The goal of this trip is to hopefully keep him alive long enough to figure out what he’s been up to, and then I’ll…well, I’m not quite sure what I’ll do.
“Two margaritas,” Ian says when the waiter arrives to take our order.
I give him a look—leave it to Ian to order a margarita on a job—but don’t stop the server from setting the frosty, salted glass down a minute later. In fact, maybe this is exactly what I need.
Ian takes a long pull of his and leans in. “So, what’s the plan? We follow him, and then…?”
“We keep him alive, first and foremost. He’s here on some sort of business. I want to know what. No one pays that kind of money to kill a management consultant.”
Ian gives a nod, looks out at the water, the brilliant hues of orange and pink merging as the sun goes down. Surfers bob on thesurface of the ocean, trying to catch one last wave. “Hell of a place to meet forbusiness. I should take more jobs out this way.”
“You could,” I say. “I mean, there will probably be time for you to take other work while we’re here.”
We talk a little longer, until I excuse myself to the ladies’ room. I don’t need to pee—I mostly need to stare at myself in the mirror and take a deep breath and tell myself to keep it together. I’m about to find out what Brian is up to. What happens after that? No clue, but I’ve got enough sangria to last me all summer, so at least wine will take the edge off.
Ten minutes later, I return to the table to find it empty. Cash sits beneath his half-drunk margarita, but Ian’s gone.
My phone vibrates.
Ian:He’s on the move.
I hurry out from the patio, take a sharp right, and—gasp.
Brian’s coming my way. He’s looking down at his phone, frowning, raising it to his ear as he answers a call and—
I’m yanked into arms, spun in a half circle, crushed in an embrace.
My automatic reaction is to fight back. Instead, I try torelaxinto the body that is not my husband’s and yet feels so familiar. To a passerby, we’re just one more couple, embracing on the beach.
“He’s gone.” Ian steps back, his gaze still trained on Brian’s departing form.
I give him a look. “Was that necessary?”
He ignores me, all business. “He’s not headed back to his hotel.”
When I turn to look, Brian is still on his phone, fading into the darkness of the California twilight. “We have to follow him.”
Brian strolls the boardwalk until he reaches a two-story housebuilt right up against the edge of the beach. There’s a whole row of them, signs advertising weeklong rentals. This one, though, is clearly inhabited—twentysomethings spilling out onto the upper deck, the patio down below, dancing and drinking and falling all over one another.
Brian should keep walking. But he doesn’t.
“Wait,” I hiss. I beckon to Ian, and we step into a little grove near stunted palm trees—just enough cover that Brian can’t easily glance back and see us. A juice cart sits between us and the house, customers further obscuring our hiding spot.
“Can you see what he’s doing?”
Ian squints.
I push him to one side to get a better view—is Brian really crashing a college party? Half of me wants to march up to him and yank on his ear like he’s a child and demand answers. The other half watches, transfixed, as he walks through the crowd to a young woman with shiny blond hair. She holds a red Solo cup, and once he’s waded through the college guys nearby—who straighten their shoulders, sizing him up—he leans in close to murmur something in her ear.
She smiles, nods, turns, and calls something to a friend, wiggling her fingers in a parting wave, then follows Brian through the partygoers, down the steps onto the boardwalk, and off into the night.
“What the hell?” I mutter.
I bolt forward, ready to confront Brian, but tonight, I’m in charge. Not my monster. And I can’t mess this up. I force myself to stop, to not race after my husband, who’s wandered off with a young, attractive woman. “You have to follow them,” I say to Ian. “I’m so—” The words take a second to come to me because it’s anemotion I so rarely feel. “Soangryright now, I don’t think it’s a good idea for me to. I’m afraid of what I’ll do.”
“It might not be what it looks like,” Ian says, looking in the direction of where they melted into the darkness.
“Or it’s exactly what it looks like,” I reply.
