Still, I check my watch and file it away. Carousel Three.
“And…” Mark pauses. “Uh-oh.”
My pulse hits a tripwire. “What do you mean, ‘uh-oh?’”
Silence.
I raise my voice. “What does he mean, ‘uh-oh?’”
My tone does the trick. When the elevator doors open, everyone files out.
Just before I completely lose it, Brian clears his throat.
“She, um,” he says carefully, “seems to be looking for something.”
Looking for something…
I drag a palm down my face, barely smothering a laugh.
Well, well, well. Fate has a twisted sense of humor after all.
Because whether I want her here or not, Pixie Stick is a boomerang with my name on it.
And no, that’s not wishful thinking.
It’s not ego.
It’s not my cock talking.
It’s the cold, undeniable truth that dangling from my hand is her backpack.
One heavy enough to anchor a naval destroyer.
CHAPTER 9
Ava
The carousel makes a lazy round a few million times before my bag finally appears.
In a sea of jet-black luggage, mine is easy to spot. The pretty purple one, plastered with sugar skull stickers and a Day of the Dead tag.
I yank it off the conveyor and step aside, already mentally pricing out a Lyft and wondering if the guy upstairs is still hollering my name like I owe him money.
I pat my pockets.
My phone isn’t there.
A slow, cold awareness creeps in.
I twist, reach back, and go for my backpack.
My hand closes on air.
Dread sinks to the bottom of my gut like a lead weight.
Gone.
My backpack.
