He opens my laptop and starts typing.
I offer up my password, but he’s already on and turns it toward me. There’s a video playing, and I lean in because clearly, these people want to show me something. But my vision is blurry now with possibly a broken nose, so I can’t see well.
“Do you wear glasses?” he asks.
The woman next to him hit me with the door and the back of her hand. I can’t see because she rattled my brain. I bite back a smartassed response and shake my head.
“Look closer.” He passes me the laptop. “Don’t touch any buttons, or she’ll shoot you.”
“Got it.” I accept the laptop in my shaking hands. I lay it on my lap and watch closely. The camera moves down a narrow hotel hallway with modern gray carpets just as I’m sneaking out of Mr. Grump’s room this morning. The camera follows me as I walk down the steps and out of the hotel, then loops back to the hallway, showing me sneaking out again. I look up from the screen.
“That’s me, yes,” I say in case that’s what they want.
“Good.” The man nods. “And who were you with?”
I swallow. “A man I met at the bar.”
“Ms. Wilder, I’m asking for his name.”
“We didn’t exchange names. I called him Mr. Grump. He called me Sunshine. We didn’t talk a lot.” Heat rises in my cheeks. “If you know what I mean.”
The guy at the desk snorts. “Are you lying to me?”
“No.” Even though I’m a fairly good liar. When you live with a violent alcoholic, you train yourself to lie well. The trick is to stick with the truth but not quite the whole truth. It sounds paradoxical, but it’s not.
“You’re saying you don’t know who you slept with, and prior to this evening, you had no idea who the man is?”
“That’s right. Who is he? Oh no, wait, never mind. Forget I asked. I don’t want to know. You know what this is?” I lean in. “This is what I get for venturing out of familiar territory. Typically, I get together with losers. That guy at the bar and in the hotel room didn’t look like a loser. I bet that’s why you’re here.”
The guy glances at the woman, who takes a step toward me.
I screech. “I swear I don’t know who he is!”
“Shhhh.” She presses a finger over her lips. “Just making sure.”
I scoot as far away from her as I can. She burned my passport. They burned my passport, which means I can’t go home. Oh my God, I’m stuck on an island with no way home.
“What do you want from me?”
THREE
MY ASSIGNMENT
Tourist
The man at the door fixes us all coffee as if we’re gathered around the desk gossiping about our neighbor banging the pool guy. When he serves me the cup of great-smelling goodness I normally consume to jolt my brain awake in the morning, I refuse it.I’m quite awake, thanks.
But the woman glares at me, so I change my mind. Cautiously, I sip the brew right after the woman drinks hers, just in case they poisoned mine. Not that it matters. There’s nothing I could do about it besides drink, keel over, and die foaming at the mouth.
Dramatic. Very dramatic.
I grab a fluffy pillow and hold it in my lap. I’ve always found holding fluffy pillows and blankets oddly comforting.
The violence in the room stresses me out to the point that I want to throw up. I’ve never been much of a fighter, and I would try to escape if my knees weren’t shaking, and if I didn’t think they’d give way the moment I stood up. All in all, the odds aren’t in my favor, and, frankly, unless I’m sure I can make it to safety (which I can’t), trying anything would be pretty stupid.
The guy sitting at the desk talks about the man I spent the night with. My one-night stand’s name is Alessio Angelini, a thirty-nine-year-old descendant of Italian royalty and one of the wealthiest men on earth. They need to say no more, because the name rings a bell.
After I landed in Rome and heard about this island, I visited to confirm the rumors of it being a paradise on earth. The rumors were true. Until now.
