“Two grand.”
My heart sinks. Like Pops, I know that’s not enough to raise an eyebrow. With his hefty salary, Scott can easily pay him back.
“Do you think he owes Donatelli money?”
“Don’t know. But killing Brandon off wouldn’t solve the problem. He’d be literally cutting off the hand that feeds him.”
Frustration peppers Pops’s voice. “I can’t connect him to Brandon’s hit and run. He says he never left his Wilshire Corridor condo until late afternoon—way after the accident. The doorman corroborated this as did the building’s surveillance camera.”
“What about Donatelli?” I ask, feeling less and less hopeful.
“Zippo. We can’t trace him. He covers his steps all too well.”
When it comes to detectives, Pops is the best of the best. Yet, he can’t get to first base with either Mama’s case or Brandon’s hit and run. I know how defeated he must feel.
“What about Katrina?” I ask impulsively.
“She’s in the clear and has an alibi too. She says she was at her mother’s house. Her mother backed her up.”
What was I thinking? With all she stands to gain from marrying Brandon, she’s the last person who’d want him dead.
“Pops, did you show her the green glass heart?” It’s the one unusual thing that Pops found at the scene of Brandon’s accident. While I think it belongs to some local jogger, Pops is convinced it belongs to the person responsible for his hit and run.
“There’s a prob—”
“Pops, you’re breaking up. I can’t hear you.”
Shit. As I turn onto the 29—the Palms Highway—I lose my connection. Even if I could keep my phone at the spa, chances are I wouldn’t get service so deep in the desert.
With a leaden heart, I soak in the scenery. Though I’m not far from the Palm Springs hotel where I stayed with Jeffrey and Chaz just a week ago, this feels like a million miles away from civilization. Driving in silence, I pass miles and miles of exotic cactus, geologic rock formations, and spiky, twisted Joshua trees that look like they belong in a horror movie. In the distance surrounding me, the snowcapped Santa Rosa and San Jacinto mountains glow umber under the setting desert sun. It’s almost surreal.
Twenty minutes later, a campus of unpretentious adobe buildings rises from the desert landscape. I’ve reached my destination and pull into the entrance. I check in, surrender my phone, and then retreat to my quarters in the women’s building.
The room is small and utilitarian. It’s actually closer to being a jail cell than a room at a spa. There’s just a cot, a set of drawers, and a bathroom—a perk for returning “students of life.” Newbies have to use a communal one. I quickly unpack and put away the few things I’ve brought along, mostly yoga pants and tees plus my swimsuit, and call it a night. Except I don’t fall asleep. f*ck
ing Brandon’s in my dreams. And I’m f*ck
ing him.
Over the next few days, I set out to accomplish what I’ve come here to do. The spa is renowned for offering peace and tranquility, quietude and beauty. Rooted in a form of meditation that originated in ancient India, Vipassana is a refuge for the human spirit, self-discovery, and healing. Each morning after a sparse breakfast of blended organic juices, I retreat to a meditation room and meditate. As I sit cross-legged on a mat surrounded by a dozen other similarly posed individuals, I focus on my breathing and try to cut him loose from my conscience. But I can’t. All this visualization crap is backfiring. His gorgeous face fills my mind as I contemplate my resignation letter:
Hi Brandon…
Yo Brandon…
Dear Brandon…
Dearest Brandon…
My Dearest Brandon…
My Beloved Brandon…
Hey Dickhead…
Tears sting my eyes. I can’t get past these words. Vipassana means seeing things for what they really are. After three days, it’s as clear to me as the desert sky—I can’t leave him. I’m addicted to him…in love.