From: [email protected]
Subject: RE: RE: RE: Great News!
Lyle,
Please don’t waste too much time on editing. We need to get the video out immediately. Every hour we wait is an hour too long. To that end, I am looping Guy back into this email thread so as to ask him to ensure this video goes out ASAP.
Paige could very well be floating on a life raft in the middle of the sea, starving, dehydrated, and horribly sunburned.
Best,
Vivian
P.S. Let’s stick to the life and death matter at hand.
Li’l Rhythm Help Us Find Paige Chadwick Video
The video starts to reveal aging rapper Li’l Rhythm sitting up in a hospital bed in navy blue silk pajamas. “Hey, y’all. Li’l Rhythm here, coming to you live from St. Michael’s Hospital, where I’m being well cared for by a group of very smart people. I just had my arteries cleaned out and I’m busy making a full recovery here, so don’t worry about me. And don’t worry about taking Vialis either. My heart attack was caused by bad lifestyle choices and had nothing to do with my little magic green pill. In fact, I’m cutting out fast food and will be hopping back on Vialis as soon as my doc gives me the all-clear.”
He taps a fist over his chest a couple of times, winces, then smiles. His smile fades. “But I’m not here to talk about myself because there is someone I want to tell you about. Paige Chadwick. She’s a classy lady who has gone M.I.A. y’all. My girl’s been instrumental in helping me mount my comeback.”
Paige’s photo appears on the top left corner of the screen while Li’l Rhythm continues to talk and sappy orchestral music starts to play in the background. “She’s the hardest working human in the biz. She’s smart, loyal, and knows how to get the impossible done. A week ago, she was flying out of Santa Valentina Island to her sister’s wedding but she never got there. And the police department isn’t taking her case seriously. They suggested she just pulled a disappearing act, but I know that’s not her style. Paige was stupid excited about the wedding. She told me all about it, in fact, so I know something bad happened. So, memorize her face. Be on the lookout for her if you’re in the Caribbean, and if you’ve seen her, call the police and let them know. Even if you don’t know Paige, I want everyone to start calling the San Felipe Police Station, the Coast Guard, Search and Rescue, your senators and congressmen. Tell them we need to find Paige.”
He takes a deep breath, then continues. “There’s a chance she’s no longer with us, but her family needs to know the truth either way. And she could very well be alive. So I want everyone across the USA to get on the phone right now and put the pressure on these guys to find Paige. Tell them America needs her.”
21
Full House, Flush, or Bust…
Paige
It’s beenthree days now since we slept in the same bed, and neither of us has even laid a finger on each other since. Not that I’m still thinking about it. That would be pathetic, especially since he clearly seems to have forgotten all about what almost happened. He’s switched over to being very professional again. Guarded. Polite. Still fun, but there are a lot less of those moments when we lock eyes and I feel my chest heave involuntarily. Instead, he avoids looking at me at all. There are times when I worry that he was so turned off when we were sleep-fooling-around that he can’t stand the thought of touching me. Oh, God, that thought is the worst. Seriously, what if he thinks I’m totally gross?
But then, just when I convince myself that that’s the awful truth, I catch him looking at me when he thinks I won’t notice. Sometimes at my body, sometimes at my face, and he has this sort-of dreamy, faraway look. Then he snaps out of it and clears his throat, usually followed bymaking some excuse to leave or bringing up a topic that is completely unsexy, like how to gut a fish. That’s a sign that he wants me, isn’t it? Sort of? Maybe?
God, I’m pathetic. I should be trying to think of new ways to get off the island, maybe figuring out how to make a HAM radio out of coconuts and, I don’t know, wires from the plane or something, because staying here torturing myself like this is getting me nowhere fast. And the longer I’m here, the worse it’s getting.
This afternoon, a plane went by. I wanted to shoot the flare gun, but Mac said it was too far and wasn’t facing the right way to see the flare. He was right, of course; it was so far away, you could barely hear it. And to be totally honest, I was relieved. Relieved?! I can hardly believe I felt that way. I should have been devastated, but I wasn’t. Not a bit. Even though my entire family, Vivian, and the people I work with could very well be assuming I’m dead, or they could be worried sick about me, unable to sleep or eat or think straight. And here I am, just hanging around, relaxing and wanting to get some. I literally spend every waking moment trying to will him to touch me using mental telepathy. So far, it’s not working.
We’re together every moment of the day, except at night, which is when I want him the most. My ankle is nearly completely healed, so during the day, we swim in the sea and talk about nothing. He’s been teaching me how to fish—I still haven’t caught anything yet, but my cast is getting a little better each day. We’ve been playing poker after supper each evening, using the Monopoly money. I owe him twenty thousand fake dollars, but I’m determined to beat him tonight. We just finished the dishes and are sitting down at the table. Mac shuffles the cards and says, “No limit Texas Hold ‘Em,” while I divvy up the Monopoly money we’re using in place of poker chips.
“What would you be doing if you were back home in New York right now?” he asks, dealing each of us two cards.
The question snaps me out of my current reality, reminding me I have an entire life waiting. “I’d probably be just leaving the office.” I have a look at my cards, a pair of jacks. Sweet!
“At this hour?” he asks, checking his cards. I watch him, but he gives nothing away.
We each put a hundred dollars into the pot.
Nodding, I say, “On a good day. By the time I’d get back to my apartment, I’d be starving, so I would probably wolf down a big bowl of cereal for supper while my best friend and I get caught up.”
Mac deals the three cards into the flop—a jack of diamonds, an ace of clubs, and a four of hearts. “She doesn’t cook?”
I throw two hundred into the pot, which causes Mac to let out a low whistle. He matches my bet. “Okay, I’ll pay to see what you’ve got.”
“She doesn’t have time to cook either. Well, occasionally, if she’s doing a video about healthy meals, she’ll make enough for both of us. But most of the time she winds up eating peanut butter and banana sandwiches for supper.”
I expect him to make some remark about my insane lifestyle, but he doesn’t. Instead, he says, “Do you miss her?”
