Suddenly a dotted typing icon appears underneath. Oh my fucking God! Shit.
I forgot about the Wi-Fi connection. The three gray dots blink up at me.Someone is there. And then I remember, remember that iPhones send read receipts to the sender unless you specifically change the settings. And these messages have been marked read.
I scramble to turn it off. What if they’ve traced everything I’ve done? What if they find out who I am?
But they can’t. There’s no camera in here. I’ve used a public computer to read the emails. Anyone in the resort could have done it. There’s no way they—whoever they are—could know it’s me. But what if they’re coming? What if they come here and review theCCTV footage and see me coming in from the lobby at this time? I know there are security cameras in the lobby, in the hallway. Shit.
Okay, but realistically, Erin,realistically. Even if they know where the email account was accessed from, it takes at least a day to fly to Bora Bora from almost anywhere. A full day. And then they’d have to break into the hotel’s security system and view the footage and then they’d have to figure out it was me from that footage. Would they do that? They don’t even know I’ve seen the emails, do they? All they know is that their text messages have been read.
I need to read what they’ve written. I need to check.
I inhale deeply and push the power button again.
White screen, Apple icon, home screen, one unread message.
I tap it.
WHERE HAVE YOU BEEN?
They don’t know I’m not whoever it is. Should I type something? Should I? Maybe I should tell them we found the bag?
No, I don’t think that’d be a good idea. No.
Maybe I should pretend to be them? Should I? It would stop them looking for me, right? Send them off on a different track. Oh God. I wish I’d thought this through before. I can’t think straight now.Okay, think. Think.
The three gray dots appear again. Shit! I have to saysomething. I tap on my text box. My text cursor pulsing.
Three gray dots will be appearing on his screen now. He’ll know there’s definitely someone there. Someone on the other end. I type.
REDIRECTED FLIGHT. UNAVAILABLE FOR TRANSACTION.
That seems okay, right? Fairly opaque. It should buy us enough time to get out of here before someone comes to find us. I press send. Gone. Off into the ether.
That seemed okay. Yeah. They might think the plane people are lying low or something, right?
And then reality hits me.
Lying low? What the actual fuck, Erin? What the actual, stupid, fuck are you doing? Lying low is not athing. This is notThe Third Man. You have absolutely no idea what you are doing right now. You are a film school graduate on your honeymoon. They will find you and they will kill you. You are going to die, Erin.
And then something very, very bad happens.
WHO IS THIS?
The gray dots pulse.
Pulse. Pulse. Pulse.
Oh no.
I stab the power button on the phone.
Oh God.
—
On the way back to the room I try to think of a good spin on what I’ve done. Some way to put it to Mark that doesn’t make me sound like a liar and an idiot; but to be honest, at this stage it’s fair to say that I am both those things. I just want his help. I’m scared. I need him to help me fix this.
18
