Page 67 of Spies Don’t Fall for Their Best Friend

“Read me in?”

“Fill you in.” She grabs her bag. “I meant fill you in. It’s an expression.”

“An expression used by what kinds of people?”

“The kind who need to go to work.” She steps into her shoes, then points at me with one hand while holding her mug in the other. “Don’t spiral.”

“I wasn’t spiraling until you used the word spiral.”

“I’ve got to go.” She pulls open the door.

“Is Miles secretly involved in organized crime?”

She turns back so fast that her drink sloshes through the opening in her lid. “Why would you ask that?”

That is not how an innocent person responds to that question. “You should’ve laughed,” I tell her.

“I am laughing internally.”

“You look alarmed internally.”

“He’ll talk to you tonight.”

“About the mob?”

“Goodbye, Reese.” The door closes behind her.

I stand in the kitchen, listening to the lock click. Then I open the notes app on my phone and start typing.

POSSIBLE MILES REVELATIONS

1. Moving away.

2. Dying.

3. Getting bangs.

4. Angry mob boss.

5. Found someone.

I move number five to the top. Then I move it back down because looking at it first makes my stomach hurt. I need something to do. Something distracting. Something that will occupy my hands and brain for several hours and leave no room for Miles, his message, or the highly suspicious vocabulary of his sister.

Thankfully, there is a box containing a frame full of honey and beeswax sitting in our laundry room. When I brought it home from the hives, I had every intention of dealing with it immediately. That intention lasted right up until I put the sealed box somewhere safe and stopped looking directly at it.

The comb had been built crooked enough that it couldn’t go straight back into the hive, which means I need to harvest the honey using the old-fashioned crush-and-strain method. Perfect. There is nothing like destroying thousands of tiny wax storage compartments to keep a person from wondering whether her best friend has found someone to build a future with.

I change into an old T-shirt and overalls, pull my hair back, and cover the kitchen counter with towels. Then I retrieve the frame, a large bowl, a food-safe bucket, a mesh straining bag, and the potato masher.

When I cut the first section of comb from the frame, honey immediately begins running over my fingers. It smells warm and like summer sunlight became edible. For nearly three minutes, the distraction works. I am completely absorbed in cutting the comb into the bowl, scraping wax from the wooden frame, and trying not to get honey on every surface in the kitchen. By the time all the comb is in the bowl, I have honey on both hands, one elbow, the front of my overalls, and somehow the back of my neck.

I pick up the potato masher. “What does he need to tell me?” I ask the honeycomb.

It doesn’t answer, which puts it on the same level as Miles.

I begin crushing.

Maybe a doctor found something concerning. Except he would not make me wait twelve hours if he thought he was dying. Probably.