Jove Brand is Near Death
Page 27
“One meenute,” Magda shouted at the retreat’s host. She doused my fire-red curls in hairspray one last time before asking me if I was ready to go.
“I just need to use the bathroom,” I wheezed through shallow breaths. “I’ll be right out.”
Magda exaggerated her sigh before shuffling out of the white-marble immurement, closing the doors behind her with a huff. My last remnants of safety and rational thinking left with her.
I shoved the vanity chair underneath the handles of the entrance. I grabbed the makeup brush with the flattest head and made my way to the water closet. I gingerly closed the lid of the toilet and slipped off my heels before tip-toeing on top so I could face the window. After removing the beading, I inserted the head of the makeup brush between the frame and glass. The brush’s handle cracked under the pressure, but it was enough to lever the glass out of its mounting. I placed the glass on the ground as gently as I’ve ever handled any object, trying not to make even the slightest of sounds, before hoisting myself up and through the window. I jumped into the black night, only partially illuminated by the full moon and the artificial lights of the retreat. I allowed my eyes to adjust.
And then, I ran.
The loose branches of the island forest whipped at my cheeks, my limbs, my mouth. The soles of my feet split open from fallen twigs and other debris, but the adrenalin kept the pain at bay. I tripped over something unseen, and my hands broke my fall. Just a few cuts, and a little blood. I couldn’t see it, but I could feel it.
I jumped up, forcing myself to keep moving. The near darkness was blinding, so I held my bloody hands up, trying to block my face. The farther I ran, the more similar the trunks of the trees became. How long had I been running? I gauged about a mile. I slowed down to gather my bearings. Behind me, the lights of the mansion brightened the sky, but they were only the size of a flower petal from that distance.
I heard the hum of a moving car come and go. I must have been near the road. I was about to keep moving when I heard the snap of twigs. Footsteps. I stopped breathing. I swiveled to my left and right, but nothing. I exhaled. It was just my imagination. I continued away from the lights. Away from the retreat.
And then someone stepped toward me: Christina. Her face was partially covered in darkness, but her pale eyes stood out like fireflies.
“It doesn’t have to be like this,” she said. Her expression remained a mystery in the darkness.
I turned behind me, but one of her handlers was blocking that path. Christina took another step forward, and I jerked away, tripping over the gnarled roots of the forest in the process. My head broke the fall this time, and my ears rang from the pain.
Her handler reached for my left hand, and for a moment, I thought he was going to help me stand. Instead, he twisted my ring finger to an unnatural position. As my bone cracked, my screams reverberated through the woods.
It was showtime.
Ann
* * *
I’m an attorney. A corporate attorney, to be precise—not the kind most often portrayed in books and movies. I don’t go to court, and I don’t deal with murderers. I close deals—mergers and acquisitions, mostly—behind my desk in the quiet of my office. In layman’s terms: I help people buy and sell companies. It’s not quite as dramatic as the life of a trial attorney, but it’s safe, it pays well, and now that I’m a partner, I can dedicate some of my time to matters closer to my heart. But like a trial attorney—and all good attorneys, really—I spend my day combing through facts.
As such, here are the facts: Reese Marigold, has been missing for thirty-one days.
She had been scheduled to arrive in Nashville after a four-week stay at an exclusive singles’ retreat. Flight records indicate she boarded her plane as scheduled, and several witnesses recall seeing a woman on the flight who matched Reese’s description: mid-thirties, red hair, about five-four. She was hard to miss: she donned a bubblegum-pink jumpsuit, keeping the hood up and sunglasses on throughout the flight. I remember seeing this eccentric outfit as I waited for Reese at the airport, but I knew from the mannerisms and gait it wasn’t Reese. The police think I could have been mistaken, though, so they asked a few witnesses about this rose-clad woman. Apparently she was as quiet as she was eye-catching, ignoring anyone who spoke to her.
“Again,” I huffed in the interview room at the police station, “that’s not Reese. Reese can talk to a wall. She’s a social butterfly.” I threw my hands up in exasperation, but no one in the room seemed to care.
Once the flight landed in Nashville, video footage from airport security shows “Reese” de-boarding the plane, collecting her single bag, and heading for ground transportation. She did not make any other stops before getting into the back seat of a beat-up 1992 Ford Festiva. The car was tagless and had tinted windows, so it was impossible to track. It wasn’t until police received a tip that they discovered the car three days later near the Riverfront Park, burned to a crisp, ashes littering the ground like confetti.
Only the charred remains of a suitcase were inside. Forensic technicians believe the car was wiped clean before it exploded, although it was difficult to know for certain. Reese’s wallet and cell phone were found about thirty feet away, concealed in the overgrown grass.
Her cell phone history didn’t reveal much. There was a missed call from an ex-boyfriend, Luca Ferrari, made two weeks before the retreat started. Reese’s relationship with Luca had ended seven years prior, but since Reese was granted an order of protection after Luca attacked her, he was automatically suspect.
To my relief and disappointment, Luca has a rock-solid alibi. He also lives two-thousand miles away in Los Angeles—has for six years now. Police interviewed several other men who had relationships with Reese, but each was occupied during the crucial window of opportunity.
There was one noteworthy text. For the entire duration of the singles’ retreat, Reese sent only one message to an unregistered number on the last day of her stay. Her radio silence wasn’t considered unusual, as the retreat forbids the use of media in an attempt to force participants to focus on “the journey.” It said: I need to get away. Pick me up at the Nashville airport tomorrow at noon.
The police contacted the phone carrier of the unregistered phone number, but it was determined to be a burner phone. There were no outgoing calls or messages, no history of any kind, except for the single incoming text from Reese. The burner was discovered with her mobile and wallet in the park.
I found all of this disconcerting, especially her silence toward me. The police didn’t share my concern, though, as perhaps she was upset that I hadn’t attended the retreat with her. She had, after all, been urging me to go. She had even filled out an application for me, earning me a spot on the island along with her. We could get engaged at the same time, she had pleaded. For Reese’s sake, I pretended to consider. Of course, I didn’t go; that wasn’t my thing. So Reese went alone. A hopeless romantic, she was always on a mission to find her next man, her miracle, and her latest obsession was this singles’ retreat.
So if things didn’t go as planned, if she didn’t find love, perhaps she was taking out her frustration on me, police supposed. I told them that was ridiculous. In the ten years I’ve known Reese, I can count on my two hands the number of times I’ve seen Reese angry. Afraid, yes. Sad, definitely. But petty? Absolutely not. She would never let my worry fester like this over something like not going on a trip with her.
No, something had to have happened on that island. Something terrible.
Right from the start, I knew the retreat seemed too good to be true. Isolated on its own private island, about a ten-minute plane ride from Hawaii, Last Chance was established with the sole intention of helping people find true love. A soulmate. Give me a break. I begged the police to investigate, but because the island is outside of their jurisdiction, there is only so much they could do without more probable cause.
And besides, they said, Reese wanted to disappear, according to her last tex
t message. She told an employee at the retreat that an associate of hers helped people get out of town. And according to her mom, she ran away countless times in her youth. Before she joined Nashville’s most prestigious dance company, she had trouble with drugs and alcohol. Nevermind that she had a turbulent childhood, or that she’s been sober for twelve years. Nevermind that she’s helped me, and many others, find solace through Alcoholics Anonymous. Nevermind that she was my sponsor in AA for ten years, my closest friend, the only real family I’ve had since my parents passed. Reese was flighty, shady.
A drunk.
So the investigation dwindled. Life moved on. But not for me. For the past thirty-one days, I have been swimming in the facts of Reese’s disappearance. My mind has been laser-focused on her last movements—primarily on the retreat. I haven’t eaten, haven’t slept. Twice I’ve awoken to the sound of an ambulance, after passing out from unbearable chest pain, and twice I’ve been told I had suffered severe panic attacks.
I only began to breathe semi-normally after I sent in my deposit to Last Chance.
I know something happened on that retreat, and I have every intention of finding out what.