“Do you still have the money?”
I nod, thinking about the nest egg tucked safely away in a bank account I opened before our trip. Compliments of my stranger . . . which makes me wonder, how does Diego know about my stash of money when Luciana doesn’t even know about it?
“Two minutes, then we’re gone.” His tone means business.
Scrambling out of the Bronco, I sweep Luciana into a gentle hug. “Will you be safe?” I whisper.
Her body vibrates against mine. “Have you met my brother?” She pulls away and looks at me, her humor fading. “He’s taken precautions. The chances of being tracked are slim. Hang low and keep moving. Don’t go back to San Diego or Oklahoma or anywhere you’ve been before. Did he give you the gun?”
My eyebrows arch. “Yes. Have you used one?” Jeez, Luciana’s a thundercloud of surprises. All raining down on me within a thirty-six-hour period until I’m drowning in dumbfoundedness.
“Simple. Point and pull the trigger.” Holy shit, who is this person? She even sounds like Diego. She grabs me and pulls me in tight before letting go and clambering back into the Bronco. “We knew good-bye was coming, right?” she says.
“But I didn’t think it’d be permanent.”
She smiles. “It’s not. Remember, we have our bucket list. Take care of yourself, Madelyn.” Whatever else she had been about to say is cut off by Diego impatiently revving the engine. Still, she sticks her head outside the Bronco’s window and watches me until the truck turns off the main road and she’s gone.
I swallow hard, then straighten. I can do this. Thanks to my preemptive emergency plan, I have a stash of money on hand, clothing and toiletries, and firsthand knowledge—hell, experience—that no matter what has happened or might happen, I’ll deal with it head on. It’s not like the melancholy gripping me by the throat is unfamiliar. A shower, food, a good sleep, and then I’ll tackle the “what next?” I’m a survivor, after all.
The Saguaro Hotel has seen better days but at least my room is clean. The clerk doesn’t ask too many questions and seems pleased that I’ve paid up front for three nights in cash. Time to regroup before the weekend crowd rolls in, and the girl holed up in her room becomes the topic of social fodder.
I pull the curtain shut, plug my cell phone into the charger, and then take a long, hot shower. It doesn’t matter that the temperature in Tucson is an unseasonable seventy-two degrees. My sore, abused muscles appreciate the heat.
Afterward, the loneliness kicks in. I turn on the TV to fill the room with chatter, just in time for the nightly news. Breathlessly watching, I wait for news out of Cabo about one dead local and two missing students. A year ago, two southern Californian tourists had disappeared in Cancun. It made evening news every night for a week until the guys resurfaced from one heck of a bender. Hungover and oblivious. Eating the worm at the bottom of a tequila bottle is no joke.
Brendan will probably have the national guard, Mexican militia, and every surfer from Cabo to Seattle searching for us. All joking aside, I hate knowing he’ll be frantic with worry. How innocent people, like the fisherman who’d taken us safely to Loreto, will be questioned by the authorities. How the resort will likely be cordoned off and partygoers sent home. And the bartender . . . I shudder. His grieving family deserves an explanation.
Too bad I don’t have one.
I remember Luciana and my toast, “What happens in Costa del Rio, stays in Costa del Rio.” Little did I know how true those words would be. So I keep quiet and move on—I have to.
A nagging sensation, for obvious reasons impossible to address during the ride to Tucson, resurfaces. That my uneventful Thanksgiving in Shelby ignited this whole bloodbath. As if my life in Shelby is some twisted hallucination, more unreal, more surreal, than eating the worm.
What have I missed? What has Kylie dragged us into? And how am I suppose to get out of it, when I don’t understand what exactly it is?
I turn the TV off and climb into bed, without bothering to dry my hair. I lay there for what seems like hours, counting sheep, tossing and turning, willing my mind to quiet. After a while, I get up and retrieve the afghan from my duffle bag—the most essential piece of my emergency stash—pulling it around my shoulders as I position myself in the chair by the bed. Instantly, I relax, my heart rate quieting, my mind clearing enough to narrow on a single thought, a single resolution, a single way out of this whole mess.
My stranger.
In case of an emergency . . .
Before I analyze the do’s or don’ts, weigh the pros and cons, lose my courage, I scoop up my cell phone, scroll to the number programmed so long ago, and hit Send.
It rings five times in what seems like an eternity. Until I’m sure it’s the wrong number.
Then it stops ringing.
I hear a sharp exhalation on the other end, then silence. Uncomfortable seconds pass.
I swallow hard. “It’s me, Madelyn. From Shelby. I’m in Tucson at the Saguaro Hotel. I . . . um . . . need your help.”
Silence ensues. “Hello?” I frown down at my cell. Then I remember what he’s written. “It’s an emergency.”
I hear a noise, a clicking sound.
Disconnect?
He’s forgotten me.
I pull back the hotel curtain and peer outside. I’ve waited four days for my stranger to arrive, and with every passing hour it becomes clearer that the only person I can depend on to help me is me.
You’re a survivor, Madelyn. Trust your instincts. And my instincts tell me I’ve stayed here too long. My instincts urge me to get far away from Arizona. That time matters, and that the time I’ve spent waiting on a stranger—a man who may or may not remember me or, worse, may not care—is precious .
But my instincts also caution me. Before acting, you need a plan. Or in this case, a Plan B, seeing how a frantically formed Plan A, my stranger, didn’t work out.
My sister might accuse me of being naive but I’m no fool. I’m not equipped to go on a find-Kylie spree alone. I need to survive and start over before I figure out a way I can discreetly search for her without chaos erupting around me. Thanksgiving taught me that.
Step one means getting as far away from the blood and death of Cabo as possible and finding a place where I can fit in and lay low. To do that, I need a car and a destination. As I pull up a map on my phone, I can feel my control slipping; it would be so easy to just give in and give up. What do I know about laying low?
Arizona is out. I’ll never be able to come back to Arizona again after all this. I release a long exhalation. California? Too close to my old life. New York? I could get lost in a city that big, but am I ready to give everything up about my life? Continuing my studies in San Diego is not an option, I know that. I’ve been forced to drop out of school as well as drop out of sight.
Diego’s advice circles my head: Don’t go anywhere you’ve been before.
But I’m still clinging to an optimism that all my work is not lost, that even if I can’t have my old life, I can have a life. My eyes fix on Texas. A former biology professor had shared his experiences in helping wildlife recover from a devastating Gulf Coast oil spill there. I pull up directions to Corpus Christi. If I can’t finish my degree yet at least I’ll be somewhere where I’ll get some hands-on experience.