Screw this. I’m going out there.
No. Skye stared at the phone, wide-eyed with horror, her legs beginning to shake. Sal had sent the message two hours ago, and since then, there had been nothing. Images began to assault her, a macabre slideshow of what might be. Had Martyn threatened her, hurt her, coerced or tricked her? Why hadn’t Sal updated her? Was her friend locked in his car, unable to call for help? Each scenario landed hard against her chest. Skye checked the time—it was almost four a.m., which made it lunchtime in Sydney. She knew what she had to do, though her fingers shook as she scrolled toSal’s number. It rang, and she waited, holding her breath, knuckles white as she gripped the phone. Then, at last, her friend’s voice was on the other line.
“Skittle?”
“Oh, thank God,” Skye said, letting out a shaky laugh. “You’re OK.”
“Well, I’m a bit freaked out, but yeah, I’m still in one piece.”
“I’m so sorry,” Skye wailed. “I only just listened to your voice notes. What happened?”
“What happened is I told him.”
Black spots began to swarm. Skye shook her head.
“Told him?” she said faintly. “Told him what? Not where I am?”
“Of course not that,” Sal replied. “I told him you were done, that you weren’t coming back, that he should stop trying to find you.”
“I’m guessing he didn’t like that much.”
Her friend sighed.
“Not much, no. He did a good job of pretending he wasn’t angry, but I could see it—hell, I could feel it. The guy was redder in the face than a barbecued lobster.”
“I’m so sorry,” Skye said again. “I can’t believe he flew all the way out there.”
“Well, he did. Told me he happened to be in the neighborhood, but there’s about as much truth to that as there is to the conspiracy theories about Nicolas Cage being a time traveler.”
“That he’s what?”
“Never mind,” she said, her voice stony. “How are you, anyway? How is island life?”
“You’re angry with me,” Skye said.
“No. Well, yes, maybe a little. I’m angriest with Martyn for creating this situation. If he wasn’t such a grade-A narcissist…”
“I never wanted any of this to rebound on you,” Skye said. “I knew he’d be apoplectic with rage once he realized that I wasn’t coming back, but I didn’t expect him to go this far.”
“He thinks of you as one of his possessions,” Sal intoned. “As if you’re a set of cuff links or one of those awful Mr. T–style watches he likes to wear.”
Skye had begun to rock backward and forward.
“What else did he say?” she asked.
“That he was worried about you, that he loved you and couldn’t understand why you’d left, blah, blah. That he knew he could make you see sense if only you’d talk to him. He was giving it the hard sell, basically, but he could tell I wasn’t impressed. Then he stepped it up a notch, started ranting on about how you’d stolen from him and how he’d have no choice but to report it to the police. I laughed at that, told him he was talking out of his—well, you know.”
The police.
Skye’s ribs felt too tight, her stomach hollow.
“How can he accuse you of stealing when you’ve left him the house and everything in it?” Sal went on. “The bloke’s a fantasist.”
“How did you leave things?” Skye’s voice was barely a rasp.
“I told him that if he didn’t back off, then it would be me calling the police, reporting him for harassment. He took that pretty well, considering. Just sort of smiled and said, ‘You’re a good friend to her, Salima,’ in this really condescending way. Gave me the creeps.”
“And then he, what, just drove off?”
