TONY
Trisha paced across the manicured lawn, her heels sinking into the soft grass with each step. Her eyes swept the expansive garden of my family estate, restless and searching.
"So tell me, how do I get in touch with Beatrice?"
I lounged in a wrought-iron garden chair, the metal warm from the afternoon sun. A light breeze rustled through the oak trees overhead as I watched her twitchy movements. The corner of my mouth threatened a smirk. Whatever Beatrice had said to her clearly left an impression.
"I lied," I said, watching her face fall. "Beatrice owns a business. It would be foolish of her not to have a number people can reach."
Trisha's nostrils flared as she exhaled sharply. A robin landed on the nearby bird bath, tilting its head as if listening to our exchange.
"So you are
