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“You’re right. Let’s go.”
We move to the parking lot and I say, “Follow me.”
“You wanna send me your WhatsApp location just in case we get separated on the freeway?”
“I’m terrible with tech,” I lie. “I’ll stay in the slow lanes. It’ll be easy.”
I shut the door before he can protest further, and then take off.
He follows me like the dutiful little pussy he is, thinking he’s about to roll up on some Instagram model girl with a drinking problem…and also my daughter. And this is his idea of helping me.
The memories of what Google turned up just keep rolling through my mind like a stock ticker on CNBC. How did he get hired here after two prior sexual assault allegations, and at separate universities?
And those are just the girls who spoke up, who tried to have a voice to warn others.
Well, I’m their voice now, and I’m going to start by ripping out his vocal cords so he knows what it feels like to be silenced.
On the way to the fictitious bar I throw on my blinker, needing to take a quick detour to my apartment.
Parking strategically, I wait until he slides in behind me.
Moving to his window, he rolls it down.
“I need to run inside real quick and get some clothes out of her apartment. She went straight with her friends from the beach over in Santa Monica to the bar. They’re barely dressed and they’re going to be angry, so when we go to grab them and pull them out of there I want to make sure they’re covered so nothing accidentally pops…you know what I mean.”
“Um…yeah, sure,” he agrees, literally licking his lips.
“This will only take a second.”
He gets out of his car and follows me to the door, but that’s when I notice something out of the corner of my eye that I’ve never seen before.
An unmarked car, with a man slouched down in the driver’s seat.
And not just any man. Detective Fields.
12
Erica
Sam comes stumbling into the hotel lobby bent over at the waist, gasping for air.
He raises a hand and then wills his body the last bit toward me, kissing me on the cheek as he wraps an arm around my waist.
“You okay?”
“Yeah,” he says, trying to catch his breath. “Just tying up some loose ends with a friend.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Not important. Let’s eat.”
A man comes over and extends his hand to Sam, who takes it. “Good to see you again,” the man says.
“Good to see you, Pierre,” Sam replies.
Sam ushers me forward sandwiched in between this mystery man who’s leading the way and my suddenly usual acting man behind me.
But as we’re guided from the lobby to the hotel restaurant, I realize the man is the maître d,
