Juliana gets a text from an unknown number at eleven-thirty on the third Monday in August. The text says:PLEASE MEET ME AT THE BOTTOM OF MOHEGAN STEPS. 4 P.M.
Who is the text from? Someone who wants to murder her for all of the money she doesn’t yet have? (But the text says “please”—would a murderer be so polite?)
She puts Allison to work tracing the number. Allison has all sorts of powers that border on the magical—she can get a caterer who claimed to be committed elsewhere to make seventy-five mini lobster rolls; she can procure tickets to sold-out Broadway musicals. Seven minutes after receiving the assignment Allison taps on Juliana’s office door and says, “That number belongs to Taylor Buchanan.”
Taylor Buchanan.
Taylor Buchanan wants to meet Juliana.
Deep breath.
(Why wouldn’t Taylor identify herself outright? What kind of game is she playing?)
At the bottom of Mohegan Steps.
Better than the top, if Juliana is looking for a silver lining.
Juliana is restless for the next three and a half hours. She makes a couple of phone calls and answers some emails. She drinks a coffee,then wishes she hadn’t; the coffee makes her jumpy. She works on the board deck for the next meeting. She can’t concentrate. She sits out on the dock for a little while. She tries to rest in one of the chaise lounges, but she can’t stay still. It starts to rain; she goes back inside; it stops raining.
The weather forecast is all over the place: rain, sun, chance of a thunderstorm later. After the rain, the sun comes out, and with it the humidity. Finally, finally, it’s almost time to drive to Mohegan Steps. She leaves earlier than she needs to. She takes the long way around, to chew up some extra time, but also to avoid the crowds in town.
Out by the airport, Center Road to Lakeside, past the Painted Rock, down Mohegan Trail. She arrives at 3:50. There are no other cars in the parking lot, so she takes a deep breath and tries to relax. She’s there before Taylor. And there’s that; at least she has first arrival advantage.
Three fifty-five. She starts to play psych-up music, then stops. She isn’t sure what she’s psyching herself up for.
Three fifty-six.
She gets out of the car.
She takes the steps down as quickly as she can, wondering if the exercise might help her shake her nerves. But with the rapid pace and the late afternoon August humidity she’s breathing too hard when she gets to the bottom. She doesn’t like that; it makes her look weak. She tries to slow her breathing the way a meditation instructor once taught her. She thinks more about that meditation teacher, puts two fingers of her right hand on her forehead, and tries to open her third eye chakra. She can’t tell if it’s open or not. (How do people tell? Are third eyes for real?)
Just. Keep. Moving.
She opens her actual two eyes.
She takes in the scene: the enormous, looming clay cliffs, thewater crashing against the rocks, the wind turbines in the distance, gamely turning, turning. Okay, she can take a moment now, gather her thoughts, calm her heartbeat and maybe even pre—
“Hello, Juliana.”
“JesusChrist.”Talk about jumping out of your skin. Taylor has appeared literallyout of nowhere.Juliana had taken her eyes off the steps for only a minute; there wouldn’t have been enough time for Taylor to descend. She must have been there already. “Holy shit, you scared me.”
“I didn’t mean to.” Taylor smiles thinly at Juliana. “I try to be six minutes early to every meeting.” Her eyes are inscrutable. No sunglasses, which is surprising, and somehow badass. “I find it puts the other person on their back foot.”
I’ll say, thinks Juliana. “Not me,” she says untruthfully. “I just didn’t see any other cars—”
“I didn’t drive,” says Taylor, offering no further explanation. Had she gotten dropped off? Had she cycled? No, she’s wearing a pretty sundress, not cycling clothes. Juliana can’t imagine Taylor cycling anyway. She supposes Taylor could have dropped from a hovering helicopter, rappelled down the clay cliffs like a superhero. “Now let’s get to business. Shall we?” Taylor gestures to one of the wide flat rocks along the beach, against which, Juliana now sees, a straw bag is reclining. What’s in the bag? (A weapon?)
“Business?”
“So to speak,” says Taylor. “We’re certainly not getting down to pleasure.”
Juliana kicks off her shoes, holds them in one hand, and follows Taylor to the rock. Taylor takes a minute to remove a blanket from the straw bag and toss it over the rock. Then she takes another minute smoothing out the blanket.
Taylor sits first, and Juliana chooses a spot on the rock as far away as she can get. In the light of the late afternoon sun, Taylor’s hair,loose around her face, seems to be shimmering. She really does have beautiful hair. Taylor reaches for the straw bag and Juliana startles.
“Relax,” says Taylor. “I’m not going to kill you.” Mind reader,thinks Juliana. Almost as an afterthought Taylor adds, “Yet.”
Juliana laughs uncertainly. She forces herself to maintain her composure; she doesn’t let the laugh become maniacal. She’s been in high-pressure situations how many times over the past decade? Too many to count. She can get through this one. Just keep moving.
