Fourteen
When Dyllie finished inspecting every blade of grass for the perfect spot to squat, we turned to head back to the limo.
In what couldn’t have been more than sixty seconds, the limo had disappeared, leaving Phelps, Ferrero, and the driver standing next to the pile of luggage. One of the bags—mine, of course—had fallen open in a brisk wind, sending my weekend wardrobe flying across the heavily trafficked Cross Westchester Expressway. And a dozen police cars had the parking lot surrounded.
“What the hell happened?” I shouted, running as fast as my kitten heels could carry me, and tugging on Dyllie to keep up.
A stern voice on the megaphone stopped my return. “Don’t move and raise your hands above your head.”
I froze and tried to lift my hands, but Dyllie’s leash kept my right ha
