Ash flips the card over. A photo of the drive-in theater and a familiar logo look back up at her. It’s one of the Sonnet postcards. They all took them to send to people, and they all promised Hope they wouldn’t mail the cards until the end of the trip. Of course Caro would write one to her dad.
But this postcardhadbeen sent. From the post office in Spring Creek. To his address. Henry Stewart, Suite 34, Lookout Pointe, St. John, Utah.
Ash is cold. What does this mean?
They promised Hope they wouldn’t send these. They promised Hope they wouldn’t tell anyone where they were.
Other guests are gathering at the picnic tables and firepits to hang out and talk. They are silhouettes and shadows. They are not people Ash knows. She finds herself veering away from the common areas, though shepromised Caro that’s where she’d stay. She wants to get in her Airstream and lock the door. Anyone could be out there.
Hope had stalkers. They knew that. They should have been more careful. But Hope kept telling them she was like the rest of them, that everyone had weird things in their lives and being famous happened to be her weird thing.
And then they’d found out that someone had been watching them. And then, they made their plan to disappear—
That was Hope’s gift and her curse (please don’t let it also be what got her caught and killed): She never thought that she was better than anyone else. She never saw herself as more than the others. But shewas. She was in more danger than the rest of them the entire time.
Ash is almost to her trailer when her phone vibrates. She looks down and there it is, another message.
Surprise!
It’s me again.
There’s one more thing I need you to do.
43
BEFORE
“I CAN’T BELIEVE THIS, Hope,”Ash says as their faces come up on the screens of their new phones.
“Right?” Hope says grimly. She glances over her shoulder, a gesture that causes the other two to do the same.
“Are we sure this is safe?” Caro asks.
“It should be,” Hope says. “But we’ll have to keep it that way. We can only talk about this on these phones, when we can’t be overheard by anyone, and when we’re not in our houses or our cars.” She’s in a grassy meadow. Caro is in a park, and Ash is at the elementary school Claire attends near their home.
“Ash, are you at your kids’ school?” Hope asks. She sneezes. Her allergies are terrible at this time of year, but she wanted to be able to see in all directions.
“Yeah,” Ash says. “I don’t think anyone can overhear me, though. I’m standing in the athletic field.” She’s near an industrial-strength metal garbage can. It smells awful, and there’s a popped kickball on top.
“Is someone you know going to drive past and wonder why you’re standing outside of your car in the athletic field, though?” Caro asks.
“I don’t think so,” Ash says. “I’m by a trash can, and I’m acting like I’m going through it.”
“Is it possible that might raisemorequestions?” Caro says diplomatically.
“No, I’m going to say I think I threw away my kid’s retainer in here if anyone asks,” Ash says. “Plus there’s a parents’ meeting in the school in an hour I have to go to. I didn’t know how long this would take, so I wanted to be able to talk for every possible minute.”
“I love you, Ash,” Hope says, laughing. And then, on a dime, she bursts into tears. “I love you both so much, and I’m so sorry this is happening.”
“Oh, Hope,” Ash says, alarmed. This is the first time they’ve seen Hope cry outside of her movies. “It’s okay. It isn’t your fault.”
“Occam’s razor,” Hope says.
“What?” Ash is confused.
“The simplest explanation is the most likely one,” Caro says.
“Oh, right.” Ash has heard of this.
