Rhys jumped to his feet. “Who picked up the check?”
The waitress stumbled back. “Uh, I, um. I don’t know.”
“Do you have security cameras?”
“No.” She shook her head, inching back.
“I need to talk to your boss,” Rhys said. “You’re not in trouble. We’re not causing a problem. I just need to talk to her.”
The waitress nodded and scurried away.
He scanned their surroundings again and relocated from his table to theirs. “Who knew you were here?”
“No one,” they said. Rhys knew the restaurant had been chosen at random as they walked through the center of the resort.
The manager approached, and Rhys stepped to the side to have a private conversation. He returned a moment later, still scanning the outdoor seating. “You have your phones on you?”
They nodded.
“All right. Let’s go.”
“They’re tracking us with our phones? How is that possible?” Jules asked as they moved into the throng of people.
“Just one possibility of many,” he said. “Dean will check back with the restaurant and follow the payment.”
He moved them through the crowd as though it were far bigger a deal than he wanted to admit.
“Does this mean we don’t go shopping?” Abigail asked.
“No.” Rhys guided them down the street. “We carry on as normal.”
“Then why are you hurrying us?”
“Because I don’t like the unknown.” They slowed down at the corner of the shopping district, where artisans bartered and traded, shopkeepers offered incentives, and tourists walked elbow to elbow. “Doesn’t this look fun?”
“That didn’t sound believable,” Abigail said over her shoulder.
Dropping back, Rhys pressed his phone to his ear. Jules guessed Titan wouldn’t be able to trace the payment, and that would sour everyone’s mood even more.
They window-shopped until he finished his call. Rhys promised all was fine but stayed close. Jules had had plenty of people bother her over the years, and she had learned to live with it. Right now, it was taking more effort than usual. But if she wasn’t in danger, she’d keep shopping with her sister. This was the life they’d grown up in.
They bumped into people who recognized her, and she agreed to a few pictures. Whenever the attention became too claustrophobic, Rhys rescued them.
Jules and Abigail bought hand-sewn scarves and skirts, picked out jewelry for Sloane and Margot, and found handcrafted stationery for their mother and a shot glass for their dad. He’d never admit to it, but his touristy shot glass collection made him happy.
“Do you think Scar would like this?” Jules picked up a choker necklace with a turquoise-blue and olive-green beaded lily and held it up for Rhys. “The flower goes on the side. Like this.”
Rhys stared at her, then Abigail, seeming to be searching for the answer to a trick question. “I can’t picture Scarlett wearing anything floral.”
“It’s not floral. It’s a flower.”
“Right.” He shoved his hands into his pockets. “I’ve seen part of her hair that color blue before. So, yeah?”
They got Scar the necklace for no other reason than how confused Rhys looked, and by the time they’d returned to the bungalows, the day had caught up to them, especially Abigail, who protested she was fine but couldn’t hide the exhaustion creeping into her eyes.
They dropped her at her bungalow then followed the snaking sidewalks past his old bungalow, winding along the gardens and the beach toward theirs.
“Do you have more of those photos?” Jules asked him.
