CHAPTER 19
Having a good sleep in a surprisingly comfortable bed had made me feel a lot better about thealmost-but-definitely-not-laid-last-nightthing, as well as theI-hate-your-book-double-exclamation-markthing, and not forgetting theI-can’t-wait-for-your-new-bookpalaver, too. So had that huge greasy breakfast I’d eaten at my hotel, followed by the two cups of strong black coffee that I’d almost inhaled. And, with all that fueling my system I was ready for a better and more productive day of criminal espionage, or whatever else you might want to call it. And so that is how I now found myself crouched in my car, parked outside the entrance to the Willow’s Eco Estate, like a real spy, trying to figure out how the hell to get in. I’d also downloaded Techno Tannie’s song and was listening to it. It was actually, strangely enough, the perfect soundtrack to this mad moment. The repetitive sound of cymbals and the hard hammer of the drum, along with those strange synthesizer sounds that reminded me of a UFO’s door being opened, really added to the atmosphere.
I’d been sitting there for over an hour, observing how people drove in and out. The residents seemed to scan their fingers on the way in, and all visitors punched a code into the keypad. And, since there was no way of getting someone’s finger without risking spending time in a maximum-security prison for grievous bodily harm, I wondered how one would go about getting a code for this place.
God, all I needed now was a bloody cloak and a dagger to complete this criminal look. I imagined I was some awesome P.I. chick. Some leopard-crawling, police-dodging, fence-climbing, plane-parachuting P.I. that was undercover on some important mission to catch the head of the Russian mafia or something—not that I am trying to stereotype, here, but . . . well, you know!
I was in full police stake-out mode. My seat was pulled back and I was reclining in it, surreptitiously peeping through my window in the manner of a cat hunting a mouse. But, after another hour like this, my back was sore, my neck had a crick in it, I needed to pee and I still had no idea how to infiltrate the enemy lair! And, honestly, did I even want to? The effects of the caffeine were diminishing, as was my sense of reckless bravado. I sighed and hung my head. This was just so ridiculous. What was I doing here, parked outside, waiting and watching like a stalker? This wasn’t me. I reached for the steering wheel and squeezed it—I’m not sure why, but I felt like I needed to do something physical, to let out this building tension inside.
Maybe I should just give up.This was madness, after all.
Maybe I should turn around, head back to Jo’burg without a book and face whatever consequences were waiting for me. So what if I became another taxidermy casualty on my agent’s desk? So what if I became another has-been, aonce-was-someoneno one?
My phone beeped and I almost jumped out of my skin, I was on such high alert. I looked down at the screen and immediately felt like I’d been punched in the throat. It was a picture from Daphne “the second esquire” Kingsley-Hawthorne. A picture of an article. I swallowed as I read the article.
A release date has been set for the highly anticipated second book from Becca Thorne. She burst on to the literary scene three years ago with her dazzling debut, but, according to her publishing house, Lighthouse Books, this book will be even better than her first. We’re calling it the “Most Anticipated Read of the Summer.”
“Fu . . . uuu . . . ck!” I lowered my forehead to my phone and tapped it against my head a few times. The pressure felt like it was crushing down on me like an anvil. I felt like I was about to drown in my car. Another message pinged on my phone and I looked down again.
Daphne (the second esquire):I hope you’re writing. Wordsmith Books just put an order in for 50,000 copies and I’ve just sold Russian and German foreign rights and have a phone call with Netflix this afternoon.
“Fuuuu . . . uuuuuu . . . ckkkkk!” I looked back at the estate. I had no choice, now. I had to go in. I had to find a way to get in there and read that engraving on the tree; it was imperative to this story.
And then I saw it.I sat up in my seat and watched the car drive in after punching some numbers into the keypad . . .
“Yes!” I scrambled for a pen and paper, writing down the name and number on the side of the car. I pulled my phone out and started dialing.
“Hello, Emerald Realty, Zintle speaking,” the voice answered immediately, in that sweet tone that estate agents usually had, estate agents and second-hand car dealers and people trying to sell you death and disability insurance.
“Uh, yes. Hi, my name is . . .” Shit, what was my name? I didn’t want to give a real one. I glanced around the car quickly. “Porsha,” I blurted out stupidly. “And I’m really interested in the home you’re selling at the Willow’s Eco Estate.” I held my breath. It was a guess, a good one, but still I didn’t actually know if anything was for sale there.
“Hi, Porsha,” she said happily. “Which house are you interested in?”
Jackpot!“Um . . .”Crap!“The one with the . . . uh . . . You can see the river from it?” I guessed.
“That’s all of them. In fact, all my listings are riverfront properties. Very elite. Most desirable in the estate. Which one were you most drawn to?”
“The one with the great, big, uh, the large . . .” I was stumbling, grasping at recyclable straws.
“The one with the big basement?”
“YES! Exactly. I like to store things . . . in a basement.” I breathed a sigh of relief. “When do you think I could come and see it? I’m available now, but, I mean, if you’re not there, or—”
“Porsha, it’s your lucky day,” she cut me off. “As a matter of fact, I am heading to that property now.”
“Oh, WOW! Wow, what a coincidence—it must be a sign.”
“Yes, maybe even asign on the dotted line,” the estate agent said.
I played along and fake-laughed. “You never know, Zintle. You never know!” I shook my head as I said it, though. I wasn’t going to be buying a house today, or ever. I could barely afford to keep my apartment, let alone buy a luxury house in an uptight eco estate.
“Is this your mobile number?” she asked.
“It is indeed, Zintle.”Why was I saying her name so much?
“I’ll message you a code that you can use to get in. Security is excellent at the Willows. Real grade-A stuff. In fact, in all the years since it opened, there has never been a single security incident. We are very proud of that.”
“Great, thanks. And when I’m inside?” I asked.
