Dear Enemy

Which means Macon isn’t lying.

Shit on a platter.

“Well,” I say, desperately reaching for calm. “Clearly, I am not Sam. Nor is this her number. I suspect she forwarded her messages to me, for which she and I will have words. However—”

“You’re talking like your grandma again, Tot.”

“Do not call me that.”

A slow chuckle rumbles in my ear. “But you don’t object to sounding like your grandma?”

I shift my feet and scowl. I was talking like Grandma Maeve, damn it. I tend to get wordy and overly formal when nervous. The fact that he knows I do chafes. “You’re veering off course. The fact remains that I am not Sam.”

“Do you know where she is?” He’s harder now, the anger back.

“I wouldn’t tell you if I did.”

I can almost hear him grinding his teeth. Which is satisfying.

“Then I guess I’ll have to call the police,” he says.

All at once, I remember his first texts. He demanded she bring back a watch. Gripping the phone, I pace the length of my kitchen. “What did she do?”

I could have phrased it differently, but having dealt with Sam’s shenanigans over the years, I’m not going to waste time making excuses until I hear Macon’s side of the story. I’ll talk to Sam afterward.

“She took my mother’s watch.”

I suck in a sharp breath. Holy shit.

Though I didn’t know much about Mrs. Saint as a person, everyone knew about her watch. It was the envy of the entire town. It wasn’t so much a watch but a piece of jewelry, rose gold and covered in glittering diamonds. It was beautiful, though not one I’d wear every day as Mrs. Saint did.

I remember it well on her slender wrist, the elegant piece glinting in the light. A knot of dread rises up within. Sam coveted that watch. Oh, how she loved it. The worst of it is, Macon’s mother passed away years ago, which means the watch would be both an heirloom and a treasured memento.

Weakly, I press a cold hand to my hot cheek. “She . . . ah . . . when could she have possibly done this?”

Macon makes a noise of annoyance. “She really doesn’t tell you anything, does she?”

The truth stings.

“Why would she tell me about a watch that she may or may not have stolen?”

“I thought Sam had been renting a room from you.”

I blink in surprise.

Three years ago, I was given the opportunity to partner in a high-end catering business. Angela, my partner, eventually sold the other half to me, and it became so successful I was finally able to buy a small bungalow in Los Feliz. A few months later, Sam moved into the loft over my garage because money was tight for her.

Truth is, I never know how she gets her money since she never mentions any jobs. It’s hit or miss if I receive the small amount of rent she insisted on paying, and since I don’t actually need money from her, I’ve learned not to rely on it.

But I thought we were close enough that Sam would tell me she’d been seeing Macon. I hadn’t a clue they were even in contact.

“That doesn’t mean I know everything that goes on in her life,” I finally say.

Macon makes a noise that sounds far too pitying before answering with an overly patient tone. “Sam has been my assistant for the past month. Though it soon became clear that she greatly oversold her qualifications.”

I don’t know what to feel. I’m glad they aren’t dating; if Sam and Macon took up again, inevitably, he’d be back in my life as well. But he is in her life, isn’t he? They’ve been working together for a month. And Sam never told me a thing. Hurt is a numb throb in my temples.

“I’ve been away for a week,” he goes on. “I returned home yesterday, found Sam gone and a couple things missing, including the watch.”

“What was she doing in your house?” I wince at the question. I don’t want to know. I don’t.

But I do.

“Being my assistant is a twenty-four-seven job,” he says as if this is obvious. “I have a guesthouse. Sam was staying there.”

I don’t miss the way his tone implies that he thinks it’s odd I hadn’t noticed Sam was living elsewhere for weeks. I had. But I’m used to her coming and going. My place is more of a base camp for her than anything.

“You might have had a break-in,” I offer weakly.

“Bullshit. The damn woman asked to see the watch for ‘old times’ sake,’ and I was fool enough to show her.”

Closing my eyes, I run my hand over my face. “Well . . .”

Shit. I have nothing.

His voice turns weary and resigned. “Just tell me where she is, and I’ll leave you to your baking.”

“I don’t know where she is. But I’ll find her. Talk to her.”