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“He said he had to sleep on it.”
Nico understood why—Aaron’s friendship with Luca and Addy went back to their childhoods—but Nico still wanted him in his corner. There was nobody sharper than Aaron Bartlett, or more familiar with the locals.
“I’ll speak with him in the morning.”
43
HALLIE
“Forget coming to New York,” Collier said. “I’ll move to Richmond. We should definitely work together more often.”
“I don’t always get to travel like this. Most of the time, I drive a ten-year-old Honda.”
But today, we were relaxing high above the clouds on the larger of Emmy and Black’s two jets, destination Zimbabwe. When Dan had asked me who I wanted to take with me, it hadn’t been a difficult decision.
“Beats the subway.”
We were on the trail of “Alan Thing,” also known as Alain Thibault, or so we hoped. Providence had been working overtime, trawling the internet for clues. With so much uncertainty over the name, I’d asked Blackwood’s digital assistant to search on Alan, Allan, Allen, Alain, Alein, Alun, Alin, and Alen, all the possible spellings plus any surname that began with T-H, combined with data that placed him in the Manassas area around the date Alonzo had run over a cop.
We’d already ruled out Allen Theroux, a junior reporter from France Aujourd’hui, a Paris-based news website, who’d been unlucky enough to draw the DC beat. Turned out his expense account had only covered a bargain-basement motel, but a different bargain-basement motel than the one Kaylin had been snatched from.
Next up was Alain Thibault. These days, he was an award-winning photographer with a popular travel blog, one that focused on everyday lives rather than filtered beauty. But three years ago, Thibault had been a twenty-one-year-old college dropout trying to find the meaning of life as he travelled from east to west across the United States. His old blog—where he talked about himself instead of other people—had been deleted, but Providence had found a cached copy. And during the time in question, he’d been in Virginia, staying in substandard accommodation if his comments on bedbugs were anything to go by.
Three days ago, he’d posted pictures from Victoria Falls, Zimbabwe, and despite being a digital nomad, he hadn’t answered any of our messages. So now we were going to find him.
A day later, Collier wasn’t feeling quite so chipper about being my partner.
“Haven’t these folks heard of suspension?” he grumbled, trying to get comfortable in a seat that was fifty percent duct tape. “Or AC?”
“Want me to open a window?”
“The mosquitos are the size of pigeons.”
Sifiso, our local colleague, offered a can of bug spray through the gap between the seats, and I coughed as Collier coated himself liberally. We’d just missed Thibault in Zimbabwe, but according to a post on his blog this morning, he was on his way to the Mkhaya Game Reserve in Eswatini to photograph black rhinos. Had he arrived? We had no idea because there was no electricity or internet at the camp. The brochure framed that as a good thing—venture off-grid, commune with nature—but I was clutching my satellite phone as if it were a lifeline.
“Are we nearly there yet?” I asked.
Collier chuckled. “Isn’t that what kids say?”
Sifiso twisted in his seat. “Maybe thirty minutes, ma’am.”
Blackwood didn’t have an office in Eswatini, but it did have an alliance with a local firm, and Sifiso had been dispatched to assist us along with a driver. According to the guidebook I’d read on the plane, Eswatini was one of the safer countries in the region, but women were advised against travelling alone, and moving around after dark wasn’t advisable, partly due to the lack of street lighting. The jeep ride south was terrifying—some drivers went too fast, some went too slow, and around every second corner, there was some kind of livestock standing in the road.
But the country was stunningly beautiful once we’d gotten out of the city. Rocky outcrops and rolling green hills dotted with small buildings spanned the horizon, and there was so much wildlife. I swear I spotted an elephant in the distance when we stopped for gas. Most people spoke a little English, and everyone we encountered seemed genuinely happy to see us. I only hoped Alain Thibault felt the same way when he heard we’d stalked him across two countries.
We couldn’t simply drive into the Mkhaya Game Reserve. Visitors were permitted on pre-booked tours only, and our Swati contacts had taken the easiest option and booked us a one-day package, complete with three game drives, a walk among the wildlife, three meals, and a family cottage. That would give us twenty-four hours to discover whether Alain Thibault was the missing piece of the puzzle. Sneaking in was out of the question—Mkhaya was reputed to have the best anti-poaching unit in Africa, and I didn’t feel like testing their capabilities.
At four p.m., a member of staff welcomed us at the meeting point and led us to the camp. The villas were individual units set among the trees beside a winding path, open plan and rustic in style. On the plus side, the staff had hung a curtain around my single bed so I could have some privacy. On the minus side, there were no freaking doors. Or windows. And we were surrounded by wild animals.
“Is this safe?” I asked. “Everything being so open?”
The guide grinned at me. “Nobody has died yet.”
Oh, that was comforting.
“Do the animals come right into the camp?”
“Sometimes you will see footprints.”
