Page 170 of ClickBack

“Daddy, I am in a car. You are still in the building where you last had them.” She listens, then closes her eyes. “Check your shirt.”

She ends the call without saying goodbye.

“Were they on his shirt?” I ask.

“We will never know. He hung up.”

Her driver turns us onto the road toward the Storm facility. Bellamy puts her phone in her bag, then takes it out to check the address for the return she needs to make. She tells me the store sent the wrong size, replaced it with the same wrong size, and has now asked if she is certain she knows which size she ordered.

“I sent them a picture of the order confirmation,” she says. “With an arrow.”

“Did you use red?”

“I wanted everybody to be able to find it.”

I laugh. It is pleasant to be in the middle of somebody else’s ordinary afternoon. She has not asked me whether I can imagine living here. She has asked whether I mind a stop that will take ten minutes, then admitted it may take twenty because people keep finding her in the hallway.

“What do you need to do at the facility?”

“Drop off the things Cole signed for the community campaign. Ronan signed his at Jawn. Nico said he would do it when he had a pen, so I gave him one and stood there.”

“Effective.”

“He called it intimidation. I called it finishing.”

There are two duffels in the cargo space. A man from community relations meets us inside the entrance with a cart, checks the contents against his list, and finds everything where Bellamy said it would be. She tells him she would like that noted somewhere permanent.

We get almost to the doors before a woman calls her name.

“Monica, I’m leaving,” Bellamy says.

“I can see that. One favor.”

Bellamy looks at me. “This is how it starts.”

Monica has sent the updated credential deadlines and VIP entry information to the players’ family contacts. Several have asked Bellamy questions instead of opening Monica’s email. She wants Bellamy to pin the link in the group chat.

“The link,” Bellamy says. “Not a summary. Not a separate reminder for people who don’t read the first reminder.”

“The link.”

“And I’m sending them back to you.”

“Please do.”

They smile at each other, and Bellamy makes the introduction. Monica welcomes me, asks if I have been enjoying the visit, then lets us leave without making my answer a discussion of Jarrett’s trade.

“So you’re the lead WAG,” I say when we are out of earshot.

Bellamy stops walking. “I hate every word in that sentence.”

“You have the group chat.”

“I married Cole. I did not accept an administrative position.”

“You should have read the attachments.”

She laughs and points toward the exit. “You’re supposed to be on my side.”