Until the Day I Die

by Carpenter, Emily

  21

  SHORIE

  The Alabama night is soft and thick with humidity and hungry mosquitos. Toomer’s Drugs is closed, so we get Cokes at the Draft House and amble down College Street. We talk and brush enormous, bloodthirsty creatures off each other’s arms and faces, which turns out to be a surprisingly romantic activity.

  After a while, I surreptitiously check my email. Sure enough, there’s a new screenshot, another message from Yours to Ms. X.

  I think about you all the time.

  “If I may,” Rhys says, “what do you have planned this semester that classes would interrupt?”

  I slide my phone into my pocket. The question is so formal. And sweet, like he’s one of those Downton Abbey dudes come to inquire as to my availability for courting. No way I can tell him what I’m doing. Jax’s business is need to know only; Dad taught me that.

  “Probably the same stuff as your other clients,” I say vaguely.

  He gives me a doubtful look. “Hmm.”

  “What?”

  “It’s just that lying on the sofa, bingeing on Game of Thrones, and eating pot brownies doesn’t seem your style, to be honest.”

  “Actually, I’ve got a job,” I say.

  “With Jax?”

  I nod. Again, no need for full disclosure.

  “Oh. That’s awesome. Really cool.”

  I nod again, and we walk in silence, cutting past the art building on the way to my dorm. I wish I didn’t have to lie to this guy. I really like him. Plus, I kind of suck at lying. But at this point, I barely know him, so talking about Jax—the deadlock, the crazy balances, and the private messages—is really out of the question.

  “I’d be okay without a degree,” I say. “I know what I want to do, and I can learn whatever I don’t know on the job.”

  He nods. “I have a friend who took a gap year in the Caribbean two years ago. Well, not a gap year exactly. He was on academic probation, and his parents thought it might do him some good to work for a semester. They got him a job as a lifeguard at this ridiculous five-star resort, and he liked it so much he never came back. Chucked college altogether. Pissed his parents off so much. Anyway . . .” He trails off, going dead silent.

  I wonder why.

  Then a charge sizzles up the back of my neck. “What island?” I ask casually.

  “Huh?”

  “What island is your friend on?”

  He shrugs. “The Canary Islands, I think. One of them.”

  “You said it was in the Caribbean.” I suddenly feel a jolt of panic. Was there some reason he changed his story? Could it be that his friend is on the island where my mom is? He knew who I was without ever having met me, he knows about Jax, and he runs a company that encourages fraud. What if he has something to do with the error messages I’ve gotten? What if Jax is the real reason he wanted to meet me . . .

  He gives me a strange look. “Did I? Aren’t the Canary Islands in the Caribbean? Or maybe not. I suck at geography, FYI.”

  “Okay.” Breathe, Shorie. Slow down. No reason to go spinning into crazy land with your conspiracy theories quite yet. God, this server thing has got me way too wound up.

  At my dorm, kids are streaming in and out. We stand off to the side, just on the edge of a pool of light cast by floods.

  “I read about your dad,” he starts. “What happened.”

  “Oh.” I hesitate long enough that I can tell he’s starting to regret bringing it up.

  He tries again. “I just wanted to say I’m sorry.”

  “Thanks.”

  He looks up at the bright dorm windows.

  “I don’t mind talking about it—” I start. “It’s just that it’s really—”

  He catches my eye. “Personal.”

  “Fine,” I say. “I mean, it’s fine. But also, I’m fine. I don’t really need to talk about it.”

  We stare at each other, our conversation at an awkward impasse. I’m struck with how beautiful his lips are, really full, both of them, top and bottom. Excellent lips for kissing. And the way Rhys runs the rest of his life, I bet he would give kissing 100 percent.

  Passion, lust, elation . . .

  I feel off-balance—and super tired. This wave after wave of conflicting emotions is starting to drain me. So what do I do? Keep an eye on this guy because he may be connected with Jax? Or because his lips look perfect? I really have no idea. And right now either reason seems perfectly valid.

  “So, the money?” he says. “For the classes.”

  “Oh right. It’s, ah—” My mind has gone blank.

  “Thirty-seven fifty,” he says. “Broken down into monthly installments, if you need to. You can Jax it to me directly, unless your mom would see it. Most kids can’t since their parents watch their expenses pretty closely their freshman year. If they’re on Jax, they’ll typically slide it through their food or a miscellaneous category, saying they hired a tutor or, I don’t know, paid up front for yoga classes or something. If they have enough credit cards, they’ll pay for their friends’ meals, gas, whatever and get the cash that way.”

  “I still have some cash from graduation.” Although, I’m pretty sure it’s not enough.

  He smiles. “I just need the first installment by next week. Maybe . . .” He angles his body toward me in such a way that I think, with some panic, that he might try to kiss me right here, right now. “Maybe we could hang out again. Get pizza or something.”

  My phone buzzes against my hip, and instinctively I reach for it. My fingers close around a small card instead, a punch card from this ice cream place near home, Caldwell Creamery. Mint green with a hand-drawn four-leaf clover logo in one corner, edges soft from having once been run through the washer. Eleven of the twelve boxes have been punched out.

  “What’s that?” Rhys asks.

  I hold the card up to him. “It’s for an ice cream place my dad and I used to go to together. He gave it to me so my friend and I could get the free cone. I forgot about it.”

  Specifically, Dad had given it to me in March, right before he died. Spring had come early. It was warm out, in the seventies already, with thick, hazy skies over blooming tulips and daffodils and determined birds. One Friday afternoon, after Daisy and I had been hanging around Jax for hours, Dad said we should go treat ourselves. We’d ended up going to the skate park to watch some guy Daisy had a crush on instead. I must’ve stuffed the card in my pants pocket.

  And then my father died, and it rained for two weeks straight, the sun hiding behind the wall of white sky. The birds seemed to sense the season’s earlier false start and went quiet too. The world without my father was a desolate place. Who would go for ice cream?

  Rhys interrupts my thoughts. “What’s your friend’s name?”

  I’m staring at the card, willing myself not to cry. “Daisy. She goes to Georgia Tech. She’s majoring in materials engineering. Like polymers and metals and stuff.” Rhys is staring at me now, and I know I’m rambling. Acting prickly and difficult and weird. It makes me miss Daisy even more.

  “I should go,” Rhys says.

  My heart squeezes. I’ve probably run him off.

  “I’ll text you later,” he says. “Good luck with your job.”

  When he’s gone, my good sense finally, belatedly, kicks in. And starts lecturing me, Dad style.

  I may want to see Rhys again, but it’s a bad idea. The guy’s researched me. He knows about Jax, even about my father’s death. Put that together with the fact that most people think I enjoy the life of a privileged princess, and I’m sure he sees me as a target. And then there’s that Caribbean/Canary Islands thing too. Maybe he’s in on whatever’s happening at Jax and with Mom. He may even be connected to the error messages.

  Frustrated, I pull out my phone and text Daisy.

  How’s everything going? I miss you.

  I stare at the screen, willing an answer bubble to pop up. Or at least the dancing ellipses. Nothing. She’s probably out, having fun. It’s Friday night. With
a heavy sigh, I check the latest email of screenshots. One of them shows the monthly balances. They’ve all gone back down to where they were this afternoon.

  I blink, like I’m seeing things, and do a quick mental tabulation. That’s exactly $161,772.96 Ms. X moved in and out of her account in less than four hours.

  22

  ERIN

  The banging on my door seems unnecessarily aggressive. But it achieves the intended result. Even before I crack open my eyes, my heart has shifted into high gear.

  It’s still dark out; I can sense it even before I see it. And not just predawn dark—pitch-black, middle-of-the-night dark. I’m trying to remember what’s happening, and why the hell it’s happening so early in the morning, but I’ve got nothing. Other than the rush of gratitude that Grigore wouldn’t share that bottle of Veuve Clicquot with me. Bless that guy’s sweet Moldovan heart.

  The knocking stops, there’s a beat, and the door slams open.

  “Up and at ʼem,” sings out a man’s voice. Without even thinking, I obey.

  In the dark room, he looks about eight feet tall, a monster with shoulders as broad as a house. When he flips on the lamp, I see he’s tall, broad enough across the shoulders, but by no means a giant. He’s more like a surfer guy, in his early thirties, with long, sun-bleached hair pulled back in a curling ponytail and a faint scar bisecting one eyebrow. He’s dressed differently from the other staff too—in dirty shorts and a threadbare red-and-yellow Mexican Baja hoodie. A hippie-looking guy. Kind of cute, actually—but, of course, what else would I have expected?

  “What time is it?” I ask him meekly.

  “Time to get dressed.” He grins slightly and tosses a string sack at me. In the bathroom, I change out of my Hidden Sands pajamas and into underwear, sports bra, nylon cargo shorts, and a white moisture-wicking T-shirt. When I walk back out, he points to a pair of hiking boots and socks on the bed. I sit and put them on, then stare at his ponytail wistfully.

  “Could I have something to tie my hair back?”

  “Sorry, no.” He swings open the door. “Move out.”

  Outside my cottage, three women huddle in the bed of an idling pickup truck, all of them dressed in the same shorts and T-shirts. One is Deirdre, who manages a quick grimace at me. Not surprisingly, her pale, puffy face resembles three-day-old scrambled eggs. There’s also a black woman I haven’t seen before. And Agnes, crouched in the far corner of the truck.

  Behind her glasses her eyes are round with fear. I can’t imagine why. I get that the early-morning wake-up call is just another way to throw us off-balance, but the guy seems nice enough.

  We all cling to the sides of the truck as he drives us down the lane, past the cottages, and into the jungle. As we hit a patch of rough road, overhung with a leafy canopy, I berate myself for not sticking my mouth under the water faucet when I was in the bathroom. And for not peeing.

  I’m longing for coffee—dying for it—but I’m getting the distinct impression there’s not going to be any chance of getting it. Or a bed or warm breakfast, for that matter. The farther we get away from the resort, the more I start to wonder if what is happening here isn’t, in fact, the start of my L’Élu. But that seems strange.

  Why would Antonia fast-track a couple of newcomers like Deirdre and me? Is it because I refused her offer of the special VIP L’Élu II, and she wants to inflict some kind of punishment on me?

  Agnes could probably provide some context, seeing as how she’s already done one of these things, but she’s put her head down, and I’d have to yell over the truck engine to be heard. And anyway, it doesn’t make any difference. Whether Antonia is acting out of revenge or just changed her mind, the bottom line is, finishing my L’Élu means I get to go home. This is what I wanted. I need to focus on the task at hand.

  We climb a hill, ford a stream, then climb another hill, the truck ramming its way through thick brush. In the back, we cower to avoid the stinging lash of branches. Deirdre vomits the sour-smelling contents of her stomach over the side. Some sloshes down into the grooved bed of the truck, and the other three of us lift our butts and crab walk around the perimeter to avoid it.

  “I’m so sorry,” she keeps saying. She’s weeping now, tears and snot streaming down her face. A tide of foreboding rises inside me, and I turn away from her so I don’t choke. If this is our L’Élu, she’s in for a world of hurt.

  We finally pull off the side of the road, and Ponytail jumps out, banging the side of the truck. We climb out, and higher now in elevation, we huddle together, arms folded against the chill air. There’s a smell here—a dank, mossy aroma of old soil and decaying fish. The light between the dark silhouettes of the trees has turned gray. The sun will be up soon. And I’ve still got to pee.

  “I’m Lach,” he says, arranging the strap of a canvas bag full of water bottles across his chest. “Welcome to your L’Élu.”

  In the predawn gray, I can’t help but notice his eyes. They’re the lightest I’ve seen on a human. Blue, probably. And he’s deeply tanned and wearing faded leather flip-flops, like he’s a surfer headed out to the waves instead of leading a group of women through the tropical rainforest. I look around the group. Agnes is scowling. So is the black woman. Deirdre looks like she wants to die.

  He stares off into the distance. “We’re now going to embark on a quest,” he says. “The heart of your Hidden Sands experience. It’s meant to be a physical challenge, but, be aware, it is a spiritual one as well.”

  We all exchange glances. Whatever Tony Robbins, self-help bullshit this is, we can handle it. We all just want to get through this.

  “On a L’Élu, you’ve got to think and feel at the most basic level,” he continues in his tour-guide monotone. “You must get away from your self-centered, first world mindset so you can become more fully, completely yourself. While the external focus is on survival, problem-solving, and teamwork, the internal focus is on forging a new way of seeing yourself.”

  How should I see myself? I think. If I’m not CEO of Jax, not Perry’s wife, what am I?

  He sighs. “Anyway, you get the gist. You’re about to do a hash, okay? Anybody other than Agnes know what that is?”

  No one says a word. He reaches into the canvas bag, pulls out a handful of flour, and sprinkles it onto the ground. It’s in the shape of a circle with an X inside.

  “A hash is a running challenge, a social activity, where you get to drink beer at the end. Only we drink water, not beer.” He gives us a slight sardonic smile. “The hare—that’s me—runs ahead and leaves a trail for the harriers—that’s you—to follow. A normal hash is part treasure map, part obstacle course, but ours is a little different. Ours is not a game. If you find the trail and follow it correctly, you get food and water. If you don’t, there’s a consequence.”

  Nobody asks what the consequence is. He produces an old-fashioned wind-up alarm clock and balances it on the edge of the truck. “I get a twenty-minute head start. When this thing goes off, you go off. Got it?”

  We all stare at him, dumbfounded.

  “Hello?” he says, and we all nod. “All right. Namaste, my little chickadees.” He turns, takes off at a jog, and in seconds, has disappeared into the jungle. I scoot around to the other side of the truck and furtively relieve myself.

  When I rejoin the group, the black woman claps her hands. “Okay, bitches. Let’s go.” She speaks with a New Orleans accent, rich with Cajun undertones, and now that the sun’s up, I can see she’s a little younger than me and a lot fitter, with killer cheekbones and a set of excellent eyelash extensions. This woman had the right idea; she looks ready to conquer the jungle. To kick this L’Élu’s ass in style.

  She starts up the road, Deirdre padding after her like a puppy.

  “Hold up,” I call out to them. “Don’t you think we should wait for the alarm?”

  They stop. “No,” the black woman says.

  “What’s he going to do?” Deirdre says. “Punish us?”

  “I don�
��t think we should antagonize him,” I say. “Not right off the bat. We should play by the rules. Wait for him to get ahead of us, like he wants us to. We can use the time to make a plan. He literally told us nothing. If we go running into the woods—”

  “Jungle,” the black woman says.

  “—the jungle, without a plan, we’ll die.”

  “She’s right,” Agnes says from behind me. “It’s dangerous out there.”

  We all turn to her.

  “I was kidding, actually,” I say.

  “I’m not.”

  “That’s right. You got hurt on your first L’Élu.” I nod at her bandaged leg. “How did it happen?”

  She presses her lips together. “A few of the guides like to mess with your head. Make you think you’re in mortal danger. I didn’t appreciate it.”

  “Do you actually think they take chances they shouldn’t? That the L’Élu’s unsafe?”

  “I think,” Agnes says flatly, “that this whole island is unsafe.”

  I want to ask her more, but the clock is ticking. Literally. And we need a plan.

  “We should get organized,” I say, then catch myself. I’m on Jax autopilot, marshaling the troops, meager as they may be, to meet the challenge.

  “Organize us, then,” says the black woman.

  I turn to Agnes. “You’ve done this before. Is there anything you can tell us? Any advice we could use?”

  “Well.” Her eyes dart from the jungle back to the road. She’s nervous about something. Really nervous.

  “Agnes?” I prod.

  She picks up a stick and draws a circle. “He didn’t tell you any of the signs. This means wrong path.” She draws three parallel lines. “This means go back to where you came from. There are signals you yell to each other, and you’ll see them written, too, if he’s being nice. The words on-on means one of you found the right direction. On-in is the trail’s end. Which is important, because Lach may not be there, and if you keep going, you could get lost or hurt.”

  I survey the group. “We should get each other’s names, so if one of us gets lost, the others can find them. So we can stick together. She’s Agnes. I’m Erin.”