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My tired legs groaned in protest when I forced them to walk faster. I made it to the hotel in record time, eager to get off the street. Adriano grunted at me before walking off in the direction of a food stand, and I interpreted it to mean “same time tomorrow.”
The moment I reached my room, I shut the door and locked it. For the first time, I doubted my hasty decision to come here.
I peeled off my wet clothes and stepped into the shower. The water was lukewarm, but I didn’t care; I wanted to scrub all the dirt and sweat away.
I was at a crossroads. I didn’t know where to look next. I had exhausted all my options. It had been weeks since Archer disappeared. The trail had gone cold, except for this piece of what might have been his sweater.
I pulled clean clothes back over my damp body, not paying attention to what I put on. I’d brought a few pairs of shorts, jeans, and T-shirts. The shorts I put on hung loose, reminding me of the weight I’d lost.
But I refused to give up, to believe that my brother was gone forever. The thought was so terrifying that it made me shiver, even though it was still hot. This damned country seemed to be permanently sweltering. I made my way back downstairs to at least eat something. I wasn’t helping anybody if I passed out.
The atmosphere was as tense in the small hotel restaurant as it was outside. I’d gotten to know the surrounding area as a quirky and lively town. The silence seemed wrong. The waiter who took my order was shaking; he spilled the water he served me and got my order wrong. I said nothing and instead went through the notes I’d memorized.
The chair on the other side of my table moved, and I looked up into an unfamiliar face.
“Señora Bennet,” the man said and took a seat. He was wearing a black shirt, the top two buttons undone, showing hints of an impressive chest. His dark chocolate-brown hair was tied back in a ponytail. I guessed it to be shoulder length when it was loose.
I raised a brow at him, unwilling to let his bulky frame or hard eyes intimidate me. I was also curious what he wanted. I’d made no secret of my reasons for being here. Maybe he knew something about my brother. I was getting desperate, grasping at straws. Stranger danger in this case seemed to be a redundant concept.
I put my “accountant who is about to tell you that you’re broke” smile on my face. “I’m sorry, you have me at a disadvantage here. Have we met?”
He leaned back, and I could see the gun peeking out from his waistband. I instantly stiffened, and my reaction made him grin.
What’s going on?
“You’re sticking your nose in things that don’t concern you.”
I leaned back in my chair, trying to put as much distance between us as possible. “I don’t know what you mean.” I took a sip of my water, the cool liquid providing temporary relief of the stifling heat. “I’m just enjoying your beautiful country.”
The waiter chose that moment to bring out my food. My hands shook under his watchful gaze as I reached for my cutlery.
“We both know that’s not why you’re here.” His accent was thick, his voice commanding.
I swallowed a piece of steak, and it struggled to make it down my dry throat. My hands were sweating, but thankfully I wasn’t shaking. Not yet.
“And why am I here?” I tried playing stupid for a little longer. Maybe he’d get bored with me.
He ignored my question and instead put his hand on his gun. “I see you need more convincing.” He nodded toward the exit, where a second man appeared.
Who the hell does he think I am? Why would he be interested in one woman who wants to find her brother?
“You must have me confused with someone else. I’m not doing anything illegal. I’m also not interested in anyone’s business. I promise I’ll be out of your hair by tomorrow. Ask the receptionist at the hotel. I already told them I’m checking out.”
Turned out that was the wrong thing to do and certainly the wrong thing to say. He looked pleased. And when a man like him looked pleased, that was never a good thing.
“That will make this whole thing a lot easier. Let’s go.”
I pushed my untouched food away, and he motioned for the waiter. The poor guy was still so nervous that he was unable to write down the price of my drinks and food because his hands shook so much. I put him out of his misery and set money on the table. My brain had a mind of its own, adding numbers as soon as I saw them. I had every price on the menu memorized already.
“My bill is $3,350. That already includes a tip of 15 percent. I hope that’s enough.”
The restaurant was one of the few that only accepted Guyanese Dollars. I’d exchanged enough money to make sure I’d be okay for a while without access to a bank. Guyana gained independence from the United Kingdom in the sixties, and besides the British Pound, they usually accepted American Dollars.
The waiter stared at me, and so did the stranger. Instead of asking for my change—because being good with numbers also meant I never wasted money—the stranger manhandled me out of my chair. The firm grip on my arm was uncomfortable but not painful, my already sore body protesting at the treatment.
I looked around the restaurant, hoping someone would come to my aid. The other two patrons focused on their plates, not once looking in my direction. The stranger smelled of cigars and whiskey. I wondered if he had to abandon his drink in order to retrieve me. As soon as we were outside, he gripped my arm even tighter and forced me to follow him.
“I guess I’m supposed to tip 25 percent, then? Someone could have just told me.” My poor attempt at a joke earned me another sharp look. I tended to either ramble or make terrible jokes when I was nervous. Neither was a good option at the moment.
