“Ha,” Sloane says, her eyes following the path of my gaze. “That’s funny—maybe I should have said noathletecostumes. Here, help me up so I can go say hello to her.”
“Absolutely not.”
Sloane blinks, her mouth falling open slightly as she looks me up and down. “What the hell has gotten into you, Luca? You’re like a different person around her.”
“Someday,” I say, sighing and standing, reaching out to help Sloane to her feet, “we’re gonna get burned by this woman, and I’m going to expect a written apology from every one of you.”
“Fine,” Sloane laughs, “if I agree to that, will you stop being majorly weird about her?”
I nod. Another lie.
Sloane pats me on the shoulder and moves toward the door. A minute later, I hear the sound of her laughing, and I turn, leaning against a wall and watching as Ruby, Astrid, and few others gather around Wren. They talk to her, compliment her outfit, laugh together.
Then Wren’s eyes meet mine over Sloane’s shoulder, and she winks.
A ripple of something nearing obsession moves through my body. I want to cross the room right now and grab her by the shoulders, insist that she come clean about whatever it is that she’s hiding.
Throughout the rest of the party, Wren circles the room, talking to the guys, cracking jokes, generally charming everyone. I watch her the whole time, and she occasionally catches my eye, like this whole thing is just a joke between us.
When she’s dancing with Finn O’Brien in the center of the room, laughing and turning around so her back is to him, his hands on her hips, I realize my fingers are white around my beer bottle.
I just can’t stand the idea that the other guys don’t realize what she’s doing here—fucking with us. Waiting to feed information to other teams and take us out of the running for the Stanley Cup.
And if that’s not the plan, then it’s something else I haven’t quite figured out yet.
Moving to the kitchen, I dump the rest of my beer down the sink, rinse the bottle and toss it in the recycling, then walk right out the back door and pull out my phone. A week ago, I saw an ad for a private detective and took a picture, thinking it would be dramatic, but potentially worth it.
Now, I fill out the form on the P.I.’s site, detailing who I want information on, as I walk out to my car. Hopefully, they’ll get back to me soon, but until then, I’m going to have to take matters into my own hands.
***
Wren leaves the complex on Sunday at ten in the morning, and I make a note to check the security footage later to see what she was doing in there for two hours.
I knew she would come. She comes to work even on the weekends.
Like always, she leaves out the side door and walks briskly to her car, unlocking it and sliding inside. I took her advice, but instead of driving my EV, I did her one better and rented a car—a minivan. Something I would never own.
After waiting for a second, I start it up and follow her out of the parking lot.
Just like last time, Wren does a lot of nothing. Stopping by a post office, picking up a few books from the library, coming out of the grocery store with dry goods.
Then, I follow her to the nicer part of town, where the buildings go from crumbling brick to newly constructed stone, their facades shining with large windows. We come to what looks like an apartment complex, a large fountain running in the center of a courtyard, and she loops around the fountain once before parking in the lot.
It’s only when I park and get a good look at the sign that I realize where we are.
Oak Park Retirement Home.
I feel something prickle at the back of my neck—aren’t the elderly the easiest to take advantage of? They’re always the ones falling for those social security telephone scams.
After she goes inside, I slip in after her.
“Sir?”
I stop, turning to the front desk, where a middle-aged woman sits, smiling up at me. “Are you here to visit someone?”
“Uh, yes. I am.”
“Alright, I’ll just need you to sign in here, and I’ll write you up a pass.”
