The Spy Coast (The Martini Club, #1)

by Tess Gerritsen

Through the kitchen window, I watch the activity in my driveway. I wonder if Officer Thibodeau realizes how many lies I told her tonight. I can’t imagine it had anything to do with me. That’s the biggest lie of all. Of course this has to do with me. What I don’t know is what message the body in my driveway was meant to convey. Is it to terrify me? Or is it a gift, the same way a cat brings you a dead mouse? A way to tell me: We took care of your little problem. You’re welcome. I have two options to choose from, each one leading in a very different direction.

The truth is far more complicated, but when you live in a world of mirrors, the truth is always distorted. Too often, it’s what we choose to see while ignoring all the inconvenient bits, the nagging details that distort our view. We crave clarity, and so we lie to ourselves.

Unless it’s used as a tax write-off, horse ownership is a poor investment, a bottomless pit into which you pour money you’ll never see again.

“And thank you, Ben, for that uplifting summary of my situation.”

“Or this could be a waste of your time,” I say. “Maybe I’m no longer a target. Or they’ve given up trying to track me. I can carry on from here, so you two should just go home. Or take a beach holiday on Phuket. You can relive your misspent youth.” Ben snorts. “It’s not the same when the only women who’ll look at us are grannies.” “There’s nothing wrong with granny action.”

The advantage of having no family ties, no children, no husband or lover, is that it makes you invulnerable. Every person you love is a weakness in your armor. When you care about no one, you can be fearless because the world cannot destroy you, the way it almost destroyed me. That’s the lesson I learned from Danny, and for years I have avoided attachments, grown accustomed to a life unfettered by affections. But relationships have a way of creeping up on you. You may not register the little jolt of oxytocin released into your bloodstream whenever your neighbor waves at you, or when his granddaughter beams at you as you step into their kitchen. Through countless mornings spent together sipping Luther’s terrible burned coffee, or boiling down maple syrup with Callie, through a blizzard when they towed my truck out of a snowbank, through a summer afternoon when Callie and I chased after her wayward goats, the threads of a relationship slowly bound us together. Now I’m ensnared, and I cannot walk away from Luther or his granddaughter.