“Skye told us where to find you,” Ash says. “We’re wondering if you’ve heard anything.”
“Nothing yet.” I’m disconcerted that Skye knew I was here. I climb out of the Thunderbird so that I’m on even footing with the two women. It’s late, and Hope Hanover’s friends both look absolutely wrecked. Like they’re experiencing that horrible combination of needing to sleep and not being able to sleep because they’re in the hell of losing someone they care about.
“Haveyouheard anything about your friend yet?” The question is a courtesy, a way to make them feel like they’re the ones who would be in the know.
“No,” Ash says, but there’s a trace of something in her voice that makes me look at her more closely. No one’s heard from Hope. I’d know if they had. So why does Ash sound like she might be lying?
“I’ve been wondering,” I say. “Would either of you prefer a room change?”
“I’m sorry?” Caro asks.
“We’ve had a few people check out,” I say, “and with everything that’s happened, it seems like you might feel more—secure?—in the Airstreams?” Ash’s shoulders drop in what looks to me like relief. She’s definitely thought about this. “They lock, and they have private bathrooms, but if you want to stay where you are, I totally get it. The tents are nice.” I pause to let them take in the offer. “Or maybe you’re planning to end your trip early?” I make a sympathetic face.They’d betternotbe planning on ending the trip early.
“No,” Caro says instantly. She glances at Ash. “Not me, anyway. I’m not leaving until we find her.”
“Me either,” Ash says with the same conviction. “Are you serious about this? That would be great if we could move to the Airstreams.”
“How much more would it cost?” Caro asks.
“It’s complimentary,” I say, but that’s notexactlytrue. There’s always a price, and this one is hidden. “I can put you two next to each other. I can’t get you right by your friend’s Airstream—it’s on the end of the row, and the people on the other side haven’t checked out—but you’re close. There’s no obligation, of course. Again, you’re welcome to stay where you are.” I’m speaking so formally that it sounds odd to my ears, but they don’t seem to notice.
“Awesome.” Ash looks like she might cry. “This issokind of you.”
“No problem,” I say. “Let’s go get the keys.”
The minute we enter the tent, Skye leaves the gift shop where she was working and joins us at the reception desk. Skye’s loving the whole natural-disaster, people-are-missing vibe. I’ve been keeping an eye on her LikeMe account to make sure she doesn’t post anything that could really screw things up. She’s acting likeshealmost died in the flash flood, and her followers are eating it up. They don’t know that she was sound asleep when it all happened and that she’s never been in the Underground. “Do you need me to help with anything?” she asks, practically salivating. Ash and Caro are as close as she can get to the drama.
“I think we’re good,” Caro says, and I like the way she seems to have taken Skye’s measure in a glance. “Thank you, though.”
“I can help move your luggage over now, if you want,” I tell Ash and Caro quietly. “There’s a golf cart parked out back.”
“Yes, please.” Ash is practically weeping with gratitude. If anyone’s going to talk about what happened whentheytalked to the police, I think it’s going to be her. I’ll drop her off last when I take them over and see what I can find out.
The two women climb onto the golf cart behind me and we set off on the path, the illuminated solar lights guiding our way. None of us say anything. They’re tired. Their bodies sway with the turns and jolts of the golf cart.
I keep myself upright.Don’t look down, I remind myself, when my mind threatens to go where it can’t right now.Stay here. Do what you need to do.
32
BEFORE
Hey friends.
Sorry for the old-fashionedness of certified mail. But this is the safest way I could think of to communicate.
Plus, this way I know that only you have signed for these packages. I’ve specified that you’ll have to do it with proof of ID: Carolina Stewart and Ashley Paxton. No spouses, no kids, no partners, whatever. No one else.
But you already know that, because you’re reading this letter.
I’ve written it by hand so that you’ll know it really is from me.
You’ll also see that I’ve included a new phone.
(Ash, I can practically hear the wheels turning in your head. But no, this isn’t an elaborate way to announce that I’ve been cast in a Mission: Impossible movie.)
I get why you’d think that, though. This whole thing is convoluted and ridiculous, but it’s the best I could come up with to let you know about the situation.
I have some bad news.
