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Gator’s eyes went wide. He did a visible double-take at the rain outside, then clapped a hand over his mouth.

I screwed the cap of my water bottle back on slowly. "Gator."

"I didn’t mean it," he muttered behind his palm.

"You said the word."

"I was going to say... quaint. I meant it’s been a quaint shift."

"Nope. You said the word. Clear as a bell."

"No. Quizzical. It’s been quizzical. Or quite... quite nice." He dropped his hand, looking desperate. "I was definitely going to say it’s been quite nice."

"You can’t un-ring the bell, Gator. Somewhere on Route One, a tourist just decided to check their phone while hydroplaning. Or some guy in a bar didn’t like the looks of the guy next to him and threw a punch. They’re coming for us. I hope your date likes waiting."

"Oh, come on, Ben." He tried to laugh, but it sounded thin against the thunder rattling the glass. "It’s superstition. Old-timer nonsense. Nobody is driving in this deluge. We are strictly in the clear."

“You”—I pointed the water bottle at him and enunciated carefully—“are an idiot."

"I’m a realist. Twenty minutes to freedom. Closer to fifteen now." He walked over to the lounge chairs set up near the TV and flopped down, lacing his hands behind his head. “Relax for once.”

I looked out the window. The wind had picked up, driving the rain against the glass with a sound like gravel. The palm trees across the street were bent double, their fronds thrashing in the dark.

The station was silent. The radio was silent.

But I could feel it. The pressure drop. The tension coiling in the air like a spring being wound too tight. "You’ve doomed us."

I trudged to the coffee pot and poured the stagnant, three-hour-old brew into a mug. I took a long, bitter drink, letting the ceramic warm my hands, and waited for the tones to drop.

Chapter Two

SUTTON

Freedom was the sound of rhythmic, plastic thwack-hiss of windshield wipers on a rented Hyundai Sonata. Not applause, or the roar of a stadium, or the smooth, muffled quiet of a Gulfstream cabin. It sounded like a failing wiper blade scratching against glass in a torrential Florida downpour.

I gripped the steering wheel so hard my knuckles hurt. The car smelled of stale cherry air freshener and industrial upholstery cleaner, a scent so aggressively synthetic it made my stomach roll. But at the same time I loved it. I loved the smell, the cheap plastic texture of the steering wheel under my palms, and even the stain on the passenger seat that I hoped was only spilled coffee. For the first time in ten years, I was in a space that hadn’t been curated, approved, sterilized, and billed to a production company.

"Just keep driving," I whispered to the rain-streaked darkness of Route 1. "Just keep going south until the road runs out." A quick glance at the dashboard clock revealed that it was 9:30 PM. Maybe an hour to Key West tops.

My phone, mounted on the dashboard in a flimsy plastic holder I’d bought at a gas station in Miami, lit up. The screen displayed a name that usually brought me comfort but tonight sent a spike of adrenaline through my veins.

Mindy.

I tapped the speaker button. "Hi there. Tell me you have the address."

"Sutton." Mindy Crane was my personal assistant and general savior, but now her voice was tinny and edged with a frantic energy that cut right through the cherry-scented air. I pictured her pacing, her hands fluttering as she pushed her sleek, dark bob out of her eyes. "You need to pull over. You need to listen to me."

"I am listening," I said, keeping my eyes on the taillights of a semi-truck ahead of me. The red lights smeared in the rain like watercolors. "But I’m not pulling over. I’m less than an hour from Key West. I just need the code for the lockbox."

"That’s why I’m calling. There is no code."

My foot eased off the gas pedal. "What do you mean?"

"The host canceled," Mindy said, the words rushing out in a torrent. "It was a double booking. Some glitch on the platform. They refunded the money, but the bungalow is gone. It’s occupied."

"Get another one."

"I can’t. It’s Fantasy Fest week or something down there—everything is booked solid. And even if I could find something, I can’t use the corporate card. Nash is asking questions about the expenses. If I book a hotel in your alias, or even in my name, the alerts will go straight to his phone."