Until the Day I Die(75)

Working at the Grand Bohemian all morning. Meet me at 12:30pm. 522.

Ms. X hasn’t answered yet. Probably because she told him not to message her over Jax. What an idiot. I check the time stamp. The message came in just now, right before my spyware captured it and sent it to me.

I feel a little lightheaded. They’re meeting again, Ben and his lady partner in crime. I look at my watch. Eleven thirty. I’ve got plenty of time to get there and see if I can catch them together. Maybe then I don’t need to find proof on the servers.

Then, my Jax dings with a message from Mom.

Shorie, it’s Mom. Please se

It’s dated two days ago but only coming through now? Surely a ritzy place like Hidden Sands has better Wi-fi than that. I click out, then refresh it. Nothing more loads. That’s it. Just, Shorie, it’s Mom. Please se

What’s that supposed to mean?

Mom’s not supposed to have a phone or computer or any electronic devices at the spa. Somehow she found a phone or computer because she needed to send me a message. But why me? Why not Ben or Sabine or Layton? If she was asking for something, a special favor, I can’t imagine she’d reach out to me.

And what did please se mean? Please sell? Please see? Sew? Seal?

You know what she meant, my brain tells me. You know.

Please send.

Please send what, though? Money? Extra underwear? Trader Joe’s Cookie Butter?

And then the answer comes to me just as clearly and plainly as the answer to a calculus problem.

Please send help.

Of course. Dele’s words come back to me. Don’t you think it’s more than a little coincidental that she had this random blackout and got sent away to a Caribbean island at the exact same time all this was going down?

I hit the message tab. Mom, what’s going on there? Are you okay? I type. But she doesn’t answer. And the minutes continue to tick away.

I don’t have time to wait for her reply. I need to go see who Ben’s meeting at the hotel. I call an Uber, make sure Tiger’s got plenty of water, then go out to the street to wait for the car.



The lobby of the Grand Bohemian Hotel in Mountain Brook Village smells like gardenias, roses, and big piles of money. Even in the middle of a weekday afternoon, it’s teeming with well-dressed businesspeople and out-of-towners. I arrive at 12:07 p.m. exactly and set up camp in a gargantuan wing chair, periodically checking my phone to see if Mom has messaged me back.

She hasn’t. And of course, Jax is losing its tiny digital mind, pushing me politely hysterical notifications, one right after the other. Unallocated Expense: the Grand Bohemian, Mountain Brook, Autograph Collection offers rooms at $211 per night! Alternative: Extended Stay America, 101 Cahaba Park Circle at $58 per night! Unallocated Expense: Habitat Feed & Social, Oysters Diavolo starter $15! Alternative: Brick & Tin, 2901 Cahaba Road, Fried Brussels Sprouts starter, $8!

“Breathe,” I advise the app.

And then I see Ben, striding across the lobby to the elevators, pushing the button, and then disappearing behind the sleek silver door. I wait a beat. It’s only 12:10, way before the appointment time. But he’s here, so I should probably get my ass in gear and follow him.

I hurry across the lobby and jump on the next elevator. When the doors slide open on the fifth floor, I creep toward the hallway and peek out. The left end of the hall is empty. Ben has turned right and is standing in front of a door, knocking.

Well, pounding really.

The door opens. There’s a brief exchange, which I can’t hear because I’m too far away. Then Ben steps inside the room, and the door shuts behind him. I duck back into the elevator bay. Should I wait here or leave? It could be hours before they come out. I mean, is that how long it takes for people to have sex in hotels? I literally have no experience with this.

It’s been less than fifteen minutes when I hear the door open again. I peek out. Ben looks pretty normal, no mussed hair or flushed face or buttons undone. Just pissed as all get-out and stalking down the hall in my direction. I scurry in the opposite direction and around a corner, counting twenty Mississippis and hoping he doesn’t recognize the back of my head.

As soon as I hear the elevator ding and the door slide shut, I hurry back down the hall. I stand in front of the door that Ben came out of for a few seconds, my knuckles pressed to my mouth. Then, so I can’t chicken out, I knock as hard as I can. On the other side, I hear the bolt slide open and the chain clank. Then the door cracks open.

Something yanks me back, and I yelp. Whoever’s got a grip on me doesn’t let go, just propels me down the hall. As I stumble, I manage to get a look over my shoulder. It’s Ben, his face a red-and-purple thundercloud. He’s making me feel like a naughty puppy, picked up by the scruff of the neck by its patiently disapproving mother, and I don’t like it one bit. But he doesn’t loosen his grasp.

“Let me go,” I gasp, still trying to look beyond him and catch a glimpse of whoever just opened that hotel room door. But he shakes me so hard, pulling me to the elevators, it’s all I can do to keep my balance.

“We need to talk,” he growls.





42

ERIN

When I wake the next morning—midmorning, judging by the position of the burning, tropical sun—every muscle screams in protest.

The night before, I’d hiked about a half mile into the jungle, where I found another enormous tree sufficiently curtained by vines. I was about to pull myself up onto the lowest branch when I saw a narrow opening in the trunk. Big enough for me to squeeze in, small enough to keep Lach out.