There is close to a quarter of a million dollars stashed under the floorboards of my shack, which will last me until I die. My wife used to say I looked like Cary Grant, but I am beyond the age that even Cary Grant looked like Cary Grant, so I’m confident that the money will be more than enough to get me to the finish line. And anyway, I spend practically nothing here. They look after me at a so-exclusive-it’s-nearly-always-deserted resort on the other side of the island, and in exchange, I eat most of my meals there.
Occasionally also, I sleep with one of the guests, wringing out every last drop of that Cary Grant advantage. I always try for the ones in their thirties, but invariably it winds up being a woman in her fifties or sixties, halfway around the world from her home, celebrating the conclusion of a nasty divorce. Even though I always give them some story about the source of my vast wealth—my imaginary homes in London, Milan, and Punta del Este—I can tell I’m not what they had in mind in terms of a rebound dalliance. But I couldn’t care less. When I’m with them, I’m thousands of miles away.
I am with Sabine. My Hermes.
I gave up everything for her—for that glorious, amber-limbed vision of female perfection I first saw standing in my living room thirty years ago. Her otherworldly beauty—her fantastic power, Nabokov called it—set its hook in me the instant I beheld her. Later, the way she looked at me with that attitude of worship—an acolyte—that was what sealed me to her forever. I lived for her attention, dedicated myself to her only. Even though, as she grew and matured through the years, she changed.
I saw her wanting more. Saw the sociopathic streak emerge and watched her stray from our commitment. But I forgave her. I forgave her everything.
I remained married to a woman I didn’t love because she insisted it was the best way, the only way, to continue our affair. Then, years later, when she finally said she had a plan for us to be together, I believed her. I trusted her when she said Perry was a problem and something must be done about him. What she intended, I never expected. And I’ll admit, after he died, I convinced myself it was only a coincidence, that she hadn’t been involved. But I knew I was lying to myself. The woman I loved had murdered my son.
So that is the truth I must live with. Some days I’m philosophical and tell myself we all die. But I know a father shouldn’t cause his son’s death, and so I’m filled with disgust for the man I have become. But then I dream about her, and I am restored.
This particular Nosy Ankao sunset has a slight green tinge to the usual lavender and pink, which gives me a melancholy feeling. I’m missing Sabine more than ever tonight. The curve of her cheekbones, the pout of her lips, the way her stomach sloped to the V between her legs. I’m desperate to see her again, but devoid of hope. I read it in the news. She disappeared over two years ago—skipped her bail and vanished, just like me. And even though I’m at the edge of the world, I think if she really wanted to, she could find me. She’s that resourceful. But there’s been no word.
I don’t like to be alone so I’ve hiked over to the resort, parked myself at the bar beyond the pool, and started on the Glenfiddich. I’m dressed in a rumpled linen suit, a white shirt, and a pair of cobalt-blue Hermès suede moccasins I found under a chaise by the pool a couple of months ago. I knew whoever left them could afford another pair. The thing is, I treasure these loafers almost more than the quarter million under my floorboards. When I found them and discovered they were a perfect fit, I knew it was a sign. A portent that I would see Sabine again. That we would be together again one day.
I am holding on to that promise tonight.
There is more than the usual smattering of guests here this week, and the pool area is nearly full. The bartender is new, a rakishly handsome young guy with dark hair and pale skin. He must’ve talked to the manager because he slides me drink after drink without mentioning a tab. The whiskey eases my mood, and we talk for a while, casually, about the turtles and an algae farm he heard about on the western side of the island. Then he asks if I recognize him.
I chuckle. “What are you, a washed-up rock star or something? I’m afraid I don’t get to many concerts these days.”
The bartender just laughs. “You used to?”
“Oh yeah. My wife and I were always out and about. Concerts, art shows, charity dinners. In another lifetime.” I laugh. I don’t know why. The memories bring a sour taste to my mouth.
“You mean, before everything collapsed . . .”
A low thrum of warning switches on inside me.
He continues. “Before you personally guaranteed your mortgage on your last shopping center in Texas, but then it all went to shit and the bank came a-calling.”
I stare at him. He has a slight southern accent. I feel like I’ve seen him before. But that’s nonsense. It has to be.
He tsks sympathetically and wipes the counter in even, circular strokes. “I always felt sorry for you shopping center guys from the good old eighties. Those fancy outlets fucked up your shit something fierce.”
“What do you want?” I say.
“Take it easy. I’m not going to alert the manager. Not until you make your decision.”
“What decision? Who are you?”
“We met once, briefly, but we can reminisce about that later. Right now we have business to attend to.”
I suck in air through my clenched teeth. “I’m listening.”
“You have two choices. Choice A: I call the manager of this place and ID you as Arch Gaines, fugitive from the law, wanted for embezzling, computer fraud, and conspiracy to commit murder. The FBI shows up, extradites you to the States, and I’m a hero. But, guess what? You’ll be pretty famous yourself, because you’ll confess to everything, grovel before your wife, daughter-in-law, and granddaughter, and beg their forgiveness.”
I feel lightheaded.
“Lucky you, you’ll get a shark of a lawyer—a friend of mine—to represent you, so you’ll do minimum time. Meanwhile, you’ll go on 20/20, Dateline. Give long, tearful interviews. Who knows, maybe even get a million-dollar book deal.”
“And you?”
“Everything on my end’s already set up. My guy’s the new whiz-kid developer at Jax, hired by Erin and Ben. Been there for a couple of months already. When you resurface and freak everybody out with your dramatic tale of woe, he’ll go to work cleaning out client accounts.”
I laugh. “Not to burst your bubble, but that’s been tried before.”
“I know, old man, I was there. But I’m not talking pennies this time. And not just Jax. We’ve got more people on the ground this time, at dozens of apps. And plenty of international backup to handle the backend.” He leans on the bar. “Do you hear what I’m saying, Arch? I’m talking a cross-platform, internet-wide, one-time deal here. Every account, every balance on every digital wallet app that exists. One clean sweep and then—poof—we all disappear.”
It takes me a minute to process. Then logic kicks in.
“So you’re telling me you write code?”
He smirks. “I write it, I hack it”—he holds up a sugar cube, then lets it plop into my whiskey—“and I get out before anyone knows what’s hit them.”
I lower my eyes to the little white cube and feel my gut twist. What exactly is this son of a bitch saying? Am I being offered an opportunity here—or being threatened with my life?
“Don’t worry, Archie, old guy, I know what I’m doing.” He rakes his hands through his black hair, squinting over my head like some kind of actor starring in his own western. “When I was in college I brought down a global cyber-hacking competition just for shits and giggles. Of course, I left that detail off my CV. To Erin and Perry and Ben, I was just another dumbass begging to grace the hallowed halls of Jax. Even though your boy, Perry, did figure it out, right there at the end.”
His lips twist into a cruel smile, but I turn away, refusing the bait. I really don’t want to talk about that whole awful subject, especially not with this ass-wipe. And we need to get back to the matter at han
d.
“What’s my other choice?” I ask.
“Your other choice.” He looks thoughtful. “Well, let’s see. In Choice B, all the above happens, only you don’t get a cut of the deal.”
Not that I need any more money, but . . . I push the glass with the sugar cube toward him. “Just how do you plan to cut me in if I’m sitting in prison?”
He clears the glass. “Remember that great lawyer I’m getting you? He was her lawyer too, back when all the Jax stuff went down.”
Her.
I straighten at the word.
“The guy knows how to get a person out of town.”
My throat has gone dry. I’m not even thinking about the awful prospect of having some scumbag lawyer spirit me out of prison and then the country. I am thinking of one thing and one thing only.
Sabine.
And I don’t even care if this prick sees my desperation. My love-torn heart. My sickness.
“Have you talked to her?” I say.
“Of course I talk to her. She’s the boss, Arch. She’s always been the boss, you know that.”
I do. And I feel weak with joy at this turn of events. The blue loafers were a sign after all. My love is alive, and she has come back to me. I am in. I am all in, even if it means I have to go to prison for a while. Because it means I will see her beautiful face again.
“One more drink,” I say. “If you don’t mind, and then we’ll talk details.”
The guy refills my glass and extends a hand to me. “Nice to make your acquaintance, Mr. Gaines. My name, by the way, is Hank.”
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
This book sprang from a quirky seed of an idea—“Lord of the Flies, but with soccer moms!”—and while I’m still convinced that book would absolutely kill, I think we can all be grateful this one evolved past that point. Dreaming up Jax, Antonia’s twisted L’Élus, and the smart, resourceful mother/daughter duo of Erin and Shorie was the most fun I’ve ever had with a book. And I have so many people to thank for contributing to that experience.
My agent, Amy Cloughley, listened to me pitch this to her over the phone and asked me some good questions that started me off on the right foot. Later, when things went off the rails (as they will), she had honest thoughts and practical solutions. Cory Johnson educated me on all things to do with tech and building an app and helped me make Jax a more realistic platform. Heather Lazare slogged through a rough early draft, sent copious notes, and spent hours on the phone helping me salvage the shiny bits. Alicia Clancy at Lake Union, a dream editor, was hands-on and encouraging at every stage. Shannon O’Neill helped me shepherd the book to its final form with her trademark grace, sharp eye, and humor.
As always, a shout-out to the regulars: My critique partners and general writer support, M. J. Pullen (who is one of the smartest people I know and always up for an emergency plot-fix meeting), Chris Negron (who offered invaluable tech expertise and insight into what it’s like to be a person who’s good with numbers, and didn’t mock me), and Kimberly Brock (provider of amazing retreats, hilarious stories, and chocolate). Becky Albertalli, George Weinstein, J. D. Jordan (who spontaneously designed Jax’s icon at one Happy Writers Hour), Ellie Jordan, and Jane Haessler. I am so thankful for each and every one of you. There were others who offered invaluable help: Elizabeth Maypoles (who helped me figure out Rhys’s scam, though she’s never done anything remotely bad in her life), Joy Garcia (who told me about hashes), Haley Herrmann (who gave me teen girl tips), Chelsea Humphrey, Rick Carpenter, Joanna Schuerman, the staff at Alessio’s, my Lake Union ladies and lads, the incredible, tireless LU team (thank you, Danielle Marshall! Thank you, Gabriella Dumpit!), the Calamity Dames—Kimberly Belle and Kate Moretti (for brainstorming and making this sometimes-maddening process so much more fun), Ashley Taylor (a constant emotional support), Mary Alice Kier and Anna Cottle of Cine/Lit, and the Tall Poppy Writers.
Most of all, I want to thank you, my readers, for making another book possible. You are the reason I write, the reason I dream up new ideas, write them down, and get them out into the world. Your encouragement, affection, and generous promotion mean the world to me. I wish I could name you all here, but, alas, I have not compiled that database yet. I love you all!
Finally, to my family: Richard, Nancy, Karen, Jim, Mom, Dad, Henry, Kathleen, Danner, Jennifer, John, and Katy (book launch party helper extraordinaire and the best sister in the world—thanks for your continued support!). Rick, Noah, Alex, Everett, as you know, I love you.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Photo © 2018 Ashley Taylor
Emily Carpenter is the bestselling author of three thrillers, Every Single Secret, Burying the Honeysuckle Girls, and The Weight of Lies. A graduate from Auburn University with a bachelor of arts in speech communication, Emily has worked as an actor, producer, screenwriter, and behind-the-scenes soap opera assistant for CBS TV. Raised in Birmingham, Alabama, she moved to New York City for a little while to pursue her career before moving back to the South. She now lives in Atlanta, Georgia, with her family. Visit Emily at www.emilycarpenterauthor.com and on Facebook, Twitter, and Instagram.
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