“You’ve been watching too many crime shows.”
“Oh right,” she says after a pause. “You can’t tell me. Plausible deniability. That’s smart.”
“There’s no hitman, Danielle.”
“Sure there isn’t.” She drops her voice to a whisper. “Do you think the line is tapped?”
“No, but I do think you should take up writing mystery novels. That imagination of yours is being wasted. How are Brian and the kids?”
Her voice brightens. “Everyone’s good. The kids are back to school soon, which is lucky because I’m one mood change away from a meltdown. I don’t remember us being so dramatic at that age.”
Danielle has three daughters. She married her high school sweetheart, moved to the Midwest, and started producing babies before she was twenty, beating all the divorce statistics about marrying young.
At least
