Page 56 of Our Little Secret

Just as she did every time her heart was broken.

Which, in Brooke’s sister’s case, was far too often.

CHAPTER 13

“Is Leah going to be okay?” Neal asked.

“You’re asking me?” Brooke shook her head. “Is she ever?”

Frowning, Neal set his laptop on the table and left his jacket over the back of a chair. He glanced to the stairs, then turned back to Brooke and snapped his fingers, as if struck by a sudden thought. “Oh. A couple of things. Gustafson’s lawyer called today. He’s definitely talking about a lawsuit and damages above and beyond repairing the Porsche.”

“Such as?”

“Whiplash, pain and suffering, you know, the usual suspects. He says you’re a distracted driver.” Neal brandished his hand in the air as if it was of no consequence. “The insurance companies will battle it out.”

“Great,” she said sarcastically. “You said ‘a couple’ of things. What’s the other?”

“The adjuster is coming by today.” He checked his watch. “In fact, he should be here any minute.”

“What? Adjuster?”

“The insurance adjuster. To look at the car. See what the damage is.”

“But—” No. This couldn’t be happening! She hadn’t searched for the tracking device yet. If Gideon had left a bug on her car and the adjuster found it, how would she explain it to Neal? Worse yet, her burner phone—the one she’d used to call Gideon—was in the car, tucked into its hiding spot. What if it was discovered when the adjuster was looking through the SUV? Oh. God. “Maybe it’s not a good time,” she said, motioning lamely toward the stairs. “With Leah upset and—”

“I’ll check on her. Oh—he’s here now.” Neal was heading out of the room. “I’ll meet you in the garage once I see that Leah’s okay.”

She doubted Neal could do anything to calm Leah down, but then again, maybe she was wrong. Leah always seemed to be looking for a man’s opinion or approval. Brooke figured it was because of the lack of men in their lives growing up. Leah was always searching for a father figure because theirs had bailed early, leaving before Leah was five. Neither remembered the tall, blond man who had sired them. He’d flown to Spain, and the last Brooke had heard he was traveling with a woman half his age. That was years ago, when she’d tracked him down to tell him his ex-wife and the mother of his children had died.

Of course at the time she hadn’t known he’d been married and divorced several times. When he’d asked, “Which wife?” and “Which children?” Brooke had cut the connection without answering.

Their mother had always said, “Fletch was born with a wandering spirit.” As if that absolved him.

Nana had thought differently and sputtered, “Wandering spirit my ass! The man’s a narcissistic son of a bitch who can’t keep his pecker under control!”

Brooke figured Douglas Fletcher was somewhere between the two women’s concepts of her absent father.

The doorbell rang. Shep started barking wildly and raced to the front door.

“Oh great,” she said under her breath. There was nothing to do now but accept it and play dumb if the adjuster found the tracking device. Maybe there was no way to trace it. Did they come with serial numbers? Would Neal want to know why someone was following her? What would she say?

The person on the porch turned out to be a woman. In slacks, a sweater, and showing identification identifying her as Blair Johnson, claims adjuster for the insurance company, she smiled, white teeth showing against her dark skin. A satchel was slung over her shoulder, a clipboard in her hand, and she asked to see the SUV. Dreading what was about to happen, Brooke escorted the adjuster through the house to the garage, Shep eagerly leading the way as she flipped on the harsh fluorescent lights, illuminating the wide space where their two vehicles were parked.

Warily, Brooke answered a few of the adjuster’s questions about the accident, though Ms. Johnson had a copy of the accident report on the clipboard where she made notes, then took pictures of the Explorer’s dented bumper and crumpled hood.

“But it still drives?” Blair asked, her dark eyes sharp behind slim glasses.

“Yes. It pulls a little to the left, but I can drive it.”

“And what about your injuries?” she asked, staring pointedly at the cut on Brooke’s chin. “I saw you limp a little going down the stairs. You were hurt?”

“Not from the accident, no. I fell while running,” she said. The lie, now repeated often enough to seem like the truth, flowed easily over her lips. “It’s not been a great week.”

“I guess.”

Brooke heard Neal on the stairs. As he reached the floor of the garage, he was already grinning. “I told my wife that the next time she rear-ends a car she should pick out a 1986 Dodge or a rattletrap of a Chevy rather than a Porsche.” His grin widened at his own joke. “Neal Harmon,” he said, extending his hand.

Blair cast him a patient, I’ve-heard-it-all-before smile as she clasped her fingers around his and introduced herself. Then, all business, she continued surveying the vehicle, opening doors, taking notes of the interior as well as the damage to the exterior while Brooke began to sweat. The burner phone was right there, beneath the cup holder. All Blair Johnson had to do was lift up the false bottom.