“And it’s Winston.”
“Olivia,” I whispered, only for him. Smiling and looking straight into his eyes, I attached the lanyard to the badge and then repeated the earlier moment, only just a little slower.Closer. More intimately.The tips of my fingers touching his neck when sliding the lanyard over his head. My breasts brushing against his chest for a split second before I pulled away.
He shook my hand, holding on to it a moment longer than necessary, and then said, “Will there be another coffee in our common future?”
Defense Attorney Blake:Detective Stanek, in your professional opinion, was the evidence sufficient to conclusively prove the defendant’s guilt?
Aaron Stanek:Given the circumstances, I must admit that the burden of proof was probably not met.
Defense Attorney Blake:So, there’s something missing?
Aaron Stanek:Yes, there is.
District Attorney Mitchell:Objection! Leading the witness.
Judge Thomas Antunez:Overruled. Nice try, Mr. Mitchell.
13
A Tour
The invitation I awaited took a few days to arrive, stretching my patience. The conference carried on, panel after panel, but I never crossed paths with Winston again. Not in the halls, not at the evening receptions—not even in passing. Whether he was avoiding me or simply too busy, I couldn’t be sure.
By the second day, uncertainty gnawed at me. Had he lost interest? Had he changed his mind? Or did he simply have no way to reach me?
Frustration mounting, I swung by the hotel and sought out Jenny, the receptionist who’d checked me in. She greeted me with an apologetic smile, handing over a small stack of messages. I gave her my forwarding address, watching as she keyed it into the system.
None of those messages were from Winston.
I waited, feeling like a naive schoolgirl, unsure if he would call. I’d thought I had him hooked, but maybe I’d been wrong. The next solar-energy event was more than two months away, and I wasn’t sure my cash reserves would stretch that far. The thought of selling some of my jewelry made me sad; each piece was a keepsake, reminding me of the man who’d gifted it to me and why he’d done it. A record of my life’s journey in dazzling diamond sparkles.
On Thursday morning, when the doorbell rang, I nearly jumped out of my skin. I’d been lounging on the sleek low-profile sofa in the rental’s airy living room, absently scrolling through my phone. The space was modern but understated—polished concrete floors, floor-to-ceiling windows framed by linen drapes, and an elegant mix of neutral tones and warm wood accents. Stylish but impersonal, like a designer showroom meant to impress without giving too much away. A perfect temporary hideaway.
A quick look in the mirror made me panic a little. I was wearing shorts and an old T-shirt, no makeup, and my hair was a mess. Discreetly, I peeked outside through the sheers I’d hung to give me some privacy and keep Jack’s prying eyes from seeing too much.
It was a delivery.
Relieved, I swung the door open to find a uniformed courier carrying a small box, about the size of a coffee mug. A wave of desert heat rushed inside, smelling of dust and engine fumes.
“Ms. Olivia Taylor?” he asked, not lifting his eyes from his device.
“Yes?”
“You’ll need to sign for this.”
I studied the box curiously. It had no shipping label and no barcode. I signed with the tip of my finger on the screen of his handheld device and took the box from his hands.
It was light, and something rattled inside when I shook it.
I went inside, eager to open the box. Then I thought of Jack and his warnings. I wasn’t safe here, if I was to believe him. But would the threat to my life come in a small box from an anonymous sender?
Unlikely.
Holding my breath, I sliced through the tape that sealed the box and opened it. Inside was a badge clipped to a lanyard, complete with my name and photo, and color coded with a blue strip and the wordVisitorright above the stylized sun logo of Solar Sierra Inc., Winston’s company.
He had a sense of humor.
Smiling, I opened the note, which had been handwritten on a small piece of paper torn from a notepad. It read, “Pickup tomorrow morning, 9:00 a.m. Dress for the desert. W.”
