Vivian would kick his ass. She didn’t have to, though. He was mentally doing more than his boss ever could.
They reached Jules’s bungalow. An ache in his chest matched the one in his muscles.
He glanced at the door and stopped abruptly. A piece of paper wedged above the door handle caught his eye before Jules noticed. “Give me a second.”
If her stalker had jumped from mostly leaving her alone in California to taking pictures and leaving notes on her door here, Rhys was going to lose his mind. The FBI would have to revamp the stalker’s profile. As of right now, he wasn’t deemed dangerous. They’d classified it as an obsessive parasocial relationship with a healthy dose of nagging her to retire.
Text messages? Fine. Rhys gave zero fucks.
Social media posts? Normal. No big deal.
A note on the door? Absolutely not.
He jogged to the door and unfolded the resort stationery.
I have the flu. Maybe the plague. Something awful. Do not come in here.
xxoo,
Abs
Jules climbed the steps behind him. The flickering gas lamps on each side of the front door illuminated her face. “What does that say?”
Rhys handed her the paper. “Abigail says she’s sick.”
She read the note. “Oh, God. I should never have let her leave the restaurant alone. She’s the worst patient ever.” She entered the electronic code and opened the door. “Wait here.”
It hadn’t been that long since she’d left them after dinner. He followed her in but stayed by the front door. “See if I can get her anything.”
Jules beelined for the bedroom. The front door opened into a large kitchen and living area. Cold and flu supplies littered the kitchen counter. Abigail must have had room service deliver supplies. A platter of crackers sat untouched on the dining room table along with a bright-blue drink in a tall glass that he guessed was packed with electrolytes.
Jules returned, frowning, on her way to the kitchen. “That happened fast. She’s really sick.” She opened the refrigerator, which had plenty of Gatorade options, then opened the freezer. With an ice pack in hand, she headed back to the bathroom. “Will you call the concierge and see if a doctor could prescribe something to stop…” She gestured in the general direction of the bathroom. “What’s happening in there?”
He made the call and checked his watch, surprised at how quickly they could get someone to the bungalow.
Jules returned to the kitchen and washed her hands. “What did they say? Can they send anyone over?”
He nodded. “Someone’s on their way.”
“She’s really bad at being sick. Like a chase-doctors-away, throw-things-at-strangers kind of patient.”
“I remember that event in New York a couple years ago.” Abigail and their mother had had food poisoning. Abigail yelled at anyone who even thought of doting on her. Jules said she’d thrown pillows at her after checking on her sister. “We’ll warn the doc.”
“She told me not to call anyone.” Jules eyed the stylish but small couch. For such a large living room, none of the furniture would accommodate someone lying down. Not to mention that said stylish furniture looked genuinely uncomfortable. “And she said she’s kicking me out. She doesn’t want anyone around.”
“You’re not sleeping on that. I’ll order a rollaway bed. You can set up here.”
Abigail staggered out of the bedroom, half zombie, half woman-used-to-getting-her-own-way. “What are you two still doing here?”
“I’m not leaving you.”
“Go away.” Abigail sank onto a chair at the table and dropped her head into a hand while shakily reaching for the Gatorade. “Go away.Now.”
“I can—”
“Go away.”
“Abs, I want to—”
