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“What, are you scared?” the girl challenged, as if reading Spencer’s mind.
Spencer sat up straighter. She grabbed the flask and took a sip. The molasses taste immediately warmed her chest. “That’s really good.”
“Told ya.” The girl took the flask back. “I’m Tabitha.”
“Spencer,” she replied.
“You were sitting with those people in the corner, right?” Tabitha asked. Spencer nodded. “You’re lucky. My friends ditched me. They switched their reservations to The Royal Plantain up the road without telling me. When I tried to get a room there, they were all sold out. It sucks.”
“That’s terrible,” Spencer murmured. “Did you guys get into a fight or something?”
Tabitha shrugged guiltily. “It was over a guy. You know something about that, right?”
Spencer blinked. Immediately, she thought of the biggest fight she’d gotten into over a guy. It had been with Ali—their Ali—over Ian Thomas, whom they both liked. The night Ali went missing in seventh grade, Ali stormed out of the barn, and Spencer followed her. Ali spun around and told Spencer that she and Ian were secretly together. The only reason Ian kissed Spencer, she added, was because Ali had told him to—he did everything she wanted. Spencer had pushed Ali—hard.
There was a knowing smile on Tabitha’s face like she was referring to that exact story. But there was no way she could know that . . . right? An overhead bulb flickered, and suddenly Spencer noticed that Tabitha’s lips turned up at the corners, just like their Ali’s. Her wrists were just as thin, and she could just picture those long-fingered, square-palmed hands grappling with Spencer on the path outside her barn.
Tabitha’s phone played the Hallelujah chorus, scaring them both. She glanced at the screen, then scampered toward the door. “Sorry, I gotta take this. See you later?”
Before Spencer could answer, the door swung shut. She stayed in the bathroom, staring at her reflection.
She wasn’t sure what made her pull out her phone and do a Google search for Jamaican hotels. And she told herself it was just the strong homemade rum that made her heart pound as she perused the resorts nearby The Cliffs. But when Google finished tabulating the results, Spencer began to accept the uneasy feeling in the pit of her stomach. Something was really messed up here.
There wasn’t a Royal Plantain resort nearby. In fact, there wasn’t a hotel called Royal Plantain—or anything like it—in all of Jamaica. Whoever Tabitha was, she was a liar.
Spencer glanced at her reflection again. She looked like she’d seen a ghost.
Maybe she had.
Chapter 10
A star is born
The next afternoon, after the SEPTA R5 stopped at every possible local station, Hanna finally arrived in Philadelphia. As soon as the metal door slid open she slung her silver studded hobo bag over her shoulder and stepped onto the steel escalator. Two girls in Bryn Mawr College sweatshirts and boot-cut jeans stared at her.
For a moment, Hanna tensed, thinking of the postcard in Ali’s old mailbox last night. Then it hit her: They recognized her from the news reports last year. Rude stares happened to Hanna more than she liked.
She stuck her nose in the air, feigning her best aloof celebrity pose. After all, she was going to her very first photo shoot—what were they doing in the city? Bargain shopping for knockoffs at Filene’s Basement?
A tall figure with a camera around his neck stood outside the station’s McDonald’s. Hanna’s heart leapt. Patrick even looked like an up-and-coming photographer—he wore an army-green coat with a fur-lined hood, slim-cut jeans, and polished chukka boots.
Patrick turned and noticed Hanna approaching. He raised the long-lensed digital camera around his neck and pointed it at her. For a second, Hanna wanted to cover her face with her hands, but instead she threw back her shoulders and gave him a big smile. Maybe this was a test, an action shot of a model in the dingy train station, surrounded by overweight tourists with fanny packs.
“You made it,” Patrick said as Hanna walked up.
“Did you think I’d bail?” Hanna teased, trying to control her excitement.
He looked her up and down. “Great outfit. You look like a hotter Adriana Lima.”
“Thanks.” Hanna put her hands on her hips and tilted to the right and left. Damn right it was a great outfit—she’d agonized over the pink frilly dress, motocross jacket, chunky suede booties, and gold-accented bracelets and necklace all morning, trying on a zillion combinations before she found something that hit just the right note. Her bare legs would probably get frostbite, but it would be worth it.
The SEPTA announcer shouted that a train to Trenton had just pulled into the station, and a bunch of people clamored down the stairs. Patrick picked up a canvas bag full of camera gear and strode toward the Sixteenth Street exit. “I’m thinking we’ll do a couple outdoor shots around the city. Some classics in front of City Hall and the Liberty Bell. The light’s great right now.”
“Okay,” Hanna answered. Patrick even sounded über-professional.
“Then we’ll finish up with some indoor photos at my studio in Fishtown. Do you mind all that? It would be amazing for my portfolio. And like I said, I can help you pick out shots for agents.”
“It sounds perfect.”
As they climbed the stairs, Patrick pressed his arm against Hanna’s, pointing out a patch of ice. “Careful.”
“Thanks,” Hanna said, steering around the ice. Patrick removed his hand as soon as she’d crossed safely.
