“Tell that to my bank account,” Elvis shot back. “I need a big payout to cover all of Gwen’s wedding ideas.”
Gwen leaned toward my phone. “For the record, Elvis, those ideas are called memories. And you’d better fold and save our money. I have a lot more memories in mind.”
There was some laughter from the guys’ side, and I smiled despite myself. “Look, it’s okay to have fun. We’re not denying you that. Just don’t try and top ours. It won’t work out in your favor.”
Whistling, protests, and trash talking ensued from the guys. “I take it you informed the guys about the bet, too,” I said to Slash over the ruckus.
“Of course,” he said smoothly. “Like you, I insisted on full transparency.” He paused for a moment. “But in all seriousness, you guys be careful. Okay? And call when you get to the beach house. Ti amo.”
“We will, and I love you, too, Slash.”
I hung up and exhaled a deep breath. The exchange had provided us a few moments of levity, but we still had to protect Ginger. The car fell silent except for the hum of the engine and Ginger’s soft breathing.
“Okay,” Gray said finally, shifting into drive. “Mission accepted on all fronts. But first, let’s go find that beach house.”
Chapter Twenty
Lexi
Gray kept to the back streets as we wound our way out of Atlantic City. The SUV’s headlights carved long ribbons of light through rows of shuttered souvenir shops, darkened motels, and flickering neon signs advertising all-night crab legs.
“No black SUVs in sight,” Gwen murmured, peering nervously out the back window.
“Nothing on this side, either,” Basia confirmed.
I kept checking the mirrors anyway. The night felt too quiet, as if the city was holding its breath.
Ginger sat up in the middle seat between me and Gwen, foil wrapped around her shoulders, crinkling with every bump in the road and as she occasionally shifted position. Ginger scanned the world outside with eerie calm, eyes following each passing shadow, mapping the world in real time. Gwen lightly massaged Ginger’s lower back absentmindedly while she looked out the windows.
I leaned closer, patting Ginger on the leg. “Doing okay, girl?”
She nudged my hand, which seemed like an answer in the affirmative, but since I couldn’t confirm that with an alphabet board, it didn’t make my anxiety disappear. But at least the fact that she was safe here with us made me feel better.
At some point, Gray turned off the main road and onto a narrow, sandy lane lined with beach grass waving in the ocean breeze. “This is the street,” she announced.
“It seems pretty remote,” Basia observed. “A good bit out of town.”
“Remote is good,” Gray said. “Remote is off-grid, and that’s where we need to be right now.”
“Agreed,” I said.
The SUV rumbled over a final patch of gravel, and the headlights washed over a small beach cottage sitting back from the dunes. The house looked like something out of a cozy mystery novel—weathered cedar shakes, a faded blue door, two shuttered windows on the second floor, and a crooked little porch with a single Adirondack chair. There was a wind chime hanging off the gutter that clinked mournfully in the breeze. The house was completely dark.
“Charming,” Gwen said.
Basia snorted. “Sure, if charming means haunted by dead sailors or pirates.”
Gray cut the engine and the sudden silence was loud. We climbed out of the SUV, and the smell of sea salt hit us, cool, sharp, and grounding. The waves crashed rhythmically somewhere beyond the dunes.
Ginger hopped down and sniffed the air, tail low but alert. I punched in the code Slash sent us. The door clicked open and I stepped inside.
The house was small, sandy, and weathered. I tried the switch and the lights flickered on. The inside was small and sparse, but it felt safe. We stood in a cramped living room with a couch, recliner, and no television. In one corner, a round table and some chairs served as a dining room. The place smelled of sunscreen, dust, and old seashells.
We piled in, Ginger following us after taking another potty break outside. I unclipped her leash and tossed it by the door, heading for a nook disguised as a kitchen. It was comprised of maybe two feet of counter, a 1990s-era microwave, and an ancient fridge that groaned when I opened it. It was empty. There were a few plates, bowls, and glasses in the cupboards, but no food. There was only a single, sad saltshaker sitting alone on the shelf.
“No food or drink,” I announced. “Good think we had the fast-food snack.”
“There are two bedrooms,” Basia also called out. “Some clean linens and towels in the closet.”
