Page 52 of The Love Thief

Jackson replied: “Are you free for lunch? I have to be downtown this morning. Want to meet somewhere in Little Italy at noon? I can take a look at your phone then, and we can discuss it?”

“Sounds good. Should we meet at Burger Lounge? It has the best onion rings.”

“Yes, they do, and they also have the best quinoa burger. See you there. PS: Don’t forget your phone.”

Trying to focus, I tucked the phone in my back pocket and turned my attention back to the breakfast Mom had lovingly prepared for me.

“OMG, Mom! This is the best avocado bacon toast ever, and you are the best barista ever and just the best mom ever!” I gushed, snapping a piece of bacon in half before stuffing it into my mouth.

“I know that, and thank you, and I don’t remember putting any catnip in your coffee. What’s up with you?”

Talking nonstop, at two-hundred words per minute, and lacking all editing and restraint, I downloaded the details of my lunch plans with Jackson for the day.

Mom was genuinely happy to see me happy, and of course, she gave me her “he seems like a good guy, BUT please take it slow,” advice. She made me promise to maintain a professional relationship until after the sentencing so as to reduce any chances of impropriety.

“Just be careful. And when this is all over, make sure you don’t get yourself into a rebound relationship,” she said. She vigorously wiped down the sink with a cloth before continuing. “And, just because he has a gun, doesn’t mean he can protect your heart,” she warned.

“Oh, Mom, don’t worry! I’m not rushing into anything, and honestly, I don’t really know if we will ever get beyond the agent-and-witness zone,” I assured her.

I knew this was a lie because I was really hoping this was going somewhere.

But Mom didn’t need to know everything , even if she pretended she did.

When I got to Burger Lounge, Jackson was already seated on the patio. He stood up to greet me with a warm, inviting smile, which was unexpected but most welcomed.

“I’ll go up to the counter and order. I’m getting the quinoa burger with white cheddar cheese and onion rings. What would you like?”

“Wow, that’s perfect! I’d like the exact same thing.

We might be foodie soulmates,” I said with my biggest smile.

The last time I had said that was to Maya.

I sighed for a moment, wondering how she was doing and making a mental note of just how much I needed to fill her in on the next time we talked.

My train of thought was broken by the gorgeous man who was approaching me with two plates of burgers. He looked handsome in a conservative navy suit, rep-striped tie, and lace-up shoes. I felt a bit underdressed in torn jeans, old, faded yellow Converse sneakers, and a pale, yellow slouchy sweater.

“Let’s eat first before it all gets cold, and then we can talk about the defendant,” Jackson suggested.

He gently placed the food in front of me, swinging his tie back over his shoulder with his free hand before onion grease got onto the silk.

Again, I noticed his smooth left ring finger was not wearing a wedding band.

I snapped myself out of my reverie as I dove into my burger.

Reflecting on Jackson’s professional manner, I particularly loved that he never called Barry by his name. He just referred to him as “the defendant.” Although it would also be fun if he called him “the perp”!

Once the onion rings, fries, and burgers were consumed, I pulled out my phone and played Barry’s message for him. He wanted to listen to it twice.

Then he asked, “What hundred thousand is he talking about?”

I realized he didn’t know this part of my saga.

It hadn’t come up because when we did my first interview in Rishikesh, I had never thought to mention it.

Then again, during the interrogation with Susan Karson, it didn’t occur to me to talk about it.

I guess once I finally realized I’d never see that money again, I completely suppressed the memory of it.

With a deep breath and a big sigh, I explained the whole dreadful, embarrassing mess to him.

Seeing his eyes fill with care and compassion as he listened made me realize that he was a trustworthy man.

With him, I felt seen and heard and, most importantly, safe.

A sense of warmth and contentment enveloped me inside and out.

When I finished my story, he put his hand on top of mine, looked deep into my eyes, and gently said, “I’m so sorry this happened to you, Holly.

You were played by a sociopath, so please don’t blame yourself.

Men like that target smart, successful women and you were scammed by a master.

If I may say so, it’s actually proof of how special you are. Guys like that only target great women.

“Unfortunately, this happens more often than you would think. He will get his, probably sooner than you think. There are no federal prisons that are like country clubs for white-collar criminals. Stories about tennis courts filled with hedge fund traders are greatly exaggerated. He will have nightmarish experiences in prison,” Jackson promised.

Jackson wanted to send the voicemail to Susan to see what she thought, but his initial response was simply that he didn’t think it was necessary to make the case. As soon as he heard from Susan, he would let me know her decision. He reminded me that I was not to have any contact with the defendant.

Lunch flew by, and 90 minutes later, Jackson announced he had to leave for a meeting at his office.

As we started to get up from the table, he looked at me intently.

“I’ll be traveling for the next few weeks, Holly,” he said.

“But if you need anything, I’m available anytime by phone, text, or video chat, okay?

” Not knowing what else to do, I clumsily saluted him as we parted ways.

On the way back to my car, I called Auntie to see if there was anything Nani and Dada needed while I was out. She told me Nani was craving masala chai, and most of the ingredients Auntie needed to make her special secret recipe were not in the pantry.

“There is an Indian market out on Convoy. If you have time to go, I will text you the address and the list of spices.”

“Of course, Auntie. Somehow at cooking school, we never got around to learning how to make the spice mix. Happy to bring everything to Nani in a little while, and I could use a good cup of chai myself.” I laughed.

When I turned the corner onto Mom’s wide, tree-lined street, I was still floating on cloud nine after my time with Agent Jackson.

I was so lost in thought when I pulled into the driveway that I never noticed Barry’s beige Escalade idling a few houses away on the same street.

I gathered my things from the car and was making my way toward the house when it happened.

Barry quickly pulled his car into Mom’s driveway, blocking me in from behind.

I stumbled backward toward the house, instinctively locating my phone in my bag and calibrating the distance between my body and the front door.

Then, as if this were some joyful reunion, Barry stood up, flashing his best used-car salesman smile and holding what appeared to be a small gift bag from Tiffany. Christ, what now , I thought to myself.

As he stepped out of the car and I saw him for the first time in nearly a year, I was shocked at his appearance.

He looked older and much more haggard in the midday sun.

His sports coat draped loosely on his tall frame, and his skin looked thin and sallow.

Then I noticed something on his face I had never seen before: those suspicious protruding lumps that betray a poorly constructed cheek implant. Eesh .

I also noticed my reaction. I was neither flooded by oxytocin nor racked with adrenaline. If I had to describe my primary emotion, I’d have to call it pity—although not quite.

“What do you want?” I asked coldly, surprising myself with the confidence in my voice.

“Holly,” he began. “I know how hard all of this has been on you, but I can help you,” he said, slowly inching his way closer to me.

“I can help you rebuild your business. I can make your dreams of summers by the lake and winters skiing in Lake Tahoe come true. I can give you the children you’ve always wanted.

“I’ve never loved anyone the way I love you, and hurting you was the biggest mistake I’ve ever made in my life. If only you could forgive me.”

All I could think about was how pathetic he looked.

My attention was drawn to the light reflecting off the small blue Tiffany’s bag that Barry had been holding by his side. Seeing this, Barry smiled like the cat who just ate the canary.

“Holly, this is indisputable proof that you can trust me again,” he said, handing me the bag.

I could see it was filled with an enormous pile of cash.

“This is the hundred thousand you invested in the house. I’m returning every penny of it to you, just like I said I would.

In this bag are a thousand one-hundred-dollar bills. Please take it. It’s yours.”

I steadied myself on the front porch railing, caught off balance by this grand gesture. And then, as if I had a devil on one shoulder and an angel on the other, a moral argument broke out within me.

On the one hand, this was my money—in fact, it was all the money I had had in the world at the time I gave it to him.

I thought about the security this could bring me and the possibilities it would open up.

I looked at the neatly stacked piles of one-hundred-dollar bills that represented my life’s savings up to that point.

The fair and logical conclusion to this ugly mess would be for Barry to return this money to me.

This is the argument my mind was making. My gut was telling me a different story.