“It’s Eric. He—” Dylan stopped himself, taking a breath. “You haven’t heard from him recently, have you?”
“No,” she said. “Not since his show last week.”
“And how did he seem, at his show?”
“Fine. Normal,” George replied. “Why, Dylan? What’s up?”
“He…They’re saying he may have killed himself.”
“Oh God,” George cried. Eric signaled for her to find out more. “When did this—what happened?”
“A few days ago,” Dylan said. “He sent a suicide email to his ex-girlfriend and then he disappeared.”
Eric and I exchanged a glance.
“Disappeared?” George asked.
“They found his car in a park in Ventura. They’re treating it as a missing persons case right now, but—”
“So he could be alive,” George interjected.
“We have people looking for him,” he said somberly. “It’s unbelievable, really. I can’t imagine he’d do something like this, but…I know how close you guys were. I should have called sooner. I was hoping I wouldn’t have to—”
“Mierda,” George said. “Do you need my help with anything?”
“My dad’s out there right now, dealing with everything,” Dylan said, glum. “He’s trying to retrace his steps. He asked me to tell you to please hold on to any money that comes in from his art. We’ll figure out what to do with it when we have time.”
“Okay. I’m so sorry, Dylan. Please keep me posted.”
Voices in the background. “I have to go,” he said. “Take care.”
The line went dead, and George looked up at us expectantly. “He sounded upset.”
Eric nodded slowly. “Doesn’t mean I can trust him.”
“You guys should hit the road if you wanna make it down by sunset,” George said. “I’ll let you know if I hear anything.”
“I’ll text you from the burner when I get it,” Eric replied.
George kissed him on both cheeks. “Take care.”
I watched her disappear into the building before pulling away from the curb. “Dylan doesn’t believe the suicide story,” I said. “Yesterday when I spoke to him, he mentioned something about it feeling off and being afraid you’d gotten caught up in something.”
“I didn’t think he would,” Eric said. “He knows me too well. And he knew what I’d gotten into with my dad. But I’m surprised he said anything to you.”
“He didn’t mention specifics. Did you tell him about what happened to the informant?”
“Not yet. I wanted to confront him over it, but I didn’t get a chance before Summer tried to off me.”
“It sounded like he was attempting to warn you through George that your father’s looking for you,” I ventured. “Maybe you should give him a chance to help you.”
“That’s a stretch.” He shook his head. “Anyway, it’s too much of a risk. Even if he didn’t go running to John, he’s likely being monitored by him. Without a body, I doubt John believes the suicide story, either—probably thinks I tried to fake it. There’s no question he’s got people looking for me.”
I replayed the phone call with Dylan in my head as we wove through downtown traffic. He’d sounded distressed, concerned for his brother. And here I was, driving Eric to Mexico without any evidence that his crazy story was true. My instinct was to believe him, and I was pressing on with the expectation that he was sincere, but somewhere in the recesses of my mind, a nagging voice kept reminding me that he was involved with Summer. Could this all be some elaborate plan by the two of them to bilk John out of his money? I couldn’t quite come up with what that plan might be or how I fit in, but…
If I wanted to back out, this was my chance. Eric had his money now. I could leave him at the Metro station and try to forget this ever happened. I’d slowly phase Summer out of my life. Get new friends, normal friends. Friends whose fathers weren’t criminal billionaires, friends who didn’t try to kill their ex-boyfriends.
This was probably what I should do.
But I knew I wouldn’t.
I believed him. I couldn’t explain why, and I hoped it wasn’t just because of those sea-green eyes, but I wanted to help him.
“You’re quiet,” Eric observed.
“It’s a lot to process,” I said. I accelerated onto the freeway, only to find it crawling at a glacial pace. “How did Summer know John was your father?”
He sighed. “A number of his properties and subcompanies are owned through family trusts, so I get a constant stream of documents in the mail that have to do with Lionshare, most of which I ignore. But one morning, probably a year ago, I woke up to find Summer sitting at my desk, going through a pile of papers that had accumulated there—property deeds, stock info, signature requests, one of which was for the purchase of a new jet—things that had his name and info on them. I asked her what she was doing, and she said she was looking for a menu. She never again mentioned anything about it, and I didn’t think about it until last week, when Dylan called with the news that Summer was dating our father.”
“Weird. I talked to Dylan a bunch of times in the past week and he never once mentioned about Summer dating your dad to me.”
He shrugged and threw me a glance as if to say, See?
“At least he told you when he found out,” I pointed out. “She claimed to me that she met John when he randomly flew JetSafe.”
He frowned. “It wasn’t random. I did a little sleuthing after I found out they were dating. She applied for a job on his new jet and had one of his travel coordinators that she’d worked with at JetSafe call on her behalf and arrange for her to work a flight he was on.”
“So you do care.”
He stared out at the palm trees that peered over the top of the freeway wall. “No one likes to be used. Or lied to.”
“The funny thing—if any of this is funny—is that they truly are perfect for each other,” I said. “They’re both monsters.”
Day 7
Friday afternoon—Ligurian coast, Italy
The wildflowers are resplendent in the afternoon sun as I hasten down the dusty path toward a colorful village built into the bluff above the sea, but I’ve got no time to stop and appreciate the view.
My legs are wasted from the climb, my throat parched. A couple of sunburned hikers talking excitedly in German stall as I hurtle past them down the trail; I can only imagine what I must look like: dirty, sweaty, bloody, probably sunburned and wholly improperly dressed. But it’s all downhill from here. I’m ten minutes from water—and, I’m hoping, cell service.
The path empties out onto a cobblestone street that winds through the quaint town toward the port. I follow it past a bed-and-breakfast with all its windows open, under laundry flapping in the breeze, past a restaurant with a sign in the window that says they will return at four…and then, like a mirage in the desert, I spy a small café.
My focus narrows. I beeline into the dark interior, to the refrigerator, and grab the biggest bottle of water they have. My mouth salivates as I peruse the premade sandwiches displayed in the case, pointing to one with what appears to be salami. The owner eyes me curiously, but takes my money without argument, and the next thing I know, I’m sitting on the curb, guzzling cold, refreshing, delicious water. I’ve never been so thirsty. I drink all of it but the last inch or so, which I use to splash my face and wash my hands. When I’m finished, I make quick work of the sandwich, hardly noticing the spicy, perfectly cured meat, earthy olive oil, and soft focaccia.
I could lie down and take a nap right here, but I know that’s a bad idea.
I toss my trash and fish Amythest’s phone from my purse. It’s completely dead. Damn it. Can’t I catch a break?
I head back into the café and show the man behind the counter the phone. “Charger?” I ask.
He shakes his head and says something in Italian that I don’t understand.
“Telefono?” I beg. I dig a five-euro note from my purse, show it to h
im, and point to his phone. “Un minuto.” I make prayer hands.
“Tutto bene, signorina?” he asks, eyeing my disheveled appearance.
I nod and smile, having no idea what he said. He shrugs and slides his phone across the counter.
“Grazie mille.”
I scoop up the phone, google the number for the American embassy, and hit dial. Immediately a recording clicks on, informing me that walk-in embassy hours for emergencies are Monday through Friday, 8:30 a.m. to 12:00 p.m. Appointments for nonemergencies may also be made within those same hours.
It’s 1:46.
The shop owner raises his eyebrows at me, and I give him my most winning smile. “Un momento,” I promise again as I keep googling, finally coming up with an emergency number for American victims of crime abroad.
I key through the automated menu until the line finally rings on the other end. “American Consulate Emergency Line, what’s your emergency?” a woman answers.
“Thank God.” I exhale. I urgently outline the events surrounding Amythest’s death while she listens quietly. When I’ve finished, I ask if there’s someone who can help me.
“I’m sorry, Miss Carter, I can’t help you with investigation of a crime. It’s out of our jurisdiction,” she says politely. “But I can make a passport appointment for you on Monday if you like?”
My brain shorts. “But an American citizen was murdered,” I object.
“And it will be investigated by the Italian or maritime authorities, depending on the exact location. We can’t interfere in the justice system of foreign entities. We provide support for victims of crime. Have you been the victim of a crime?”
“I witnessed a murder,” I say. “My passport, phone, and computer were stolen. I’m afraid for my life. What am I supposed to do?”
“If you’re afraid for your life, you should report to the nearest police station. I can give you the address for the closest branch if you give me your location?”
Oh my God.
“Is this how you help victims of crime? You tell them to go to the police?”
“We provide options for resolution, and your best option is—”
“Is there nowhere else I can go? Somewhere American?” I interrupt.
“Walk-ins are accepted at the embassy Monday through—”
“I know,” I cut in. “Anywhere else? I really need help.”
“I’m sorry,” she says. “The embassy has closed for the day. I advise you to go to the local police. Do you want that passport appointment for Monday?”
“Sure,” I say.
Once the woman’s taken my personal details for the passport appointment I’ll never make it to, I hand the man his phone and return to the sidewalk to count my cash.
I have thirty-seven euros left of the fifty that I pulled out of an ATM in Saint-Tropez yesterday, plus the eighty Vince gave me. Not enough to make it to Monday unless I want to sleep on a park bench for three nights. I assume a wire transfer would take at least that long as well. I know I have another hundred or so in my bank account, but I don’t want to use my debit card if I can avoid it. I haven’t forgotten Vinny’s warning that accusations can go both ways. For all I know, Summer may have told the authorities that I killed Amythest; if I show up at a station, they could consider me a murder suspect. Or John could be using his nefarious connections to keep tabs on me for his own purposes. I need to get back to the relative safety of the States as quickly as I can.
At least I still have the evidence on Amythest’s phone. I desperately wish the damn thing had power—but truthfully, I have no useful phone numbers memorized anyway, and I’m afraid to communicate by email because I stupidly didn’t have a password on my computer, so my emails are completely accessible to John and Bernard. I have to pin my hopes on Vinny’s help and find the address he gave me by tonight. If La Quessine is near Saint-Tropez, I’m guessing it’s about four or five hours by train, which means I can make it, if the train schedule is favorable.
I march back into the café for what I hope will be the last time. “Treno?” I ask.
The man points east. “Nel prossimo paese.”
I can gather that prossimo means “close,” or “next.” I don’t know paese, but I hope one of the water taxi operators will be able to clarify. I trek down to the water, where a dock stretches into the waves, a handwritten sign in Italian and English advertising boat rides for ten euros. A swarthy, round man in his fifties sees me eyeing the sign and approaches with a grin.
“Boat ride. Bellissimo. You like, I take you.”
I look over at the boats, little blue and green motorized dinghies, half the size of our tender. Getting in a boat that small with a man this large is counterintuitive, but he must do it every day, and he seems friendly enough.
I quote the man in the café, pointing east. “Nel prossimo paese?”
“You want, I take you,” he says amiably. “You want watch the town, I wait.”
“Is there a train station there?” I ask.
“Sí, signorina. Ten euro, good price.”
“Is five okay?” I plead. “I’m really low on cash.”
He shrugs. “For you, okay.”
“Grazie.” I give him a five-euro note, and he hops into the boat. The dinghy rocks under his weight as he hands me down and helps me to sit on the bench. I see him register the scratches on my arms and dirt clinging to my torn dress as he releases me, but before he can comment, I give him my best smile. “Beautiful day,” I say, sweeping my arm at the coastline.
“Sí.” My cheer must convince him I’m fine because he fires up the engine, and we’re off. I gaze at the picturesque town as we bump across the surf, the sea spray cool on my burned skin. I feel like I can breathe for the first time since I slipped out of the jewelry shop. I’ve been in survival mode, able to think only of the next steps, but now Amythest’s face comes back to me, and I’m racked with grief for the girl I’d just begun to know…and guilt. I should never have told her the truth about Summer, should never have given her my watch. Her words just yesterday about not wanting to be buried near the sea haunt me, an eerie foreshadowing of her watery death. Somewhere beneath the waves, her lifeless body undulates with the tide. She’ll wash up on shore swollen with seawater in a few days or weeks, only to be discovered by some unsuspecting passerby, who will be forever scarred by the sight of her unrecognizable corpse. I stifle tears.
Around an outcropping of rocks, another village comes into view, probably twice the size of Terralione. This one is full of life. A narrow strip of sandy shore speckled with blue umbrellas is ringed by yellow and terra-cotta buildings that climb up the green hills. At the far end of the harbor, a small port curls into the azure water like a fishhook.
Sunbathers have spread towels on the biggest boulders, and the water is so clear that I can see little fish flitting in and out of the shadows cast by the rocks on the seafloor. We dock next to a row of boats no bigger than ours, and the driver hands me up to the cobblestone promenade.
(twenty days ago)
Mexico
It was late afternoon by the time we reached the border. I fingered my passport, nervous. I’d never driven into Mexico before and didn’t know what to expect, but Eric had assured me there was very little likelihood of anyone stopping us. Of course, if they did, they’d find a very beat-up guy with a fake passport and a bag of a hundred thousand dollars in cash.
I glanced at him as he finished off the In-N-Out burger he’d insisted we pick up when I’d revealed I’d never had one. He was looking better than he had this morning, but I was glad we’d finally be seeing a doctor tomorrow. I couldn’t imagine how he’d made it through the past few days with all those injuries. “What?” he asked when he caught me staring at him. “Is my face covered in mustard?”
I laughed. “No. I was just wondering how you got to my house.”
“Bus, mostly. And some very slow walking. I didn’t have a lot of cash and didn’t want to use cards.” He held up the burger. “
I ate a lot of these.”
“But it was days. Where did you sleep?”
“I hid out in a cheap motel near the park until I felt strong enough to walk into town to catch the bus.” He ran a hand over his shorn hair. “Did this so I’d look different.”
I eyed his bruises. “I don’t think you needed to worry about that.”
Traffic slowed to a crawl, and high concrete walls sprang up along the sides of the freeway as we inched toward the border. Eric put on a Dodgers baseball cap and a pair of orange, mirrored Wayfarer sunglasses we’d picked up at the gas station. I sucked the dregs of my iced tea, nervous.
“We’re in a Prius. We’re gonna be fine,” he said.
Up ahead a sign flashed ENTERING MEXICO, BE PREPARED TO STOP. I saw the weigh station and a number of booths with border agents, police SUVs with dogs searching cars, lights flashing.
We rolled up to the green-uniformed officer guarding our lane, his hand on the butt of his gun. He motioned for me to roll down the window, and I did, smiling. I handed him our passports and he stooped and looked me up and down, then glanced around me at Eric, who waved.
“Any fruits or vegetables?” the officer asked.
I did my best impression of nonchalance. “No.”
He returned our passports without so much as glancing at them, and waved us on. “Welcome to Mexico.”
I rolled up the window and pulled away, exhaling a sigh of relief.
Eric took a crumpled piece of notebook paper from his pocket and unfolded it. “Can I see your phone?”
I handed him the phone and he punched in an address scribbled on the paper. “Where are we going?” I asked.
“Rosarito. It’s a beach town just south of Tijuana.”
“Is it safe?”
“It’s fine,” he replied.
“That’s where the doctor is?”
“Yes. I’ll see him tomorrow. I’m feeling better, though. You did a good job patching me up.”
I glanced at him. “That’s the painkillers talking,” I said. “You’re still going to the doctor.”
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