Until the Day I Die

by Carpenter, Emily

  “Jess, no,” I say. “No shower.”

  I motion her to follow me down the hall. We find an improvised pantry, fitted with shelves stocked with every kind of canned good imaginable. We grab a couple of bananas and some jerky, and at the front door, loop around and check the other side of the hall, cramming our mouths with the food. At the end of the hall, we find a closed door. It’s unlocked.

  I peek in. It’s empty. I give Jess a thumbs-up and whisper, “Keep an eye out, okay?”

  She nods and I slip inside. The room’s been converted into an office. There’s a console with a printer and fax machine, as well as four modular desks. A sleek desktop computer sits on the desk near the window. It’s playing soft jazz. Beside the computer sits a framed, autographed eight-by-ten glossy headshot. It’s that actress I saw when I arrived at Hidden Sands. I read the Sharpie-scrawled inscription.

  For Zara ~ love, light & limoncello!

  Zara can’t be far. In fact, that’s probably her clacking around upstairs. I scoot behind the desk and wake up the computer. Instantly a series of spreadsheets fill the screen with columns labeled Hidden Sands, L’Élu I, L’Élu II, L’Élu III.

  I stare at it for a moment, trying to make sense of what I’m seeing. Of the numbers and names all laid out before me. But really, I don’t need to. I already know what I’m looking at. It’s Antonia’s three experiences, just like Jess described them last night. L’Élu I, the real program. L’Élu II, the fun fake for VIPs. And L’Élu III—the one where you wind up dead.

  Right here in front of me, in black and white, are records of everything to do with every incarnation of Hidden Sands’ “restorative experiences.” Balances, vendors, lists of payers. The L’Élu I column for just this week is substantial: Akin, Blanchard, Brock, Capone, Curry, Dhanial, Freeman, Haddad, Hardy, Kurkjian, Lawson, Oyinlola, Peterson, Pullen, Shelton, Zabicki . . . There are lists of names in the L’Élu II and III columns too, but a lot fewer, and the cash amounts are substantially higher. Like, in the six-figure range higher.

  I scan the length of the L’Élu III column, searching for the name of one of my friends or family—Fleming, Gaines, Marko. But all I see is a list of the participants’ names. There are sixteen in all. Mine, Jessalyn’s, Agnes’s, and Deirdre’s are at the bottom. There’s not the slightest hint about who paid for our delightful, “one-of-a-kind” experience. But there are several tabs at the bottom of the screen.

  I open one, incongruously labeled Landscaping, and another spreadsheet appears with a list of, no surprise, plants. Sixteen of them, which makes my body literally shudder in horror. This is it, it has to be. The plant names are links too, so I pick one near the bottom, ginger lily. It sends me to another page, one that appears to be some kind of deal memo from a company called Cutstone, LLC, purportedly located on the island of Providenciales in Turks and Caicos.

  A fake, obviously. This is some shady offshore financial bullshit for sure.

  Jesus. I press my fingers into my temples. This is what they mean by a paper trail, I guess. And if I had more time, I could follow it. Possibly even figure out who paid to send me here. But I’m working under the gun here. Literally. My top priority is to get a message to Shorie and get Jess and me the hell out of here before anybody sees us. This database will have to wait.

  I minimize the windows and try to open the internet browser, but the screen won’t direct. They must have installed blocks restricting full access to the internet. So Zara couldn’t mess around on Facebook when she was supposed to be working, probably. If Perry were here, this wouldn’t be a problem. If a computer could be compared to a woman, then Perry was Lothario, Don Juan, and Valentino all rolled into one. In other words, when he showed up, computers dropped their firewalls. I, on the other hand, am not that skilled.

  I study the task bar at the bottom of the screen. All the basics besides the internet browser—photos, music, calendar, and the whole Office package. And then, a mustard-yellow square with a white lowercase j leaps out at me. Jax.

  Whoever uses this computer has logged in to their personal Jax account.

  It’s like someone turned up a volume knob on me. My whole body starts to vibrate. My fingertips even tingle. Maybe Perry is here, in some way, after all, watching over me.

  I hit the icon. Hi, Zara! the little j says at the top of the screen. Proving my husband’s point that humans are indeed the weakest link in cybersecurity. Zara, in particular, has neglected to log out during her last session, allowing me full access to her account. I scan the allocations, a dozen clean columns of white. She doesn’t make a whole lot, salarywise—she’s using our basic budget, the “essential.”

  I log out of Zara’s account and sign in to mine. In my private messages, a clean white bubble pops up. I click on it and type:

  Shorie, it’s Mom. Please se

  There’s a sharp knock on the door; then, from out in the hall, I hear a clatter of footsteps near the front of the house. I leap up, straining to hear where they’re headed. My heart is doing such a good job of pumping its way out of my chest that it hurts. I need to get out of this office—fast—and try to find Jess.

  I hear a woman’s voice, high and girlish. “Ladies, welcome to L’Élu II,” she trills. Sounds like she’s near the front door. “May you rest in the knowledge, the confidence, that you are the Chosen.”

  Antonia.

  Shit. It’s Antonia.

  Even though I haven’t completed my message to Shorie, I hit “Send” and log off my account. Thanks to the computer’s automatic log-in being enabled, I can hop back on to Zara’s account. I check the desk to make sure everything’s in order.

  “You know and I know,” Antonia continues from out in the hallway, “that we are more than the labels that people hang around our necks. Those labels are like nooses, and we refuse to wear them. We are artists; we are thinkers. Creators of solutions, when they’ll leave us alone long enough to think of them . . .”

  There’s a wave of appreciative laughter. There’s more than one person out there, that’s clear. And this is definitely the fun L’Élu group, the by-invitation-only L’Élu that only special guests who part with a tidy sum of money get to experience.

  I peek around the door into the hallway. The front doors have been flung open, and the group has congregated just outside on the wide front portico. Antonia, sleek in a black strappy sundress and stilettos, her white-blonde hair wound in braids around her head, stands in the open doorway before a small group of women. They’re dressed in hiking clothes like our group, except these gals look infinitely more relaxed.

  There’s no sign of Jess.

  Antonia surveys the group and laughs. But it’s not that soft, girlish giggle I heard in her office that first night. It’s deep and throaty. “We may love and appreciate those who sent us here, but we also know that they don’t fully understand who we are. And who are we? We are the Chosen.”

  She lifts her phone over her head, and instantly music fills the house. It’s instrumental, electronica over a slow, hypnotic beat.

  “As those who have experienced L’Élu before know,” Antonia announces over the music, “upstairs there is a series of rooms, each with its own theme. Each room with an open door contains within a variety of gifts. Of tantalizing treats.”

  Another wave of titters.

  “Go explore, find your room, your pleasure, and share it with a friend. And tonight, after dinner, your concierges will be joining us. Don’t be afraid of a little hedonism, ladies. It won’t hurt you. In the words of Lord Byron, ‘the great object of life is sensation.’” She steps back against the door and flings out her arm. “So go live life, ladies!”

  As the women swarm into the hall, I dart to the stairs, joining them. I take the stairs two at a time, pulling ahead of the throng, but no one takes notice. The air is filled with excited chattering and giddy laughter.

  In the huge hallway upstairs, I pause for a second, wildly scanning the opened doors before me. One is closed, though
, all the way at the end of the hall. I run toward it and slip inside, shutting it behind me. There’s no lock, and I curse softly, then survey the room.

  It’s large and sunny, with a bare wood floor and floor-to-ceiling windows with no curtains. It’s mostly unfurnished, with only a giant four-poster bed that’s draped with a gauzy white canopy and piled high with an array of silk pillows. On a far wall, a lone dressing table of burled walnut with scrolled legs catches my eye. And what’s on top of it—an array of crystal decanters filled with every shade of liquid in the rainbow. Tumblers and goblets and flutes, delicate china trays of pills, and tiny jewel boxes.

  I move to it and lift the hinged lid of one translucent blue box edged with gold leaf. There’s a mound of white powder. So this is what L’Élu II is all about. The royal treatment the super-rich or celebrity guests get. A Marie Antoinette, let-them-eat-cake bacchanal. A bubble of laughter forces itself up and out of me. So much better than L’Élu III—that alternative experience in which you forgo your morning coffee, go on long forced hikes, then get straight-up murdered.

  I realize I’ve been listening to the sound of running water coming from behind a door on the other side of the room. Jess. Oh, no. She must be trying to wash all that blood off. Not the wisest move, the house now crawling with people, especially Antonia.

  I crack the door, and a cloud of steam hits me in the face. “Jess!” I whisper.

  I push the door open. Inside the marble bathroom, the only window is cranked all the way open, and the sink is running. I shut it off and look into the basin.

  There’s a faint trace of red. Blood.

  She was here, but now she’s gone.

  32

  SHORIE

  Dally’s BBQ is in the heart of Childersburg, tucked between an auto parts place and an army surplus store. The outside is made of standard concrete block. Inside is basically an Auburn Tigers–themed armory. Old BB guns, shotguns, and rifles hang on brackets over every window. Whatever wall space is left has been made into a shrine to Pat Dye.

  I showed Rhys (and Lowell) the screenshots between Ms. X and Yours of where they planned to meet. Without even hesitating, Rhys offered to drive me up here. I’m hoping I’ve done the right thing, confiding in him. He’s all I have right now.

  I’ve jammed an Auburn cap low over my eyes, so when we walk into the restaurant, nobody even glances our way. I’m not hungry but I order anyway. No reason to raise suspicion. The meal comes with a cornbread muffin, which I pick at then wash down with sweet tea, all the while keeping an eye on the door. Rhys orders a full chopped pork plate, “extra outside” with mac and cheese, fries, and collards. Head bent, arms cradling his plate, he wolfs the food down, and I try not to fall in love with this guy who knows the code words of barbecue so intimately.

  “See anybody yet?” he asks, dredging a fry through ketchup and jamming it in his mouth.

  “Nope.”

  “Who are the suspects again?”

  “Pretty much all fifteen or so people who work at Jax,” I say.

  “What about the sexting?” Rhys says. “Does that tell us anything?”

  “That criminals are horny, I guess?” He glances at me, and I flush.

  Just then the restaurant door opens, and someone walks in. I can’t see very well, as there’s a coatrack festooned with about a dozen old football helmets in the way and a group of old men, the early supper crew, standing right at the door. My instinct is to rise up out of the booth, crane my neck so I can see, but they’d see me. I slump down, lower my chin under my cap, and lift my gaze up ever so casually. A server meets the person in the center of the room and points. He turns, spotting the table she’s pointing out, and I see him . . .

  Ben.

  Ben Fleming, standing right in the middle of Dally’s BBQ in Childersburg, Alabama. I involuntarily sit bolt upright in my seat and go hot all over. I want to scream, burst into tears, and vomit, all at the same time. I’ve misunderstood everything. Every single thing.

  All the flirting with Mom, all that touchy-feely, nicey-nicey stuff—it was a big nothing. He wasn’t after Mom—because he’s having an affair with Ms. X.

  Ben and Ms. X!

  “Who is it?” Rhys hisses.

  Calm down. Think.

  I mean, it definitely fits. On move-in day, Ben all but confessed to me that he was having problems in his marriage. And now, as promised in the texts, he’s in this out-of-the-way barbecue place to rendezvous with the other woman. To cheat on Sabine. And not only is this asshole a cheater, he’s a thief. He’s trying to wreck my parents’ company.

  I scrunch and twist around as far as I can without looking like a complete nutball. “It’s Ben Fleming,” I say to Rhys. “My mom and dad’s partner at Jax. Their best friend. Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God.”

  “He’s alone?” Rhys glances over his shoulder.

  I motion for him to lie low. “Sh. Yes.”

  Ben’s parked himself at a booth in the corner on the opposite side of the restaurant, and now he’s studying the menu. The server is bent over him, pointing at a few items and grinning down at him. How nice of her, how helpful.

  “What’s he doing?” Rhys asks.

  “Flirting with the waitstaff.”

  “Dirtbag.”

  But maybe it’s more like she’s flirting with him. I don’t know. I can’t tell. Let’s face it, I’m not the best judge of those kinds of things. I didn’t really think it was going to be Ben who walked through that door. I may have been suspicious of his intentions toward my mom and Layton, but I never actually believed he could do something criminal.

  And what about Rhys? I don’t even know the guy, and I’ve pulled him into this mess. What if he’s just pretending he doesn’t know what’s going on? What if he’s in on this with Ben, and I’ve fallen for it?

  I drop my head in my hands. There’s also the possibility that I’m being ridiculous, and Rhys really is just a nice, caring guy. And maybe it’s me who’s losing it.

  We finish our meal in silence—well, Rhys finishes, and I pick at mine and obsessively check the screenshots of Ms. X’s account even though the extra money is still there and nothing has changed. Eventually our server reappears. “Y’all want anything else?”

  “Peach cobbler,” I mumble.

  The flaky, syrupy, bubbly peach cobbler and mountain of vanilla ice cream melting on top does nothing for my appetite. I push it around my plate and watch Ben from under the bill of my cap. For another forty minutes, nobody familiar comes into Dally’s. No one joins Ben in his booth. And then, just as he’s pulling cash out of his wallet, my cell rings.

  Layton.

  It rings again, a loud, clear jangle, and my heart stops.

  “Answer it,” Rhys whispers fiercely.

  I put the phone to my ear. “Hello?”

  “Hi, Shorie. What’s up?” She sounds like she’s driving with the window open. Or standing in a tornado.

  “Uh. Just having lunch . . . dinner. With a friend.” Rhys gives me a thumbs-up.

  “That’s fun. Where?”

  “Where?” I make a face at Rhys. “Some barbecue place. I don’t really know the name.”

  “Jax approved, I hope.”

  “Oh, yeah. I mean how expensive can barbecue be?”

  “Right.”

  Maybe she was coming to meet Ben and spotted me and Rhys through a window or something. And now she’s trying to figure out what’s going on.

  “I don’t really know why I called, Shor,” Layton says. “I guess I just wanted to check in after the dust settled and make sure you were okay.”

  “Oh. Okay. Well, thank you. I’m good. Doing pretty good.”

  “Foxy Cat misses you. But she’s happy. Torn my sofa to shreds.”

  “Oh gosh, I’m sorry.”

  “No, it’s okay. I was going to buy a new one anyway. Never spent my Christmas bonus.”

  On the other side of the restaurant, Ben plunks some cash on his table and slides out of his booth.
He heads toward the door.

  “Hey, Layton, can I call you back?” I say.

  “No need. You go do your college thing. It’s good to hear your voice.”

  “You too.” I hang up. “Come on,” I say to Rhys, but he puts out a hand. Closes it over mine.

  “I want to look him in the eyes,” I protest.

  “I know, but maybe you should wait. I have the feeling this might be bigger than you realize.”

  An hour later we’re all settled in Rhys’s living room again—Rhys and Lowell and me and also some girl I recognize from the work party the other night. She’s blonde and willowy and wearing a crocheted halter top that shows a double-pierced navel. I hope she’s Lowell’s girlfriend and not Rhys’s.

  “So who was it that didn’t show?” I say for the millionth time.

  “Well, it’s obviously not Sabine,” Lowell suggests. “So the lawyer? Layton? Maybe that’s why she called you. She saw you and was trying to find out how much you know.”

  “It has to be somebody within the company,” Rhys says. “There was that message about how she works at an app company. And Ben definitely could’ve written that program.”

  “Maybe,” I say, rubbing my temples. My mind is such a jumble, I’ve got a headache now.

  “Okay, let’s back up,” Rhys says. “We know Ben is involved, somehow. I think you should just sit tight, watch your Jax account for a little while, and see what happens. Back up the screenshots, all of them, online and maybe on a hard drive.”

  I open my email again and nearly choke.

  “What?” asks the blonde girl, leaning forward.

  “The screenshots. All the balances are back down where they were before,” I say. “The money’s gone again.”

  Lowell whistles. “How much?”

  “Roughly one hundred sixty thousand dollars, just like last time. Which divides out to approximately twelve cents from every Jax user. That means whoever this is has now taken over three hundred twenty grand.” They all gape at me. “Or more. Those are just the two times I’ve seen the money come in and go out.”