Chapter 5

Back in the present, my migraine had "miraculously" cleared by the next week.

Mike was still sulking about his returned gadgets and cancelled cheese.

Brenda was giving me the silent treatment, which was a blessing.

My plan for Mike' s career needed careful timing.

He had a major presentation coming up. A new client, a big deal for his firm.

The night before, I made sure his favorite takeout was extra greasy.

The next morning, he was rushing, flustered, a little green around the gills.

Perfect.

As he was about to leave, I "noticed" something.

"Mike, honey, isn't that the file for the Henderson account? You need the Sterling client file today, right?"

I pointed to a nearly identical blue folder on the kitchen counter. The one he needed was, of course, still on his home office desk, where I' d subtly moved it.

He paled. "Oh god, you're right! I must have grabbed the wrong one."

He frantically checked his briefcase. Empty.

"I'm so late! I can't go back now." Panic edged his voice.

"Don't worry," I said, my voice calm, helpful. "Brenda's here, just watching her soaps. She can bring it to you. Your office isn't that far downtown, right?"

Brenda, who had been pointedly ignoring me, perked up at the mention of a task.

"Oh, I suppose I could," she said, trying to sound put-upon.

Mike looked desperate. "Mom, would you? It's on my desk. The blue one, says 'Sterling Client'."

"Alright, alright," Brenda said, already picturing herself as the hero.

An hour later, Mike called, his voice a strained whisper. "She's here. Thanks, Sarah. You're a lifesaver."

"Anything for my husband," I cooed.

I knew Brenda. Left unattended in a fancy reception area, her fingers would itch.

Mike' s office building was upscale. Polished marble, expensive art.

The staff kitchen, I' d heard him complain, was always stocked with gourmet snacks, fancy coffees.

Brenda wouldn't be able to resist.

I pictured her, wandering in, "just for a peek."

Helping herself to a croissant. Then some artisanal cheese.

Maybe a few of those little yogurt pots.

And then, the jackpot.

A container, clearly labeled, in the fridge.

Expensive, imported breast milk.

Belonging to a Ms. Albright. A senior partner. A notoriously fierce woman who had just returned from maternity leave.

The kind of woman who did not suffer fools, or thieves, gladly.

I smiled.

The bait was set.