Until the Day I Die(59)
There’s no sign of Jess.
Antonia surveys the group and laughs. But it’s not that soft, girlish giggle I heard in her office that first night. It’s deep and throaty. “We may love and appreciate those who sent us here, but we also know that they don’t fully understand who we are. And who are we? We are the Chosen.”
She lifts her phone over her head, and instantly music fills the house. It’s instrumental, electronica over a slow, hypnotic beat.
“As those who have experienced L’élu before know,” Antonia announces over the music, “upstairs there is a series of rooms, each with its own theme. Each room with an open door contains within a variety of gifts. Of tantalizing treats.”
Another wave of titters.
“Go explore, find your room, your pleasure, and share it with a friend. And tonight, after dinner, your concierges will be joining us. Don’t be afraid of a little hedonism, ladies. It won’t hurt you. In the words of Lord Byron, ‘the great object of life is sensation.’” She steps back against the door and flings out her arm. “So go live life, ladies!”
As the women swarm into the hall, I dart to the stairs, joining them. I take the stairs two at a time, pulling ahead of the throng, but no one takes notice. The air is filled with excited chattering and giddy laughter.
In the huge hallway upstairs, I pause for a second, wildly scanning the opened doors before me. One is closed, though, all the way at the end of the hall. I run toward it and slip inside, shutting it behind me. There’s no lock, and I curse softly, then survey the room.
It’s large and sunny, with a bare wood floor and floor-to-ceiling windows with no curtains. It’s mostly unfurnished, with only a giant four-poster bed that’s draped with a gauzy white canopy and piled high with an array of silk pillows. On a far wall, a lone dressing table of burled walnut with scrolled legs catches my eye. And what’s on top of it—an array of crystal decanters filled with every shade of liquid in the rainbow. Tumblers and goblets and flutes, delicate china trays of pills, and tiny jewel boxes.
I move to it and lift the hinged lid of one translucent blue box edged with gold leaf. There’s a mound of white powder. So this is what L’élu II is all about. The royal treatment the super-rich or celebrity guests get. A Marie Antoinette, let-them-eat-cake bacchanal. A bubble of laughter forces itself up and out of me. So much better than L’élu III—that alternative experience in which you forgo your morning coffee, go on long forced hikes, then get straight-up murdered.
I realize I’ve been listening to the sound of running water coming from behind a door on the other side of the room. Jess. Oh, no. She must be trying to wash all that blood off. Not the wisest move, the house now crawling with people, especially Antonia.
I crack the door, and a cloud of steam hits me in the face. “Jess!” I whisper.
I push the door open. Inside the marble bathroom, the only window is cranked all the way open, and the sink is running. I shut it off and look into the basin.
There’s a faint trace of red. Blood.
She was here, but now she’s gone.
32
SHORIE
Dally’s BBQ is in the heart of Childersburg, tucked between an auto parts place and an army surplus store. The outside is made of standard concrete block. Inside is basically an Auburn Tigers–themed armory. Old BB guns, shotguns, and rifles hang on brackets over every window. Whatever wall space is left has been made into a shrine to Pat Dye.
I showed Rhys (and Lowell) the screenshots between Ms. X and Yours of where they planned to meet. Without even hesitating, Rhys offered to drive me up here. I’m hoping I’ve done the right thing, confiding in him. He’s all I have right now.
I’ve jammed an Auburn cap low over my eyes, so when we walk into the restaurant, nobody even glances our way. I’m not hungry but I order anyway. No reason to raise suspicion. The meal comes with a cornbread muffin, which I pick at then wash down with sweet tea, all the while keeping an eye on the door. Rhys orders a full chopped pork plate, “extra outside” with mac and cheese, fries, and collards. Head bent, arms cradling his plate, he wolfs the food down, and I try not to fall in love with this guy who knows the code words of barbecue so intimately.
“See anybody yet?” he asks, dredging a fry through ketchup and jamming it in his mouth.
“Nope.”
“Who are the suspects again?”
“Pretty much all fifteen or so people who work at Jax,” I say.
“What about the sexting?” Rhys says. “Does that tell us anything?”
“That criminals are horny, I guess?” He glances at me, and I flush.
Just then the restaurant door opens, and someone walks in. I can’t see very well, as there’s a coatrack festooned with about a dozen old football helmets in the way and a group of old men, the early supper crew, standing right at the door. My instinct is to rise up out of the booth, crane my neck so I can see, but they’d see me. I slump down, lower my chin under my cap, and lift my gaze up ever so casually. A server meets the person in the center of the room and points. He turns, spotting the table she’s pointing out, and I see him . . .
Ben.
Ben Fleming, standing right in the middle of Dally’s BBQ in Childersburg, Alabama. I involuntarily sit bolt upright in my seat and go hot all over. I want to scream, burst into tears, and vomit, all at the same time. I’ve misunderstood everything. Every single thing.