Margot swirls the chardonnay around in her glass, takes a healthy nip. “Mmmmm, second glass is always the best one.”
My mouth waters.
“Try your fourth,” Callie snorts.
“Oh, shut it.”
It feels odd sitting down here, passively watching Callie and Margot calmly sip their wine as if nothing sordid just happened, as if I hadn’t just been held at gunpoint, but I decide it’s the best tactic. My strategy here is to try and fade into the background as they get tipsy, and in doing so, hopefully get Margot to admit everything to me.
But my nerves are shredded and I can’t settle down; my heartbeat bangs in my chest. And the crisp apple taste of Margot’s wine still lingers on my tongue; I’m thirsty for another glass. Just one, to help soothe my nerves and keep me on point.
“Actually, I’ll have a glass after all.”
“That’s my girl,” Margot says, pivoting her body so that her back rests against the chaise longue, which she raises to a sitting position. She slings her legs over mine as if we are little girls at summer camp and she’s about to fill me in on how her school year went. It’s so hot out that when a breeze passes over the water, it doesn’t feel refreshing; instead, it feels like opening the door to a clothes dryer and having the heat blast your face.
With a stiff arm, Callie passes me a glass.
I take a small, tentative sip. And because of the hangover, I chase it with a larger one. Margot’s right about one thing: Idoneed to calm down, but not for her sake. I need to calm down so I can think straight, gather intel, and formulate my plan. Obviously, sheer anger will get me nowhere with these two conniving psychos.
Callie is parked on the opposite chaise longue, sunglasses lowered, facing the water.
“Trouble at home?” Callie asks me with the corner of her mouth lifted into a grin. She dips her ankle into the lake and traces a slow figure eight with her foot.
I want to shove Margot’s legs off of me and plunge Callie into the water, but I stick to my game plan. Remain calm. Act unbothered.
“It hasn’t been the best couple of days, but I’ll get through it.” I sip my wine, and for the first time in days, I feel my muscles relax.
Strips of sunlight comb through the tops of the willow trees lining the shore, and I watch as the shadows of leaves rake back and forth along the chaise longues. I haven’t even finished my whole glass, but I’m feeling more tipsy than I should. Especially since I ate a pound of bacon for breakfast. Though the surface of the lake is still, without a boat cutting a wake in sight, I feel like I can see the water expand and contract. Expand and contract. I look over to Margot, and then to Callie, and it’s as if I’m peering at them through a looking glass—my vision is fuzzy around the edges.
Something isn’t right. And I’ve realized what it is after it’s too late: Callie’s drugged me again.
I cup Margot’s ankles in my hands, gently pushing her legs to the side so I can stand. Floating up from the chaise longue, I feel like I’m on stilts with everything out of proportion.
I take a deep breath and steady myself.
“Feeling okay?” Callie’s voice drifts over to me.
“Fine, just need to pee.”
I walk along the pier toward the house and try not to stagger.
I have to get out of here. I have to get in my car and somehow manage to drive. No telling what they’re planning on doing to me next, but I can’t wait around to find out.
55
I PULL DOWNthe handle to the glass patio door and step inside the lake house. The room is chilled from the blasting AC, but I welcome it; after the drowsy heat outside, the cold is helping to sharpen my senses.
I glance over my shoulder at the boat dock—Callie and Margot are still beached on their chaise longues. I release a huge sigh; I’m glad they haven’t trailed me inside.
The great room seems to tilt a bit as I cast my eyes around it, but I’m nowhere near as drugged as I had been in Dallas. Sheets of sunlight throb through the windows and I can hear the motor of the AC unit humming as if I’m sitting on top of it, but at least I’m still mobile. Sort of. When I take the steps up into the kitchen, my shin strikes the final one and I crash to my knees on the wooden floor.
I push myself to standing. I have to outrun the effects of the drug; I have to escape before I’m fully bombed. I swing open the fridge and yank out a bottle of spring water, twist off the lid and down half of it.
I sway down the hallway toward the guest bath and flick on the lights. They pulse, filling the room with stuttered light. I stare at myself in the mirror. Mycheeks are flushed pink, and dark circles rim my eyes, which are bloodshot and dilated. My hair is frizzy from the swampy heat, my T-shirt clings to my chest, moist with sweat, and I have the look of a woman tossed from her house and holed up in a dinky motel room.
The faucet gives way under my trembling hand, gushing out cold water. I cup my palms beneath it, splashing some on my face to try and make me even more alert. A lush, seafoam-green towel dangles from a hook and I use the corners of it to dab my face dry.
But the bottled water and the face bath in the sink have done little to sober me up. If anything, I’m growing more woozy by the second.
