23. LATE AFTERNOON: THE RECKONING
Ava
A firework of emotions—anger, disappointment, grief, humiliation, and relief all bombarded me until there was nothing left but shock. I’m still not sure how to feel about Dax reading my journal. I can’t believe I didn’t realize it was missing. I tried to hate him for it, but I can’t, because right now, he is all I have left in the world and I can’t bear to be alone. So I had to forgive him.
It was easy enough when I thought about all the things I’d like him to know and hadn’t told him. But he’d read almost all of my innermost thoughts, even the ones about Preston. I don’t know why I care. But I do. I’ve never hidden my feelings about Preston, but now I find myself wishing a magic eraser would scrub them from Dax’s mind.
When he held up my journal, I felt so vulnerable, exposed, like I was standing in front of him with not a stitch of clothing on while he stood confident and comfortable in five layers. What does he think of me now? Does he know I wanted him to kiss me until I remembered how much I wanted to find Preston and kiss him too? And how could I have forgotten Preston in the first place? What is wrong with me?
I can’t be angry with Dax for reading my journal when I am guilty of betrayal myself. I tried to keep up the pouting routine because I know Dax thinks that’s what he deserves, but I was too easily distracted by his cut abs and muscular arms, flexing in rhythm as he rowed across the water. And he caught me admiring him. I can’t let that happen again. I desperately need to find Preston.
“This is high end,” Dax says. He’s sitting in his chair to admire the briefcase on the table in front of him. “Genuine Italian leather and obviously airtight and waterproof.”
“I’m sure. What makes you think you can even get into it?”
I’m lying on the couch and for being made of wood, it’s surprisingly comfortable. “I had a friend in California who taught me a trick. My dad had one similar to this, and we broke into it once just to see if we could,” he tells me with a proud look across his face.
“Nice friend. Haven’t you ever heard of karma?” I say. “So you ended up stranded on an island… where did he end up? A maximum-security prison?”
I grin, and he leers playfully.
“I have to get something from another room, one that I didn’t show you before.” He walks behind the counter and then hesitates. “Do you want to see it?”
“I already did, when you left me here alone.”
“Are you serious?” His disappointed look almost makes me wish I hadn’t told him. He disappears into the tunnel and returns a couple of minutes later with a magnifying glass in his hand.
“Where’d you get all that stuff?” I ask.
He walks back to the table and studies the combination through the magnifying glass.
“A few of the items I found washed up on the beach…. but most of it I got from the chief.” He pauses between phrases, deep in concentration. “It’s stuff they’ve found over the years… in their fishing nets…..usually after a big storm…. when the current… drags it up… from the ocean floor.” He focuses on the numbers and moves them around. “It’s no use to them… so I trade him food… for different items.”
I stare up at the ceiling of the cave, lost in thought. What else will wash up on shore from Hotel Charlie in the future? Preston’s sunglasses? A shoe? The thought sickens me, and I swallow back the lump in my throat. Of all the things to wash up on shore, the briefcase is the last thing I’d expect. And I can’t blame Dax for being so curious about what’s inside because there was a time I was just as curious.
The night before we left, I laid across Preston’s bed to watch him pack. He only owned what would fit in two large suitcases, and he took all but one of his uniforms off the closet rack and placed them in a hanging bag. Then he turned on the flat screen TV that hung on the wall of the bedroom in Mr. Caruso’s house before tossing me the remote. I surfed through the channels until I found a cooking show, but studying Preston became much more fascinating than learning how to cook pasta primavera.
He went into the bathroom and returned with a small, black bag of personal items, which he laid in the remaining suitcase, and then removed his T-shirts, jeans, and shorts, from the dresser drawer to place on top of the other clothes. He zipped the suitcase shut and sat it back in the closet between the black briefcase and his other suitcase.
“What’s in the briefcase?” I’d asked him.
He climbed on top of the bed next to me and grabbed another remote from the bedside table. Instantly, the lights were dimmed.
“It’s from Mr. C,” he said, playing with the loose strands of my hair that were casually sprawled across the pillow. I looked at the TV and pretended to be interested in what the man was sautéing until I remembered Preston had dodged my question. I took my eyes off the cooking show to focus on him.
“So what’s in it?” I asked again.
He offered a crooked smile and wrapped his arm around my waist to pull me closer. His lips barely touched mine, and then he spoke softly, kissing me gently in between each phrase.
“Well, it contains my next mission… (kiss) should I choose to accept it… (kiss) but it’s much too dangerous to talk about…”(kiss). He slid his lips along my jaw until they were right below my ear and whispered. “I could tell you… (kiss) but then I’d have to kill you…”(kiss). His lips made their way to my neck, and his hand on the small of my back pulled me against him.
My heart raced, and I reached up to slide my fingers into his hair as his lips made their way back to my mouth. We lost ourselves in the kiss until I started to feel bad about distracting him from the sleep I knew he’d need for the long flight the next day.
I exhaled quietly. “I should go back to my room; I know you need to get some sleep.” Filled with disappointment, I started to get up.
“No. Stay here.” He raised both hands in the air. “I’ll be on my best behavior, I promise.” Rolling onto his back, he patted his chest to mark the spot for me to lay my head. He turned off the TV and the lights and we lay there in the dark for a few minutes before I spoke.
“I’m nervous about talking to Mr. Caruso,” I told him, because suddenly, that was all I could think about. Preston had been trying to distract me from those very thoughts until I stopped him.
“I know,” he said, and he kissed me lightly on the top of my head. “Stop worrying, Miss April, you’ll give yourself nightmares. I’d sing you to sleep, but that would give you nightmares for sure.”
“Aren’t you worried?” I asked.
“Yes. I’m worried about your excessive worrying—so relax.” He laughed, and I remember how his velvet voice put me at ease.
“I’ve almost got it,” Dax says, but it takes little effort to ignore him and go back to my pleasant memory.
The next day, Preston picked me up for lunch and took me to my house to get some last-minute things and check the mail. The form I requested from the investment company arrived, so Preston drove me to a bank to have the paper notarized. He took me back to work and then left to mail my form.
By the time five o’clock rolled around, I started to get butterflies. I was about to clock out and head out to the plane when the front desk girls informed me that George wanted to see me. Surprised and a little hesitant, I ascended the stairs to his second-floor office.
George had the blinds pulled closed to block the light of the late afternoon sun that would otherwise blind him as he sat at his desk. The lights were off and the filtered sunlight made for a gloomy feel, especially with all the clutter and un-filed paperwork.
He shuffled through a small stack of papers until he found a white envelope with my name scribbled across the front. The light peering through the slits in the blinds highlighted the dust particles floating through the air, disturbed from his untidy desk.
“No need to sit down,” he said, and he handed me the envelope. “I had payroll make out your check early. Thought you might want to have some spending mon
ey for your trip.” He seemed to force a smile before he picked up a pen and appeared preoccupied, as if he wanted me to hurry and leave, so I shoved the envelope into my purse.
“Thank you, George. I’ll see you on Monday.”
He nodded in reply.
I hurried outside to find Preston and Kirk. Kirk’s hummer and Preston’s rental car were pulled up to the plane. Preston unloaded our bags, handed me my backpack, and then parked the rental car in front of the building. I watched him get out with his briefcase in hand and walk into the lobby to leave the car keys at the front desk.
Anna arrived by taxi and wheeled her bag across the ramp. She politely invited me to board and make myself comfortable. The roomy cabin was beautiful. There were many seating areas to choose from, even a sofa on one side facing two chairs. Mr. Caruso’s stateroom was positioned behind the main cabin toward the rear of the plane.
I sat down next to a window toward the front of the plane, but since there wasn’t a line hostess, I got up and offered to go get a bag of ice. I was grateful that, unlike Kirk, Anna agreed to let me do something.
I passed Preston on my way to the lobby and he said we’d be taking off in five minutes, so I promised not to be late and hurried inside. I grabbed a bag of ice and headed back down the hallway. When I passed the flight room, I noticed Preston’s briefcase sitting on the floor next to one of the chairs. He’d forgotten it after making his flight plan, so I grabbed the briefcase and made my way to the lobby, but then I paused by the door that led to the ramp.
Preston was talking to Sergio next to the plane, which would seem normal at first glance to the casual observer—a pilot talking to a mechanic, but I knew better. Preston’s body language said it all. His hands were on his hips with his face close enough to Sergio’s to kiss him, and Preston was doing all the talking. Preston lifted one hand to point an accusing finger at close range, and my heart picked up speed. Sergio made no movement at all, just stared at Preston without backing down, but I guessed an evil sneer was planted across his face. Apparently satisfied that he’d made his message clear, Preston turned on his heels and headed inside the plane. After a few seconds, Sergio casually strolled away toward the other line techs that were fueling the plane. I stepped outside and ran across the ramp.
I waved at a line tech and almost plowed into Sergio as I came around the fuel truck. Awkward. I skipped the apology but he stopped in his tracks, motioning me forward with his open palm pointing at the steps just a few feet away. Instead of a glare, which I was prepared to return, an uncanny smile was across his face. He watched me walk up the stairs and into the plane.
Everyone looked preoccupied, so I slipped Preston’s briefcase into the same cabinet I saw Anna put her bag in, then went to where she stood and handed her the ice. She thanked me, informed Preston I was on board, and then closed the door. I took my seat next to a window and heard the familiar sound of the jet engines start up.
Sergio stood on my side near the front of the plane with wands in his hands. He stared at me while waiting for the signal from Preston, a smug grin plastered to his face that had made me uneasy. He had definitely seemed pleased to see me go, and the feeling was mutual.
“Yes!” Dax says, interrupting my memory. “I got it open.”
Great. The briefcase is here because of me. It’s fantastic to realize I am the source of my own torture. I already told him I don’t want to know what’s in it, so I wish he’d stop with the play-by-play. I can only hope Dax gets his fix so we can move on to something else. I keep my eyes closed, not wanting to acknowledge him, because I want to revisit the disturbing thought on the edge of my mind only moments ago.
The realization hits me and my eyes fly open. Sergio had seemed overly happy to see me go. Sergio!
I pick up my journal resting on my stomach and flip through the pages until I find the entry I’m looking for. My birthday. Sergio sitting in my chair, in my house, touching my things, breathing the same air, and then trying to touch my lips with his. I scan the page until I see the part that has been jumping up and down in the back of my mind, screaming for attention.
And for some reason, the only part of my body that would work was my mouth, telling him that when I blew out the candles on my birthday cake, my wish would definitely have something to do with him. “Like… Never. Seeing. You. Again,” I said.
”Careful what you wish for, baby,” he whispered. “Some wishes actually do come true.”
Now I remember staring back at him through the small window of Hotel Charlie until he finally looked away after receiving the signal from the cockpit. We taxied off the ramp, and he deliberately glanced at me one last time—then flashed me an unfriendly gesture with his serpent tongue finger and mouthed the word—‘goodbye’.
One little word. And I couldn’t have been cut deeper by that double-edge sword if I’d grabbed the blade with both hands. Sergio knew I wouldn’t be coming back.
I gasp and sit up, turning to tell Dax my theory. But his expression catches me off guard. The entire time I’ve been laying here sorting things out in my head, he’s become extremely quiet. His face is full of shock and alarm, and he’s studying the contents inside the briefcase like it’s a ticking bomb he has to diffuse.
“Dax? What’s wrong?”
He snaps out of his trance and looks up at me, but his usual friendly countenance is absent from his face. Curiosity gets the best of me and I get up to see what he found, but as soon as I approach the table, he tosses everything back inside and slams the briefcase shut. I’m so surprised that my feet stop even though I didn’t tell them to. He crosses his arms and leans over the closed case.
“You know what? You were right. Pointless to open it. Do you wanna go for a swim?” he says, but his smile is different. He seems nervous.
“What’s in it?” I ask, hoping he’ll forget my numerous comments earlier about not caring.
“Uhm, well, there’s not a ring. But there is some money.” He clears his throat. “So, like I said, it was pointless.”
He’s a bad liar.
“Let me see the case.”
I reach over to take the briefcase but he still leans on it with folded arms, looking as though he’s prepared to fight me for it.
“What’s wrong with you?” I demand. “I think you’ve gone mad.”
“Look. You said earlier you didn’t want to know. So let’s just leave it at that. Man—it’s getting hot in here. Let’s go for a swim. Ladies first,” he offers, a little too enthusiastically, and gestures to the exit.
I reach for the case again but now he holds on, and I’m beyond irritated. His game playing is infuriating. Time to pull out the heavy artillery.
“I could always tell Roxy about the briefcase, and exactly where to find it.”
His eyes narrow and he clenches his jaw. “You wouldn’t dare.”
I challenge his challenge with a raise of my eyebrows. We stare each other down, but I can see a hint of doubt.
“Ava, please. I’m begging you. Trust me when I say you don’t want to know. Let’s just forget I opened it and—”
“Give me the briefcase!”
“Fine.” He frowns, lets go of the case, and then crosses his arms over his chest. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
He watches me with careful eyes. I slide the case to the opposite end of the table and sit down, then slowly open the lid. A manila envelope is lying on top with a sticky note that says, ‘Destroy this’. I lift the envelope to pull out the contents and suck in a sharp breath when I see what’s underneath. The trust letter I got on my birthday is sitting on top of my notebook—the notebook that disappeared from the library. I stare inside the briefcase, trying to convince myself that what I’m seeing isn’t really there.
“What are you looking at?” Dax asks impatiently.
“This letter is from my house. And this is my notebook someone stole when I went to the library,” I mumble.
“Forget that and just open the en
velope,” he says. “You aren’t going to believe what’s inside.”
I pull out a stack of 8x10 pictures. The first one is a picture of me at my high school graduation, taken from a spot on the opposite side of the stands from where I know my parents sat. I move the picture to the back of the pile, exposing the next picture of me at the cemetery for my parent’s burial, standing next to Mrs. Hansen with her arm wrapped around me. The pictures were taken from a distance. Someone had zoomed in to get the shots.
My mind is spinning with confusion, and I look up at Dax, who is still staring at me intently with his arms folded across his chest.
The next picture is of me getting off the plane in San Diego, and the one behind it is of me sitting at the little café inside the terminal. I swallow back the lump in my throat and continue to the next one.
There’s a picture of me coming out of the mall, and another one of me at the library, standing at the curb waiting to cross moments before I’d almost been hit by the car. The picture was taken from behind me to my right, and as I study it, I notice the picture captured the black Mercedes coming into the frame. It was the same one that had been following me. My assumption was right.
Now one thing was clear.
My hunch of Preston having something to do with all of this seemed to be dead on. Only, I hadn’t in my wildest dreams imagined him on the other side of the spectrum. He was part of the plot. A stabbing pain rips through my chest, and the all-too-familiar lump rises in my throat. How can this be?
“Impossible,” I hear myself say, in a voice barely louder than a whisper.
“Uhm, yeah. It looks like your boy Preston wasn’t so perfect after all,” Dax says. “In fact, it appears he was a freaking stalker! That’s just creepy.”
I flip through the pictures again, one by one, looking for anything to point to another conclusion than the one Dax is suggesting and the one I fear the most. But my hope dissipates with each photo as I see they all have something in common. The absence of Preston.
“It doesn’t make sense,” I say in denial, more for my benefit and not his. “He loves me.” My voice squeaks, and a tear streams down my cheek.
Dax speaks cautiously. “Ava, his mission was to get rid of you.”
I look at him in horror before shaking my head. Preston’s involvement is obvious, but Dax’s new assumption is way out of line.
“Look,” Dax says, getting up to walk around the table and stand next to me. He lifts up my notebook to expose a pile of money underneath. Lots of money—bundled stacks of one hundred dollar bills. On top of the money is a handwritten note.
The situation has gotten out of control.
She knows too much, and we already have what we need.
She has become a problem that needs to be eliminated.
You’ll get the rest of the money when you find me a new plane.
I blink and stare in disbelief as the reason for George’s final warning hits me. Preston must have left the briefcase on purpose because he didn’t want it on the plane. He knew it might be lost. Kirk? Anna? Were they all in on it? I let the letter fall from my hand, then fold my arms on the table and bury my face in them, not wanting Dax to see my onslaught of tears. I feel his hand on my back, rubbing gently, trying his best to console me.
“Are you okay? I’m so sorry. It’s all my fault. I shouldn’t have convinced you to let me open the briefcase.” His voice is full of regret.
“It’s not your fault,” I sob. “If you hadn’t opened it, I never would have known.”
“That’s exactly why—”
“No,” I interrupt. “I deserve to know how naïve and gullible I really am. I’m so embarrassed.”
He reaches for my arm, lifts me up from the table, then wraps his arms around me and holds me as I weep. I’ve cried so much since my time on this island that I’m sure Dax probably thinks I’m mentally unstable. I’m beginning to wonder that myself.
He leads me to the bedroom and sits me down on the bed.
“Close your eyes,” he says. “Don’t open them until I tell you.”
I do as he says, but I fight the urge to reach for him as I feel him move away. The briefcase snaps closed in the main room. His footsteps fade away as he leaves to discard of the evidence and main source of my unhappiness. He returns before I have time to panic. Lying next to me, he pulls me into a tight embrace.
“You can open them,” he says gently, and when I do, all I see is a blur through my tears that are streaming down his chest. I cling to him, melting into his arms that are trying to subdue my sobs, and then he whispers in my ear.
“I’m so sorry, Ava. I’m so truly sorry.”
Wicked Luck Page 26
