Carter scrambles up, hopping from foot to foot. “I-I’m sorry. I gotta pee.”
His backpack and notebook and loose papers are scattered across the carpet.
The man rounds the corner. He stops and glares at Carter.
Hot wetness begins to trickle down the inside of his thigh.
“Everything okay, son?”
He swallows. The woman has scooted behind the vending machine, out of sight of the man in the pink suit. Only Carter can see her from his vantage point. Her eyes are round with fear behind her thick lenses. She raises a finger to her lips.
“I—I just tripped,” Carter stammers. “I need to pee.” His voice comes out small.
The man stoops, picks up a few papers, glances at one. “What’s this?”
“Just a map. Of the suites on my deck.”
“Why?”
“For homework,” Carter lies. His eyes fill with tears as more pee trickles down his leg.
The man smiles faintly, hands the papers back to Carter, and strolls away.
When Carter looks again, the woman in the navy dress is gone, too.
He bolts to the toilet. Tears flood down his cheeks as finally he relieves himself. He hasn’t peed himself since a big dog attacked him at a neighborhood park when he was just six years old.
Zipping up his shorts, he realizes that the woman he crashed into is the weird assistant. Did she also hear what Arrabella and the man said? About the murder of Paz Doyle?
Suddenly it all feels too much and he just wants his mom.
Arrabella
Arrabella’s body vibrates with tension and excitement as she plucks a fluffy towelette from the neatly folded pile in the women’s washroom. She runs the towel under the cold tap, then presses it gently against her face. Her cheeks are hot. Her brain races. She cannot believe her windfall. Avi Galev has delivered. Tenfold. Now she has tools to sink “Poppy,” the fraudulent, murderous little PA. She just knew the woman was off. Lillith will be so thankful, so relieved to learn the truth before it’s too late.
So will Patrick.
Still, Arrabella wants it 100 percent locked down. She must do this without revealing to Patrick that she hired a PI. She needs to get back to her suite ASAP so she can follow up with her own online research. She’ll start by googling the Peter “Paz” Doyle murder trial in Liverpool.
She tosses the damp towelette into the basket and opens her clutch. Her hands are jittery and she bumps the purse, causing its contents to scatter across the counter. A few items roll to the edge, and she hears some drop on the floor. She curses and crouches down to gather up a lipstick and a compact. She stuffs them back into her purse, but realizes her EpiPen is missing.
Arrabella gets down onto her knees and tries to peer under the counter. Shadows swallow the space—she can’t see all the way to the back. Perhaps it’s not even there—she could have left it in her room. She’s usually so vigilant about it, but she was so consumed with placatingPatrick she might have overlooked it. Thank heavens she checked. She resolves to search for it when she gets back to the suite.
Arrabella comes back up to her feet, straightens her dress, and leans forward into the mirror to refresh her red lipstick. As she applies the bright color, it strikes her that the missing EpiPen can serve as a believable excuse she can give Patrick for not returning to the dinner table.
She presses her lips together to set the red shade. This color always feeds her inner power. It’s the perfect foil against her pale complexion, and it makes the color of her eyes pop.
Focus, Arra,she whispers, turning sideways for one last check in the gilt mirror of the sumptuous bathroom.
You’re a fucking goddess, girl. You got this.
Feeling more composed, back in control, Arrabella quickly texts Patrick.
Hey love,
I’m going back to the room. Bad headache—need to call it a night. Not feeling well suddenly. Must be the heat, stress, cocktails on empty stomach. Also think I left my EpiPen in the suite and need to find it. Take your time. See you later.
A.
