A sliver of moonlight sliced through the half-open front door, and as my eyes adjusted to the darkness, I stood, nauseous and shaky, and dusted the desert sand from my suit. But it was clear I was alone. Maybe they thought they had killed me because they left me behind. Perhaps the kicks to my ribs had confirmed their assessment.
Wrong. I’m difficult to kill.
I made it with halting steps to the door. The highway lights in the distance looked like stars—miles away across the desert scrub.
I had to make it home.
So, I started walking.
Chapter 25
Tashi
The gala was tomorrow night.
I’d made four hundred decisions in the last day. Approved lighting designs. Selected signature cocktails. Finalized the announcement speech. Coordinated with Frank, Evelyn, and a dozen other vendors. My feet hurt. My voice was hoarse. And I was running on coffee, adrenaline, and sheer stubbornness.
But everything was ready.
The ballroom was nearly transformed—Frank’s team was scheduled to work through the night, and the result was breathtaking. Neon Elysium came to life. Ice sculptures gleamed under programmable lights. Video displays testing constellation patterns. The stage where we’d make our announcement looked like a doorway to the stars.
It was perfect.
It was terrifying.
It was happening in less than twenty-four hours.
I was in the Selene Room when my phone buzzed with a text from Marta:Just landed. Coming straight to the hotel. Need to see you immediately. Alone.
My stomach dropped. Marta never used that tone unless something was seriously wrong.
I texted back:Text me when you get here. I’ll meet you in the lobby.
She arrived an hour later, looking exhausted and wired in equal measure. She dragged her wheeled bag behind her, her hair pulled back in a messy bun, dark circles under her eyes that spoke of sleepless nights and frantic research. I took her to my room, and she flopped down on the couch, grateful to put her feet up on the coffee table.
“Tell me you found something,” I said.
“I found everything.” Marta pulled out a thick manila folder from her oversized purse. “Tashi, you need to sit down.”
“I don’t want to sit down. I want to know what you found about Henri and my mother?—”
“Sit. Down.” Her voice was gentle but firm. “Please.”
I sat.
Marta pulled out the first document—a faded employment record from Meridian Tech Solutions, dated 1999.
“Your mother worked here,” she said. “Administrative assistant. Twenty-five years old. This is where that picnic photo was taken—the company summer party.”
I stared at the document, at my mother’s name in black and white. Catherine George.
“And Henri?” I asked.
“Also worked at Meridian Tech. Same department. Same time.” Marta laid out another document. “Junior accountant. Twenty-eight years old. Ambitious, according to his performance reviews. Difficult, according to his supervisor notes.”
My hands started shaking. “They worked together.”
“They did more than work together.” Marta pulled out another document—a marriage license. “They were married. June 1999. Just three months before you were born.”
