“Creepy,” I whisper.
Mark smiles. “Creepy.”
The top of Mount Otemanu is gone, swallowed in the gray, only the tree-covered base still visible. Mark zooms in on the boat. He’s wondering if there are still people on it. We both stare at the zoomed image on his phone display.
It’s then that his phone pings and a text notificationflashes up over the video screen. It’s only there for a microsecond but my stomach flips. It’s from Rafie. It’s important. It’s about a potential new job. Rafie’s been trying to help him out. Mark’s been waiting for this text.
Mark fumbles the phone and strides off toward the suite’s lounge area.
“Mark?” I say, following him.
His hand goes up impatiently.Wait.
He reads, nods, then puts the phone down carefully on the table, distracted, thinking. He swallows.
“Mark?” I ask again.
The hand goes up again, harder.Wait!
He paces, paces. Stops. Goes to the bar and starts to shovel ice into a whiskey glass. Oh fuck. That’s not good.
I make my way to the table slowly and bend to pick up the phone. Gingerly, tentatively, just in case it’s not okay to read his texts. But his mind is elsewhere. I punch in his code, his birthday. Tap messages. Tap Rafie.
Bro, sad news. Just heard they’ve filled the job internally. Fucking curveball. I thought it was sewn up. I’ll let you know if I hear of anything else. R
Oh. God.
I put the phone back down softly on the glass coffee table. Mark is sipping his whiskey on the other side of the room. I flick the remote off. The sirens and commotion cease. The clunk of his ice cubes and the muffled storm raging outside are now the only sounds.
Mark finally looks up at me.
“Shit happens, Erin, what you gonna do?” He raises his glass in salute.
I think suddenly of Alexa.Sometimes you’re the dog; sometimes you’re the lamppost.
But he’s smiling. “It’s fine,” he says. “I’m fine. Seriously.” His tone is calm, reassuring. And I believe him this time; he is fine. But…this is all wrong. What’s happening to him is wrong. It isn’t fair.
“I have an idea,” I blurt out.
I cross to him, take the whiskey glass from his hand, and set it down. He looks surprised, knocked off-balance by my sudden determination. I take him by the hand.
“Trust me?” I ask, looking up into his eyes.
He grins wide, eyes creasing. He knows I’m up to something.
“Trust you,” he answers. He squeezes my hand.
I lead him to the suite’s entrance and unlock the door. But he pulls my hand back as I try to push down on the handle.
“Erin?” He stops me. The storm rages on the other side.
“Trust me,” I repeat.
He nods.
I pull down the handle and the door flies back into my hand; the wind’s more powerful than I thought it would be, much stronger than it looked through the window. We step out onto the walkway and somehow I manage to wrangle the door shut again. Mark stands staring out at the maelstrom, the rain soaking fast through his T-shirt, darkening the fabric as I close the door behind us and take his hand again. We break into a run. I lead him along the stilt walkways, over the jettybridges, onto the mainland of the resort, and on through the puddle-gathering pathways, all the way out to the roaring Pacific coastline. We stumble on through the sand, the wind buffeting us from all sides now. Our clothes, dark and heavy with rain, cling to us as we scramble out toward the waves. We stop at the edge of the South Pacific Ocean.
“Scream!” I shout.
