Paolo
Caitlin loses her smile as soon as we’re out of bed. She picks up her phone and goes outside—buck n***d and it’s forty degrees out—to make a phone call. I watch her through the sliding door, circling the hot tub. When she opens it up to peek inside, I step outside to pull the cover back. “Hop in,” I murmur, smacking her a*s.
She tosses me a grateful smile and scoots in, but the tone of the conversation she’s having is tense. “Listen, it’s all been handled. You don’t need to worry about it, okay? No, the charges were dropped, the money was returned. All’s well that ends well.”
I go inside to give her some privacy. It’s probably her brother. When I scrolled through her phone the first night, that was the only number she called for more than a minute.
I vow to learn more about her l
