But I could stomp my feet ten paces behind her and she still wouldn’t notice me, not with the way she greets every human and pet she passes. She bounces down the sidewalk like she’s a princess from a fairytale.
Halfway down the block Amelia stops and pets an intimidating-looking husky. The giant of a dog licks her back.
I’ve heard dogs are good judges of character.
Is this what I’ve resorted to? Trusting the instincts of canines over my own?
The husky leaves her with a gracious lick up her leg and Amelia laughs before going into a froyo place. Good to see she eats a variety of food groups for each meal. Dessert, lunch, dessert. After she gets the froyo, she heads back toward the salon. I wander down the street, surveying my options. There are only two benches in the shade and both are out of view of the salon. I finally find one in the sun. It’s kitty-corner from the salon with a perfect view of her station in between the hip bones of two skeletons. The hot bench burns through every layer of clothing on contact, but I pretend it doesn’t affect me and pull a newspaper in front of my face.
I’m sweating profusely and skimming the same page five minutes later when a familiar man enters the salon.
Her ex.