The Espionage Effect(20)
When did that happen?
Last I recalled, the slats to the wooden shutters had been angled shut. Now they were fully open, letting all the brightness of the day inside. A sweeping green frond of the coconut tree at the corner of the balcony brushed against the windowpane directly above the desk. Had my mysterious spy returned before I’d woken? Opened the shutters? Watched me sleep?
An involuntary shiver tripped through me at the thought of anyone creeping into my bedroom while I’d lain helpless. The idea unnerved me to my core, where the deepest shadows lay in wait. To ease the spike of anxiety, I embraced them, welcomed them in, shielding myself in their cold comfort. Out of raw instinct developed from years of self-soothing, my gaze shot to the darkest part of a suite that had been raided by morning light: underneath the desk.
I walked closer as I stared into that narrow shadow, willing my ragged breaths to calm until they lengthened into deeper inhalations. Only if I kept the darkness close at hand, reminded myself of that which had been taken from me, did I hold power over anything else that lay in wait.
Only then did I have control.
When my pulse calmed to a steadier beat, I slowly lifted my attention to the surface of the desk, where Alec had planned his current mission. Blueprints of his target had been spread out, harmless on the thin vellum paper, as if they held no importance.
But the schematics of a house and its mechanical systems had been so much more to me. They were a roadmap to my salvation. And Alec had been the messenger. Yet he’d been…more. Not simply the one who’d shed light into my dark ignorance, but the very instrument I wished to become.
An instrument of vengeance.
Suddenly anxious to meet him at noon, I spun on my heel and rounded the bed. As I passed the nightstand on the way to the bathroom, I depressed the function button of my phone. The time flashed up: 11:08 a.m. Was that local time? I trusted the phones ran on a combination of the atomic clock and my GPS position, automatically adjusting to the locale.
Suddenly grateful Anna had hijacked my phone to get service here, I took a quick shower and slipped into simple green flower-print sundress. Then I brushed my teeth and stepped into a pair of flat sandals.
Another check of the time told me fifteen minutes remained before Alec expected me out front. Eight would get me there at a leisurely stroll along the meandering broken-stone pathway that led through their manicured-jungle gardens.
I let out a slow breath, then crossed down into the sitting room and poured myself a coffee, leaving the aromatic liquid black, while I used the remaining few minutes to reacquaint myself with the facts and formulate a loose plan.
Alec had been shot. Were the gunmen still after him? Would I put myself in danger? Anna?
And what was it about the mysterious man that drew me toward him in spite of those risks? We both wanted sex between us. Our sparking chemistry made that abundantly clear. My heart rate accelerated at the mere thought of his touch, the smoldering gaze he’d shot toward me, evident even in the darkened room.
A vibrating sound startled me out of my sidetrack. My phone sat on the corner of the table, lit up with caller ID.
My mom’s mobile number. Great. To answer or ignore?
No love lost with us, because there’d only been distance between me and both of my parents ever since the tragic event, I slid my finger across the phone to answer the call.
“Hey, Mom. What’s up?” Casual. Practiced.
“Devin. Just making sure you arrived safely. And to wish you an early Merry Christmas.”
Sure. Because like so many other holidays, on the actual day, they’d be unavailable. Scarce. In years past, I’d had to make other plans. Fend for myself. Reason away that rampant shallow commercialism amplified the emotional trappings of all holiday celebrations. Corporate entities loved to capitalize on the natural human desire for the idyllic family—something nonexistent in my gritty realistic world.
“I’m good.” I’d failed to check in. And no matter what they’d done or not done over the years, they’d always been overprotective of me. Drilled into me from the tender age of seven, they’d guaranteed not only that alertness and defensiveness had become intuitive, they’d also made certain my judgment remained sound, every risk assessed, and multiple escape routes calculated.
Subconscious defiance had most certainly played a role in my failure to report in. My entire trip here symbolized the fact that I’d gone off the painstakingly constructed predestined rails. But I’d been cracking, tiny fissures weakening the fa?ade I’d spent years perfecting.
I didn’t have the energy to pretend anymore.
“Good,” she replied. Awkward silence lingered. Like in so many other conversations. Different from most other human interactions I’d witnessed. As if we continually played pretend to be the family we weren’t. “Well, we’ll be traveling again,” she continued. “Europe. South of France. Italy. A week in Greece.”
As I swiped up my room key card and exited the room, I silently mouthed her words with her as she spoke—because I knew them by rote.
I flipped the DO NOT DISTURB sign to its PLEASE SERVICE ROOM side and pulled the door shut. My father’s distant voice sounded out in the background. “Tell her Merry Christmas for me. And make her teach those Mexican bartenders how to make eggnog.”
“Merry Christmas, Dad,” I muttered, replying to his perfunctory wish and commentary.