Until the Day I Die(50)

I shrug.

“So you can have a beer,” he presses.

“My God.” Deirdre gets up and saunters over to the cooler. “We’ll drink with you, Lach, all right? Quit trying so hard.” She comes back with two bottles, offering me one. A frosty bead of water runs down and splashes on my leg.

Jess dismisses me. “Go ahead. I don’t care.”

I hesitate.

“Drink the beer, Erin,” she says. “I’m fine.”

I take the bottle, clink it against Deirdre’s, and gulp down a good quarter of it. Almost immediately, probably because of the day’s strenuous exercise and the fact that I haven’t eaten nearly enough, my body goes loose limbed and languid.

It feels so good. Really good.

A seventies southern rock song drifts out of a little wireless speaker Lach has set on the picnic table. I stretch my scratched, insect-bitten legs toward the fire and sing along. After a second, I realize I’ve got my beer raised like I’m at a concert. I glance over at Lach. He’s laughing. And then he’s not laughing; he’s just watching me with those pale eyes. I shut my mouth and look away.

Jessalyn’s up, holding his phone. “What’s your password? I want to change the music.”

“Try his name,” Deirdre calls out.

Jess waggles the phone at him. “Password, chickadee.”

“Lock,” he says.

“L-a-c-h or l-o-c-k?” Jessalyn retorts. “The man? Or the thing on a door you stick a key into?”

“It’s also one of those things on a dam,” Deirdre says.

Jess taps at the phone. “Holy shit,” she says. “Y’all. His password is actually lock.”

Prince’s “Let’s Go Crazy” starts playing.

“It’s short for Lachlan, you dimwits.” He grins at all of us.

“That’s a homonym,” Jessalyn says. “Which is different than a homograph. That’s when two words are spelled the same but mean different things.”

Deirdre laughs. “Like a fine . . . money you owe . . . and fine.” She sways a little. “God damn. I’ve only had one beer.”

I know what she means. The effect of one drink is much stronger than I expected.

Lach leaps up and grabs Deirdre’s hand. “Dance with me.” His voice has a wheedling tone to it.

She struggles loose. “Shouldn’t we be meditating or working on our chakras or something?” She strides over to the picnic table and pops open another beer. “Didn’t you say we were supposed to go beyond our first world mindset?”

Lach addresses Jess and me. “Okay, I’m calling an audible. You guys have done a great job this week, really worked your asses off. So we’re going to take a time out from the official agenda and celebrate your successes.” He glances at Deirdre. “Even if I have to force you.”

“What does that mean?” she retorts, then turns away. “Asshole.”

“You don’t have to force me,” Jess says.

He angles toward her. “You wanna dance?”

“Maybe.” She eyes him coyly. I glance at Deirdre. She’s glaring at them both.

But Jess slips around Lach and shimmies over to me. She crooks her finger. I laugh and shake my head but offer my hand. She hoots with triumphant laughter and pulls me up, grinding on me to the music.

“There you go,” Lach says. “Look, Dee Dee. These girls know how to have fun.”

As Deirdre settles back beside the fire, Lach corrals me with his arms. He pulls me in close, and I can feel her eyes on us. Under his ratty T-shirt his chest feels like granite. He smells like campfire smoke and beer and sweat, and when his whiskery cheek brushes mine, I stiffen.

“Jesus, relax.” He pulls me closer. “I don’t bite.”

I can’t relax—but I’m not sure I want to make a big deal of pushing this guy away. I don’t like the vibe I’m getting from Deirdre, sure, but more importantly I’m worried about Agnes. Really worried. And I’m starting to feel that Antonia didn’t send her home like Lach said.

But bottom line, even if Agnes is lost in the woods, and Lach’s been lying to us about it, playing innocent is the smartest move. At least until I can find out what’s really going on.

Lach’s hand has made its way from between my shoulder blades down to the curve of my lower back.

“So you’re pretty famous, huh?” he says.

I kind of laugh and shake my head at the same time.

“You did that app that’s worth a shit ton of cash, didn’t you? People write stories about you.”

“I’m not famous.”

“You’re rich, though. Really rich now that your husband died.” He smiles, and I feel a chill run up my back. Prickle the hair on my scalp.

And then I feel his fingers flutter across my chest. My eyes fly open just as he plucks the blue plastic bread tie from where it had worked its way up from my cleavage and become stuck to my sternum.

He holds up the tie. “What’s this?”

Fear rips through me. “I took it off the package of bread this morning. I wanted to use it to tie my hair back.”

He glances at my hair twisted into a bun with what is clearly a rubber band.

“In case I lost the one I have now,” I add quickly. “Or it broke. Can I please keep it? It can be our little secret.”