Getaway by Lisa Brackmann Page B

there someone back home who could help?
    Her own lawyer specialized in finance. Bankruptcy. Civil lawsuits. He’d know a good criminal attorney, certainly, but she couldn’t afford to pay the lawyer she already had, let alone a new one.
    Not her sister. It seemed to her that Maggie barely coped with her life as it was—and besides, what could Maggie really do?
    Tom’s friends?
    The ones caught up in the scandal weren’t in a position to help. His acquaintances who’d ridden out the storm, how many of them wanted to be associated with Tom? With Tom’s widow? They were his friends anyway, not hers, and a lot of them weren’t terribly good friends when it came down to it.
    The people in their social circle, the charity friends, entertainment-industry lawyers, doctors, entrepreneurs—any of them?
    Her own friends, her real friends, she could count them on her fingers. Friends from college. One was a costumer for TV and film. Another a Web editor. Her husband was a lawyer, albeit one who dealt with corporate mergers. Could he help?
    Office manager. City planner. Interior designer.
    What could she even say to them?
    How had she ended up like this?
    You can’t think about that now, she told herself.
    Just go along with it, then.
    She tested that option, gingerly, as if she were putting weight on an injury, seeing how it felt.
    It felt like giving up.
    But was there a better choice?
    It wasn’t like Gary was asking her to be a drug mule or anything like that, she told herself. Just to hang out with Daniel, tell him what they did and who they saw—that is, if Daniel wanted to see her.
    Danny’s involved in some sketchy stuff .
    If it starts feeling dangerous, if I think I’m not safe, I’ll have to take my chances with the consulate, she thought. Or, better, get out of town somehow.
    If she could, with the policeman watching.
    She didn’t think the story she’d used for Vicky would work on Daniel.
    Vicky wanted to believe, loved Vallarta so much that she wouldn’t question Michelle’s decision to stay longer, even after all that had happened.
    Daniel, however, had been there for some of the worst of it. Had caught Michelle in his apartment taking pictures of a rotting pig head. Even if he’d believed her explanation, what must he think of her, finding her doing something like that? She could hardly explain it to herself.
    Say one thing for Gary: At least he liked her photos.
    Add the disastrous first date (if she could even call it that), with her weeping in bed followed by masked gunmen and concussions—why would Daniel even consider spending time with her at this point?
    Why had he asked her out to dinner?
    She could hardly believe he was still interested. Maybe he was just being polite.
    Or he was suspicious of her and had wanted a chance to find out more.
    She stared at her phone, her heart pounding, thinking, He might be dangerous. He doesn’t trust me. He’s into sketchy stuff.
    He might still want to know more.
    That was how to play it.
    Great, Michelle thought. I’m thinking like Gary. And it’s James Bond as told by Cosmo .
    He didn’t seem to recognize her when she called.
    “It’s Michelle,” she said. “From Los Angeles.”
    “Hey.” He sounded surprised. She couldn’t tell if he was pleased. “You back in L.A.?”
    She laughed a little. “No. I missed my flight.”
    She made the call from the bedroom, pacing out onto the balcony from pent-up nerves.
    “Oh, yeah? What happened? You get caught in cruise-ship traffic or something?”
    “It’s … it’s complicated.” She stood on the balcony staring into the courtyard, looking down at the guests sitting in their loungechairs, drinking margaritas, reading paperbacks.
    This is a bad idea, she thought.
    “I’m here for a couple more days,” she said. “I was wondering if that dinner invitation was still open.”
    There was a silence on the other end of the line. The calico cat stirred from its position between the terra-cotta pots,