Savannah knew.
Savannah had access to suites, drivers, security, room-service menus, and people whose job was to prevent awkward logistics.
Annie had purchased too much cheese and was currently wondering whether the rental’s decorative bowl of seashells made the bedroom look less sexually promising.
My phone buzzed on the counter.
Rachel:I’m going to ask one question, and I would like one truthful answer.
I stared at the screen.
Another message appeared.
Rachel:Are you having dinner with Ellie?
I typed:
Yes.
The three dots appeared immediately.
Rachel:Thank you.
Then:
Rachel:At a restaurant?
I turned the phone facedown.
Truth had limits.
The cottage looked harmless from the outside: white siding, blue shutters, and a tiny porch facing a narrow strip of beach. Inside, it had pale furniture, woven lamps, and enough decorative rope to suggest the owner did not trust guests to remember they were near the ocean.
I had cleaned.
Not that it had been dirty.
But I had folded the blanket on the sofa, hidden the magazines with my face on the cover beneath a stack of travel brochures, and moved my suitcase into the bedroom closet.
Then I had moved it out again because putting it in the closet made the bedroom look deliberate.
Then back in because leaving it beside the bed made the room look like I might flee overnight.
I had spent eight years performing in front of crowds large enough to fill small towns.
None of that had prepared me for a doorbell.
It rang at exactly seven.
I inhaled.
Then opened the door.
Ellie stood on the porch holding a bottle of wine in one hand and a paper bag in the other.
She wore black shorts and a soft blue button-down with the sleeves rolled to her elbows. Her hair was loose, still slightly damp at the ends, and she had made enough of an effort to makemy stomach tighten without looking like she had made any effort at all.
“Hi,” she said.
