Sophie (The Boss Book 8)

by Abigail Barnette

  “I’m not going to tell you that. But I find that most people can figure it out pretty easily.” She motioned to the guards. “You still going to have them call the cops?”

  I shook my head and waved them off.

  Reaching into my purse, I withdrew my checkbook. “How much?”

  “It doesn’t work that way,” she said, clearly offended.

  As if she had any right to be offended about a bribe after she’d been following me around for months. “Everything works that way. How much to hire you and have you stop tailing us and reporting back to Laurence?”

  “Put your checkbook away.” She laid a gentle hand on my arm. “Don’t let people know you can be bought.”

  “Oh, I’m not worried about blackmail. I’m worried about you following me around. I want to pay you not to do that anymore.” My hands shook as I rummaged around for a pen. “Do you take Paypal? I can Paypal you from my phone right now.”

  “Sophie?” Mom called, the girls running behind her. “What’s happening?”

  “You were at our house,” Amal said, pointing at the investigator.

  “You were on our private property?” I shook with rage. Maybe the security guards should have stayed close, for her sake.

  “I was on the public road that passes by your private drive,” she said as if that made it somehow defensible to spy on us. “Amal was out jogging–”

  “Running!” Amal snapped.

  I put myself between the two of them, stepping close enough to the P.I. that for a second, I didn’t trust that hand I raised to point a threatening finger at her wouldn’t become a fist. “Do not say their names!”

  Mom put her hand on my shoulder. “I’m going to take the girls outside.”

  “We’re getting a restraining order,” I warned the investigator. “And you are never to go near Olivia’s school ever again. Do you understand me?”

  “I know my rights under the law, Ms. Scaife.” She reached into her jacket pocket and pulled out her card. “For the PPO.”

  I snatched it from her hand without looking at it. “Not your first rodeo, huh?”

  “Not at all.”

  I narrowed my eyes. “You’re slime.”

  “Sometimes, I work for slime. Sometimes, my work catches the slime.” She shrugged. “I’ll take it as a trade-off. But I won’t be following you anymore.”

  I made a “Pff.”

  “No, I mean it. PPO or not, you know that I’m following you. I can’t effectively do it anymore.” She lowered her head in a nod toward my purse. “Don’t offer the next one money. If they take it, they’re gonna ask for more.”

  I watched her walk away, fully confident in her legal right to stalk our family and spy on the kids. And I wanted to commit murder.

  My hands wouldn’t stop shaking. I desperately needed that glass of champagne.

  Instead, I blinked back tears, counted to ten, and headed for the car.

  Fortunately–for her–the private investigator was not outside lurking. At least, not where I could see her. She had said it was pointless for her to try to follow us now that we knew what she looked like, but maybe that was a trick to throw us off so we wouldn’t look for her.

  Joke’s on you, bitch. I’m never going to stop looking for you.

  My chest constricted, and my lungs tried desperately to pull in air, seemingly to no avail. I leaned on the car with one hand, gasping and clutching my chest.

  “Whoa, whoa,” a man in a Maserati shouted from his window as he pulled to a stop in traffic. “Hey. Hey, is she okay?”

  His frantic signaling successfully caught our driver’s eye; she sprinted from the car and around the back.

  “Oh my god, Sophie!” Rashida shrieked, launching herself from the backseat.

  I waved my hand, trying to explain while also trying to convince myself, but I couldn’t get a breath.

  “It’s a panic attack,” Mom said, perfectly calm in the face of what appeared to be a thirty-two-year-old having a heart attack. “She has them sometimes. Just sit tight; she’ll be okay in a minute.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” the driver said and went back to her seat.

  Mom rubbed my back. “Breathe, honey. It’s just a panic attack.”

  I shook my head. “No! I’m dying, for real!”

  “You’re not. You’re not dying,” she promised.

  “Is this what an anxiety attack feels like?” I asked, knowing full well that it was.

  “Exactly like this. You just had a terrifying thing happen to you. It’s natural to have a little extra adrenaline.” She paused to coax me to take slower breaths, then continued. “Remember what you told me about Neil’s PTSD? That he’s been in fight-or-flight mode constantly for decades?”

  I nodded.

  “You’re going through a traumatic experience right now with this custody thing. You’ve had your privacy violated, you’ve been made to feel unsafe…” She wrinkled her nose a little. “Do you see where you might be a little shaken up?”

  “Yeah.” I wiped my eyes. “Do you have any Kleenex?”

  “Yeah, here.” She reached into her push-up-bra-assisted cleavage and pulled out a little plastic travel pack.

  I pressed my fingertips to my forehead. “Oh my god, Mom.”

  Though the pain in my chest hadn’t exactly eased, laughing at her ridiculousness did lower my full-on panic to hyper-wary jitters.

  “I think we should cancel the shopping for today. We probably need to be back at the house, where you have security.”

  “There’s no security at your house.” My heart picked up speed again.

  “They’re not going to be following me. I have nothing to do with the situation. Besides, we have an alarm,” she reminded me. “Let’s go pick up Molly.”

  I didn’t want to scare the girls, so I acted as normal as possible in the car as I typed out a message to El-Mudad.

  If you’re not in the house, get in the house. I want the place on lockdown. Don’t let Olivia out of your sight. Can’t explain in front of the girls. On our way home.

  “Is everything okay?” Rashida asked quietly.

  “Everything is fine.” I shook my head as if dismayed at my silliness. “That was just really upsetting. Are you guys okay?”

  They stared at me in silence.

  Great. They were traumatized, and I had no idea what I should do.

  After her lesson, we picked up Molly, explained that we needed to go back to the house, and ended up landing back in Sagaponack just as Neil roared up in his white Ferrari that made me think of 1980s detective dramas. As we touched down, I noticed visible security guards walking the lawns and paths. We almost never even noticed our security, usually.

  “This is like if the president has a heart attack, and they put the veep in the basement bunker,” Molly said. I couldn’t tell if she was judging me as though I were overreacting or just making an observation until she turned to me and said, “Amal got me into Armando Iannucci. But isn’t this a little bit of overkill?”

  “You can’t be too careful,” Amal said. “People threaten to kidnap rich people’s kids all the time.”

  Neil had warned me about that when I’d been reluctant to hire security for our property. “Jesus, when you were little, all I had to worry about was someone picking you up off the side of the road.” Mom crossed herself.

  The golf cart was waiting for us, and we piled on, reaching the front door just as Neil killed the engine and jumped out..

  “What’s happened? Why are all the security guards out?” he demanded, jogging over to catch up with me.

  “It’s an abundance of caution,” I said quietly. “We need to speak privately. Away from the kids.”

  “Come on, girls,” Mom said, leading them into the house.

  I studied Neil’s profile as he watched them go inside. His pulse was visible below the sharp angle of his tense jaw. He gave them time to get ahead of us, then put his hand on my arm.

  “What’s going on? Is it Olivia?”
He started into the house on a mission.

  I followed, hoping he wouldn’t upset the girls. “She’s with El-Mudad.”

  “She’s with your mother,” El-Mudad said as he emerged from the living room. “We met her at the door.”

  I ran to him and threw my arms around his neck. Finally, away from the girls, I could dissolve the way I’d wanted to since Bergdorf’s. Not in a panic attack, but an emotional release of sobbing, sweating, snotty tears.

  R.I.P. your Versace loungewear, babe.

  Bewildered, it took him a moment to close his arms around me. “Sophie, what’s happened?”

  Neil hurried to my side, as well, drawing us both in and kissing the top of my head.

  “It’s Laurence,” I hiccupped out. “He hired someone. She’s been following us for months.”

  Neil’s posture stiffened.

  “The lawyer warned us that it might happen,” El-Mudad said, soft and calm in the face of what was bound to be a hurricane of emotion at any second.

  “That son of a bitch,” Neil said under his breath. His tone chilled me. I’d only been afraid of Neil twice in our relationship. Once, when he’d thrown a wine bottle at the wall during a fraught discussion of his rape, the other when he’d shouted threats at me from his gurney in the ER shortly after his suicide attempt.

  There were many times I’d been afraid for Neil. But there was no vulnerability or desperation in him now. He was simply enraged.

  In a flash of inspiration, I realized that to keep him from doing anything rash, like call and threaten Laurence–or anything else that might land him in jail–I would have to keep talking in as much detail as possible.

  I lifted my head. “Do you remember when Mariposa needed stitches, and we picked Olivia up from school?” I asked El-Mudad.

  He frowned, hesitantly began to shake his head, then said, “Oh, yes. Vaguely.”

  “There was that woman there, the one I thought was an au pair for one of the kids at the school?” I stepped back and wiped my eyes. “She said she’d read my books?”

  “If this sounded an alarm for you, why didn’t you say anything to me about it?” Neil demanded.

  My bottom lip trembled.

  “Don’t raise your voice at her. This isn’t her fault,” El-Mudad said firmly.

  “It didn’t alarm me at the time,” I explained helplessly, the panic sneaking back in with every word. “Or, I did. I didn’t like that a stranger knew all about me, but I chalked it up to how I always feel about it.”

  “You couldn’t have suspected from one meeting that someone was an investigator,” El-Mudad said.

  “Were there any other times?” Neil asked, like a parent scolding a child.

  “Yes, one, besides today,” I admitted, the sudden drop in my stomach fueling anger from discomfort. “But this isn’t my fault!”

  “I never said it was your fault!” Neil exploded.

  I continued my tirade over the top of his voice. “You tell me that seeing one person one time, then seeing someone who kinda maybe looks sorta like the person you saw one other time, means that you should call out the national fucking guard!”

  “Both of you, enough!” El-Mudad shouted.

  We fell silent. Neil cleared his throat. “Sophie, I apologize. I shouldn’t have blamed you.”

  “You shouldn’t have,” I snapped back through tears. Softer, I added, “But I know what you’re feeling. I’m so angry and scared and helpless, and I want to rage at someone, but there’s nothing…I can’t…”

  “The first thing we’ll do is call the lawyer,” Neil said. “Take out a restraining order against this ‘private investigator.’” He made finger quotes around the word, his voice dripping with disdain. “Do you know anything about her? Anything we can use to identify her?”

  “Yeah. She gave me her card. I threatened her with a restraining order, and she just forked over her fucking business card.” I reached into my purse, hands fumbling with nerves.

  “And what is the second thing?” El-Mudad asked, looking at Neil expectantly. “You said ‘first’. That implies there’s a second thing you’ll be doing.”

  Neil didn’t answer.

  El-Mudad took a deep breath of barely leashed anger. “Neil Charles Leif Elwood. You listen to me. If you do anything that would ruin my chances of adopting that little girl, of making Olivia my daughter…” His voice broke, and he paused to compose himself. “You can’t let them take away my daughter.”

  Neil grabbed El-Mudad in a fierce hug. They held each other so tight I couldn’t breathe.

  “That’s not going to happen,” Neil promised, his voice muffled in El-Mudad’s shoulder. “I’m so sorry, my love. I’m so sorry. I was angry.”

  “We all are.” I went to a chair, too exhausted to stay on my feet. “But he’s right. We can’t do anything that would look bad in court if Laurence and Valerie decide to somehow challenge the adoption.”

  “If?” Neil asked.

  “I know you don’t believe it, but I don’t think Valerie will let it go that far. And if she did, she won’t win. This is a power trip. But we have the advantage. We have proof that a private investigator has followed us. We have evidence that they at least planned to kidnap Olivia—”

  “We don’t, though,” El-Mudad said.

  “Olivia’s testimony is evidence. So is Mariposa’s testimony. And Rudy knows that something is up. He can vouch for us, too.” Just discussing our options made me feel more in control.

  “But would Rudy help us?” El-Mudad asked, turning to Neil. “Against Valerie?”

  “If he were subpoenaed, he wouldn’t have much choice. But I hope it doesn’t come to that.” Neil raked a hand through his hair. “I could really use a drink.”

  “No, baby,” I said gently. “Don’t do that to yourself.”

  El-Mudad cleared his throat and raised one finger. “Um. Would a cigarette be cheating?”

  “If it keeps him from drinking this once? I say no, as long as it doesn’t become a habit.” I stopped and frowned. “Wait. Are you a smoker?”

  “No, no. Of course not,” El-Mudad said, not meeting my eyes. “I just sometimes...smoke cigarettes.”

  “So…you smoke.” I crossed my arms.

  “Only when I need one!”

  “Exactly.” I tossed my hands up. “Was that anything you thought you might want to share with your spouses?”

  He rolled his eyes. “I keep a pack in the glove box of my Tesla. Neil never drives it, and god knows it would have to be an emergency for you to venture into the garage. I sneak off now and then to have one. Sometimes, I go several days between them. But this has been stressful. I need to self-medicate.”

  “That’s the kind of thing we’ve been trying to avoid!” I tossed up my hands. “Fine! Go off and smoke your secret cigarettes instead of dealing with your emotions!” I stopped my raging and reconsidered. “But I’m coming with you.”

  With her audition under her belt, Molly had no real reason to linger at our house. At least, no practical reason she could offer her mother, who desperately wanted her back. While I loved having her with us, it would be better for all parties involved if she didn’t have to witness whatever was coming up with Valerie and Laurence.

  "This is total horse shit," Amal groused as Molly's bags were loaded into the helicopter.

  I ignored her. As mature as Amal was, she was still a lovestruck teenager. I could undoubtedly empathize without launching into a lecture about how ill Molly had been, how protective her mother still felt. She knew the backstory. She was entitled to think it sucked.

  "Are you sure I can't ride with you to the airport?" I asked nervously. It seemed so irresponsible to send her off alone, but Molly had insisted that this was a trip she would make on her own even when Amal had offered to accompany her.

  "Sophie, I'll be fine," Molly reiterated. "I want to know how to do this by myself, for next time I visit."

  Amal crossed her arms. "How difficult is it to ride in a helicopter
?"

  Molly laughed and took both of Amal's hands in hers. "Some of us haven't grown up with a Swarovski crystal spoon in our mouths."

  "Swarovski?" Amal gagged dramatically. "Darling, we must get you acclimated to luxury."

  And then, she smiled. And the look on her face as she looked at my sister was the same look I saw when El-Mudad looked at Neil. Amal truly loved Molly. Young love, yes, but I'd been in love as a young woman. It was intense and fiery and—

  Prone to make one forget one's surroundings, as the girls seemed to be as they indulged in another goodbye kiss. El-Mudad cleared his throat loudly, and they stepped apart.

  "Before you go, Molly," Neil began, stepping forward. "I have a proposition I'd like you to consider."

  I looked to El-Mudad with a puzzled expression that matched his own.

  "When my daughter passed away, I was left with a rather expensive home in Manhattan that I can't bring myself to sell. Leasing it to a stranger is out of the question." He paused, waiting for her to catch on to what El-Mudad and I both realized instantly.

  But Molly didn't know Neil the way we did, and life had never taught her to expect something on the scale of what was on offer.

  She winced and dropped her gaze to the ground, scuffing her toes on the asphalt. "I probably can't afford to rent it if that's what you're suggesting."

  "Not at all." Neil put his hand on her shoulder. "I'm suggesting that when you turn eighteen, you are welcome to live in Emma's house, rent-free, while you pursue your theatrical aspirations."

  Amal whipped around to face him. "Not like, in the dorms? An actual house?"

  "If she wants to," I reminded everyone. Moving to New York as an eighteen-year-old was a hell of an experience. I couldn't let Molly feel railroaded into the decision. "No pressure, okay? The offer is on the table. And you should talk it over with your mom."

  "Yeah, I don't need to talk it over. I'll be an adult." Molly hopped on her toes. "I'm moving to New York!"

  "You were going to anyway, but yeah!" I bounced right along with her.

  "Talk to your mother," Neil reiterated. "I wouldn't want to create any friction between us."