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It’s time.
I remain where I am, tucked in the alleyway, hiding in the shadows of the coffee shop, up against the wall. At long last he appears, Mr. Preston, smartly uniformed. He walks calmly through the revolving doors and stands at his podium on the hotel landing. He pulls out his phone and sends a text, then tucks it back into his pocket. I lean against the wall even though I know it’s dirty. If all goes well, there will be time for washing later. If it doesn’t go well, I’ll never be clean again.
A couple more minutes go by. Just when I’m starting to fully panic, I spot him down the street—Rodney, walking quickly toward the hotel. I’ll admit that my feelings upon seeing him are mixed. On the one hand, his appearance means things are going according to plan; on the other, the very sight of his lying, cheating face fills me with murderous rage.
He runs up the front steps and stops at the podium. He talks to Mr. Preston. The conversation lasts no more than a minute. Then Rodney heads into the hotel.
Mr. Preston pulls out his phone and dials. I practically jump out of my skin when my pocket starts to vibrate.
I grab my phone. “Hello?” I whisper. “Yes, I saw it all. What did he want?”
“He heard about the press conference,” Mr. Preston explains. “He was asking if I knew who was arrested.”
“What did you tell him?” I ask.
“That I saw Giselle talking with the police. And that she looked upset.”
“Oh dear. That wasn’t part of the plan,” I say.
“I had to think fast on my big ol’ feet. You’ll do the same if you have to. You can do this. I know it.”
I take a deep breath. “Anything else?”
“The news conference begins in under forty minutes. We have to be fast. It’s time. Text him now. Proceed as planned.”
“Roger, Mr. Preston. Over and out.”
I end the call and watch Mr. Preston slip his phone away.
I open a text to Rodney:
Help. I’m at the front door of the hotel and they won’t let me in! If I can’t get that keycard for you, whatever will we do?
Rodney’s response is immediate: BRT DGA
What? What on earth is that supposed to mean? I haven’t the faintest clue. Think, Molly, think.
You’re never alone as long as you have a friend.
The answer is literally right at my fingertips. I find Juan Manuel in my contacts and dial his number. He picks up before the end of the first ring.
“Molly? What’s happening? Is everything okay?”
“Yes, everything’s fine. The plan is in progress. But…Juan Manuel, I’m in a bit of pickle and I need hasty assistance.” I read Rodney’s text to him.
“You thinkIknow what that means?” he asks. “I feel like I’m on that TV show where you call a friend and they give you the answer and you win big money. But Molly, you called the wrong friend!” He pauses. “Wait. Hold on.” I hear some rustling on the end of the line.
“Okay, Molly? Are you still there?”
“Yes.”
“I checked Google. Rodney means Be Right There. Don’t Go Anywhere. Okay? Does that make sense?”
It does. It absolutely does. I’m back on track. “Juan Manuel, I could…”
I could kiss him. That’s what I want to say—that I’m so grateful I could kiss him. But it’s such a bold and ridiculous thought, so unlike me, that it catches in my throat and doesn’t make it out.
“Thank you,” I say instead.
