“How is that possible?” I mutter. I push through the entrance to the bar and shoulder through the crowd of people. It’s early but the ladyboys are already moving sensually to the rhythms of Lady Gaga and Rihanna. “We tracked down all these people ourselves.” Lena’s jaw clenches, but she doesn’t say anything. We’re both beginning to realize that anything is possible. But the thought that this is all some sort of master plan to . . . what? Confront us both? Make us fight over him to feed his already overstuffed ego? Seems nuts.
“I don’t know,” Lena says quietly. “But remember the music lyrics in the suicide note? What if it’s some sort of message to us? I can’t figure it out. The eight-eighteen has to mean something. Maybe you should take a look too.”
“I don’t want to see the letter,” I repeat. “Keep it. I can’t analyze or wonder anymore. I just want to get our passports back and go home.” It occurs to me that “home” means returning to a life without surprises, save whether I’ll get along with my new college roommate and whether I’ll like my courses. Suddenly I feel very old and as if a chasm has opened up between me and the people who will soon be a part of my life but who haven’t shared this experience with me. It’s as though, in this one week, my identity has shifted, toppled, and rebuilt itself into something that makes me different from everyone I know—everyone who’s not Lena, anyway. I wonder if I can ever go back and be happy the same way I was. The thought of the preprofessional studies program I’m enrolled in—with its safe career trajectory and solid job prospects and predictable curriculum—makes me feel like I’m looking backwards and forward on someone else’s life. Not mine. The life I had, it seems, no longer belongs to me at all.
We have to go back. But I’ll never go back to the way things were.
“But eight-eighteen—August eighteenth—is tomorrow, Aubrey,” Lena reminds me. “What if that moment he referenced—the shoes at eight-eighteen—means something? In that conversation, he kept saying, ‘The woman dies.’ Why would he have referenced that particular moment if he was talking about his own death?”
What if it means something?
Her words echo in my ears a million times over, but I don’t bother to respond. Part of me wants to chalk this all up to the delusions of a heartbroken girl, but I know by now it’s more than that. If it means something, we’ll know soon enough. Tomorrow is coming for us; and for once, I feel brave enough to meet it head-on.
We return to the dark wooden bar where we spoke to the barback this morning. Now, at nearly four p.m., it’s lined with patrons. It’s hard for us to push close enough to get anyone’s attention. An unmistakable wave of relief overcomes me as I spot Dana’s lithe form in the far recesses of the bar, talking to a pretty Thai girl with long dark hair, high cheekbones, and dramatic eyes. They’re near a door that seems to lead into a kitchen or washroom. Dana glances over, sees us, and moves toward us. The other girl disappears hurriedly through the door to the other room.
“I told you to stay put,” she says, her brow creased. She looks over her shoulder, grabs me by the wrist, and yanks me toward a small table that’s set off from the adjoining bar. Lena trails behind us.
“We came for our passports,” I say. “We’ll handle everything ourselves.”
“I’m getting you on a flight tomorrow,” Dana says. “It’s the earliest I could get—tonight’s booked full. I can’t talk long or I’ll get in trouble.” She turns, craning her neck to look at the bar behind us. “It’s routing through Boston, then on to Chicago. I know a guy who works for the airlines. He’s going to pull his discount.”
“We’ll take care of it,” I repeat while Lena watches us.
“I already handed off your information,” Dana says. “I have your passports here—I just made copies—but I guess I can call to see whether he’s already made the booking.”
“Why are you being so nice to us?” I ask.
“I told you, you seem nice. I’m trying to help. I’d rather not see you get screwed over again by my brother. Besides, you’re giving me that ring. It’s not like I’m giving you a freebie. My act’s about to start. So if you’d like to talk more, we can do it tonight. Here are your passports.” She fishes around in the small sequined clutch she’s carrying and produces them. I grab them and she stands up to go. Lena glances down at the sapphire band she’s promised Dana in exchange for the tickets. She twirls it once, twice around her middle finger, her mouth turned down.
“Cancel the flight,” Lena says suddenly. “I think I’d like to stick around Bangkok for a while.” I stare at her, astonished.
“What are you talking about?”
“I’d like to hang out around here,” she repeats, meeting Dana’s eyes. “There’s no reason to run off just because Charlie’s nearby. Why let him dictate what we’re going to do?” I start to protest but she jabs me hard with her heel under the table.
“No.” Dana shakes her head and sits back down. “No. You have to get on that plane tomorrow.”
“Why?” Lena asks, and now I know what she’s doing: she’s provoking Dana in order to get more information.
“You just do. It’s safer that way.”
“I feel perfectly safe right here,” Lena says breezily. “I’m not afraid of Charlie.”