It’s a text thread between him and a contact named BOSS.
BOSS:
Hey Hank, before you’re off for the day, I need you to pick someone up for me. Her name is Isabella Morales. She’s Anna’s new nanny, and she should be coming over with some luggage. I have to run out and get her a few things, but I promise to be back for when you drop her off at my place. Thanks.
The text is followed up with my address and a selfie of Anna and me in the Dominican Republic.
I completely forgot we had taken it. We’re sporting wide smiles and slightly burned cheeks and noses.
Anna must have taken this picture on her father’s phone instead of mine, because I’ve never seen it before. An odd sensation washes over me, knowing that this picture has lived inMateo’s phone for months. Pathetically, I wonder if he’s looked at it since the end of the trip.
I laugh to myself. Yeah, that’s probably going to be a hard no.
The driver tries to make a move for my luggage, but my survival instincts kick in, and I stop him. “Hold on a sec. How can I be sure thatBOSSis who I think it is?” I squint at his amused chuckle.
“Well, I can’t exactly be listing every famous person I’ve driven for with their real name. Would make it too easy for their information to get in the wrong hands.” He taps his phone a few times, then turns it over to me again, showing the contact details.
I pull out my phone and confirm that it’s the same number I have for Mateo. The one whose text chain consists of messages from when I vacationed with them in the Dominican Republic, mostly me telling him I’m at lunch or the pool with Anna, while he responds withok.
“Smart girl. You’ve got good instincts. I’m sure Anna will be safe in your hands.” He smiles as he gestures toward my bag, and I nod my consent.
“Sorry. I’m not used to this kind of… um, treatment. You know.” I point at the shiny SUV double parked on my street as if it has every right to be there.
He opens my door, and I hop in and sink into the comfortable leather interior while he goes back to loading the trunk.
“I’m Hank, by the way.” He smiles into the rearview mirror as he slides into his seat and buckles his seat belt.
“Hi, Hank. Nice to meet you. Sorry for the third degree back there. Just trying to make sure I never land myself on an episode ofDateline.” I chuckle bashfully as I take in the man who resembles a caring grandfather far more than a serial kidnapper.
Hank’s face instantly drops. He clears his throat while he struggles to meet my eyes again. “My, uh, sweet wife, Linda, wasfeatured on one of those episodes.” He hesitates. “The Brooklyn Butcher, they called him.”
I gasp as my hand covers my mouth in mortification. This poor man’s wife wasmurdered,and I made a terrible joke about the television program that covered her story. I’ve been known to put my foot in my mouth, but after this instance, I know for sure I’ll have to quit this job before I even get started. I need to figure out how to enter the witness protection program or find a way to buy a new identity.
“I-I’m so, so sorry, Han—”
His boisterous laugh interrupts my apology. I’m still trying to find the right words, but he beats me to it.
“My wife is alive and well, Ms. Morales. She’s a crime scene unit tech, so she was asked to be featured on the show. To give her first-hand account, so technically, I didn’t lie to you. I was just pulling your leg.”
My jaw drops. I was already running scenarios through my head, calculating how I could make it to JFK airport in time to board a flight to Timbuktu.
“Pulling my leg?” I squeal. “You pulled my heart out of my ass, Hank,” I say, my filter obliterated by being the unsuspecting victim of the world’s most morbid joke.
He’s still wiping his laugh-induced tears as he pulls into traffic to make our way downtown. “Oh, Ms. Morales.”
“Listen, Hank, you made me shit my pants less than five minutes after we met. I think we can drop the last name shtick. Call me Isa,” I playfully snark.
“Isa.” He tries to take a breath between chuckles. “I don’t think I’ve ever laughed this hard while on the job. Thank you for that.”
I shake my head while suppressing a smile. “Yeah, yeah. I’ll be here all week. Unless Mr. Big Shot fires me before then.”
He glances my way, his face mischievous. “Oh, Ms. M—Isa,” he amends. “I have a good feeling that you’ll be around for the long haul.”
By the time I return to Mateo’s building, we’ve exchanged CliffsNotes versions of our life stories. I learn about his veryalivewife, Linda, and how they’ve been together for almost forty years. He has two daughters and a son, all in their thirties, and gushed about all five of his grandchildren.
While I tried to focus on every detail, I was a bit distracted by my phone. I’d already been contacted twice by Mateo’s assistant, Josh. Once to give me a personalized entry code for the building and apartment. And a second time to give me Anna’s school and extracurricular activities schedule.
That email had an eleven-page PDF file.
