by Rachel Woods
Resolved, Spencer opened the stall door. A girl stood in front of her, blocking her. Spencer stammered her apologies and then rushed out of the stall, accidentally shoulder-checking the freckled-faced girl as she hurried toward the door.
“Not so fast, black Barbie.”
Black Barbie? Strange images filtered into her mind. A dismembered doll on the floor. Head, arms, and legs ripped from the torso and—
Startled, Spencer pushed the intrusive memory away and then faced the girl, not sure what to think or if she should be offended. “Do I know you?”
“You don’t need to know me,” the young woman said. “All you need to do is follow the instructions Ben Chang gave you.”
Ben Chang. Frowning, Spencer stared at the girl, skeptical. This freckle-faced tomboy knew Ben? This kid with her big blue innocent eyes had some connection to a Jamaican businessman with vague criminal ties? Hard to believe, and somehow, Spencer wasn’t surprised.
Annoyed, and yet relieved to be finished with the second side venture, Spencer removed the green bag from her shoulder. “Guess this is for you,” Spencer said, noticing the slightly darker green bag strapped across the freckle-faced girl’s boyish frame.
Spencer tossed the green bag onto the pedestal basin closest to the handicapped stall, then turned, and headed for the door. Technically, the instructions were to trade beach bags, but she wasn’t in the mood for cloak and dagger foolishness and didn’t think it was necessary to—
“Stop right there,” the tomboy said. “Turn around.”
Apprehensive, Spencer looked over her shoulder at the girl. The blue eyes were no longer innocent, but threatening, and her scowl was a fitting accompaniment to the gun she pointed at Spencer. Stomach twisting, Spencer tried to ignore the jolt of fear slicing through her. Was this woman really pointing a gun at her? This kid, really, with bright yellow nail polish and a cheap silver butterfly ring on her pinky finger was pointing a gun at her.
“Don’t try nothing stupid,” the blonde tomboy said. “You’re a good-looking woman. You don’t want to get shot in the face.”
Shot in the face. The idea terrified Spencer, but it annoyed her too. Was this really her life right now? Had all the bad decisions and stupid mistakes really led her to this moment where she was standing in a bathroom in some Central American country while a woman held a gun on her, threatening to shoot her? The worst part was she had brought all of this on herself. She wouldn’t be in this position if she hadn’t made the stupid mistake of dating Ben.
“Get away from the door,” the tomboy ordered, her voice shaking just like the big, black gun in her small, pale hand. “Go stand in front of the handicapped stall.”
Spencer did as she was told while the tomboy walked backward to the door. Keeping her gaze and her gun on Spencer, she locked the restroom door. The tomboy went to the basin where Spencer had thrown the beach bag, scooped it up, and then threw it down at Spencer’s feet.
“You don’t have to point a gun at me,” Spencer said. “I’m giving you the bag.”
“I need to make sure that bag contains what was promised to me,” the tomboy said. “I need to make sure Ben didn’t decide to cheat me. I don’t trust that bastard.”
“What did he promise you?”
“A chance to stay alive,” the woman said.
Wary, Spencer said, “A chance to stay alive? What does that mean?”
“It means I don’t want to die,” the blonde tomboy said. “So, going with the devil I know is better than taking a chance on the devil I don’t.”
“What is all of this about?” Spencer persisted, irritated by the blonde’s cryptic evasiveness. “Why is Ben giving you this money? Is it payment for something you did for him? Or payment to stay quiet about something?”
“Ben wants me to go against Richard,” the blonde said. “It’s dangerous, but …”
“Who is Richard?” Spencer asked, trying to recall if Ben had ever mentioned the name.
“Richard is the Goddamn devil,” the blonde said. “And when Richard finds out what I’ve done, I’m going to be dead to him. Ben said he could make sure that Richard can’t get to me. Not that I trust Ben, because I don’t. Ben is not really trying to save my ass, he’s trying to get back at Richard.”
“Why is Ben trying to get back at Richard?” Spencer asked.
The blonde frowned, suspicion in her blue eyes. Spencer wasn’t sure if the tomboy was wary of her questions or skeptical about her own rambling, maybe realizing she’d said more than she should have or more than she’d wanted to.
“No more questions,” the blonde said. “Open the bag. Slowly. And then dump everything out of the box. Put everything on the floor where I can see it.”
Spencer complied, removing five stacks of money and a passport. Crouching, she arranged everything on the floor, in a line, for the tomboy’s inspection.
“So, did he keep his promise?” Spencer asked and then stood.
“Seems he did,” the tomboy said. “But …”
“But …?”
“What’s the name on the passport?”
Spencer bent down, grabbed the passport, and opened it. “Helen Johnson.”
“Helen?” the tomboy made a face, her blue eyes troubled, wistful.
She seemed very young and naïve, as if she should be in some frilly pink bedroom gossiping about boys while she did her nails, not holding a gun and complaining about the name on a fake passport.
How the hell had she gotten mixed up with Ben Chang? Had she made a stupid mistake and ended up indebted to him, forced to do a favor, or something even worse?
“You don’t like the name Helen?”
“It’s kind of old-fashioned.” The tomboy who was soon to become Helen Johnson shrugged. “Guess it really doesn’t matter though.”
Except, Spencer suspected, it did matter, more than the tomboy would ever admit. It wasn’t that she didn’t like the name Helen. She didn’t want to be Helen Johnson.
“So, now what?” Spencer asked, anxious to see if she was right about the reason behind the tomboy’s hesitation. “You’re just going to become Helen Johnson? You’re just going to leave who you really are behind? How can you do that? How can you just give up yourself and become someone else?”
“I have no choice.” The tomboy scowled and then dropped to one knee in front of the money. “Can’t get on the bad side of Ben Chang. That’s a dangerous place to be. Not going to end up like Livvie.”
“Livvie?” Spencer asked. “Who is that?”
“Olivia Eastman,” the tomboy said. “We worked together.”
“Where?”
“Place called Kwik Kash.”
“Kwik Kash,” Spencer said, familiar with the company. “Ben owns that, right?”
Nodding, the blonde said, “Yeah. Well, he did. But it burned down. The cops said Livvie did it. Supposedly, she stole a bunch of money from the Kwik Kash safe then set the place on fire to cover up the crime and accidentally got trapped in the building and burned herself alive, but that’s not true.”
Spencer glanced at the blonde. “What really happened to Olivia?”
“Richard killed her. Then burned her body up to cover up what he’d done,” the tomboy said. “That’s what I think, anyway.”
“Did you tell the police?”
The blonde’s head jerked up and she scowled at Spencer. “Are you crazy? You think I have a death wish? You think I want to be shot in the head then burned to death?”
As the blonde tomboy grabbed stacks of the money and shoved them back into the Xanax box, Spencer shuddered despite the balmy atmosphere in the ladies room. She didn’t want to hear any more of the grisly story and regretted asking for details. Engaging the blonde in conversation had been a mistake, but she had to know why Ben was providing the woman with money and a fake passport.
She’d been too curious. Now she knew things she didn’t want to know, things she didn’t know how to deal with. Ben was more dangerous than she’d realiz
ed or could have ever imagined. Curiosity, she scoffed to herself. No wonder they said it killed the cat.
The tomboy tossed the gun into the green beach bag, hoisted it on her thin shoulder, then turned, and rushed to the door.
“Wait, before you go,” Spencer said. “Tell me your real name.”
The pale, freckle-faced girl turned to Spencer and frowned.
“My real name …” The tomboy faltered, her eyes bright and glassy as she bit her lip.
Spencer waited, holding her breath, anxious. She wasn’t sure why she wanted to know the tomboy’s name, but for some reason, it was important to her.
Shaking her head, the tomboy regarded her with guarded, suspicious eyes. “My name is Helen Johnson.”
chapter 27
San Ignacio, Belize
Belizean Banyan Resort – Honeymoon Casita
“How are you, sweet girl?”
Spencer rolled over onto her back, staring at the ceiling above the king-sized bed as she clutched the burner phone. She wasn’t in the mood to deal with Ben Chang, but it wouldn’t be a good idea to ignore the calls of a man who could have her arrested. She glanced at the clock on the bedside table. A few minutes after midnight.
When he hadn’t called earlier, she’d decided he would contact her tomorrow for a full report about the cave tour. Settling between the plush bed linens, she’d curled into a ball, letting her mind wander as she dozed and thought about the things the blonde tomboy had told her.
Ben wants me to go against Richard.
When Richard finds out what I’ve done, I’m going to be dead to him.
Ben is not really trying to save my ass. He’s trying to get back at Richard.
It was as if she had pieces to a puzzle, but she wasn’t sure how to fit the pieces together or if the pieces even belonged to the same puzzle.
After the tour bus dropped her off in front of the resort, Spencer had returned to the honeymoon casita, poured a glass of wine, and then called her sisters to update them on the day’s events. Two hours later, she, Shady, and Rae were confused by the blonde tomboy’s story, and they’d concluded there were too many unanswered questions.
Who the hell was Richard? Why did Ben want the tomboy to go against Richard? Why was Ben trying to get back at Richard?
Following the conversation with her sisters, questions about Ben and Richard faded, and thoughts of “Helen Johnson” plagued her.
Spencer had asked the freckle-faced girl how she could abandon who she really was and become someone she wasn’t. There had been blatant condemnation in her tone. How could she judge? Spencer had done the same thing when she’d agreed to start “dating.”
She’d willingly given up the person she really was to become some strange, alternate version of herself. A version she didn’t recognize. A version of herself she was ashamed of and hated. And for what? To pay the rent? To keep the lights on? To put food on the table?
“Dating” was supposed to have given her freedom.
So, how had she ended up trapped in this nightmare?
She’d been wondering if she would always have to pay for the stupid mistakes she’d made when the damn burner phone rang.
No rest for the weary or the wicked. And she was both.
“I’m tired,” she said, answering his question. “I’ve had a long, difficult day, and I just want to go to sleep. So, I know you’re calling to find out how the cave tour went.”
“And how was it?”
Sitting up, she arranged the pillows behind her. “Just as fun and exciting as the Mayan ruins.”
“No problems?”
Spencer hesitated, debating whether or not to tell him about the gun “Helen Johnson” had pointed at her but quickly decided he probably wouldn’t give a damn anyway.
“No problems,” she said. “Everything went fine.”
“Good job, sweet girl.”
Spencer took the phone from her ear and then gave it the finger. Ben hadn’t seen her obscene gesture, but flipping him off was cathartic and had accomplished what three glasses of wine, a two-hour conversation with her sisters, and a long, hot bath hadn’t been able to. She finally felt some of the tension coiled within her begin to unwind.
“Only one more side venture to do,” Ben said. “I’ll be in touch with your instructions. Until then, you can focus your efforts on Step Two. Get the dinner invitation.”
“I understand what I have to do,” she said. “Now, are we finished with this conversation? Because it’s past my bed time.”
“I hope you do understand what I expect from you, sweet girl,” Ben said. “I hope you don’t disappoint me.”
chapter 28
San Ignacio, Belize
Belizean Banyan Resort – Owner’s Casita
“Who’re the cupcakes for?” Ms. Edwards asked.
“My cousin’s little girls.” Sione made a few uneven, haphazard swirls around the circumference of the chocolate cupcake he’d been half-ass frosting when Spencer Edwards knocked on the door of his casita a few minutes ago, claiming she needed to talk to him.
“They look good.”
“You want one?”
“Not really,” Ms. Edwards said, walking over toward the table before pivoting gracefully and heading back toward the island.
“Okay then, what can I help you with?” he asked, staring at her.
She looked so beautiful, he had to force himself to remember he still wasn’t sure if she was involved in some sort of crime or not. For the past few days, he’d been thinking about the situation with Spencer Edwards from the day she arrived, complaining about the honeymoon casita, to the report D.J. had given him about her last excursion, when she’d taken a cave exploring tour.
D.J. had called it another interesting day. His cousin had narrated Ms. Edwards’ cave tour trip, and as Sione stared at the accompanying photos, he found himself, once again, entranced by her beauty. There were no bad pictures. Each frame showcased her delicate, flawless features.
When the tour was over, Ms. Edwards had gone into the restroom. D.J. had called his attention to Ms. Edwards’ Kelly green beach bag. A few minutes later, a thin woman with blonde hair pulled back into a ponytail entered the facilities. She was also carrying a beach bag, though hers was moss green.
About fifteen minutes later, the blonde woman exited the restroom carrying the Kelly green bag Spencer had been carrying. Then Spencer Edwards came out of the bathroom, and on her shoulder was the moss green beach bag the blonde woman had been carrying when she’d entered the restroom.
Ms. Edwards and the blonde woman had switched bags, obviously. Sione didn’t want to believe it and didn’t know what to think.
D.J. had followed the blonde woman back to her hotel. In addition to finding out her name—Karen Nelson—he’d also managed to take a few close-up shots of her. Karen Nelson’s freckled image on the picture D.J. had taken was the same thumbnail photo on one of the passports Sione had made a copy of—the passport with the name “Helen Johnson.”
Karen Nelson had arrived in Belize a week ago from San Diego, California, D.J. had learned, and she had an interesting employment history. A few weeks ago, Karen Nelson had been a senior teller at a small, family-owned bank. Before that, she’d worked at Kwik Kash with Carla Garcia—the woman who’d gotten off the tour bus with Ms. Edwards’ pink beach bag.
“And Ms. Nelson had a record, too,” D.J. had said. “Busted for writing hot checks.”
Because Carla Garcia and Karen Nelson had been co-workers at Kwik Kash, D.J. believed the women were involved in some sort of financial scheme. Whatever the crime, his cousin was convinced Ms. Edwards was right in the thick of it. She wasn’t some clueless girl who didn’t know what she was transporting but a willing participant in the malfeasance with informed consent.
Staring at Ms. Edwards, Sione was inclined to believe she was more than just a pretty girl involved in some scam. She was complicated, frustrating, and maybe too alluring, too enticing, for him to ignore or resist
. But he had to resist her. Getting involved with a woman like Spencer Edwards would cause him more harm than good, he was sure of that.
“What can you help me with? Did you really just ask me that? You can help me by finding my damn manuals!”
“I am working on that,” Sione said, forcing himself to focus on decorating the cupcakes and not on how good she looked in the black dress she wore, particularly the top part which had a plunging neckline that struggled to contain her breasts.
“Still working on it? I don’t understand. How hard is it to find the idiot who delivered the wrong box?”
He looked up from the cupcakes to stare at her. “Ms. Edwards, I assure you, I will take care of this situation.”
“If you take care of the situation with my missing manuals the way you took care of the man who attacked me,” she said, frowning in a way he found much too tempting, “then I’m sure I’ll never see those manuals again.”
“What the hell do your missing manuals have to do with the man who attacked you?”
“You’re going to let that idiot delivery guy get away with delivering the wrong box just like you let that Asian guy get away with attacking me!”
Confused, he looked at her. “Ms. Edwards, I stopped him from attacking you.”
“And then you let him escape!” Ms. Edwards said. “You beat the crap out of him for nothing!”
Sione didn’t want to think about what he’d done to the Asian guy. He regretted his violence and was ashamed of how satisfied and satiated he’d felt when the guy was crumpled in a heap on the ground.
“I never should have come to this damn resort,” she said. “You can count on me giving you a scathing negative review.”
Sighing, he looked at her. “Ms. Edwards, I don’t think I can adequately express to you how sorry I am that someone broke into your casita and about this mishap with your manuals, but I really want to make things right and—”
“Do you really?” she asked, an odd dare in her tone.
