She slipped on the shoes and the robe and walked to the tiny dining room table. The munchies she’d seen earlier had been exchanged. A bottle of Pinot Grigio chilled in a bucket of fresh ice. A round loaf of bread sat on an oversized white ceramic plate and next to it, on a yellow napkin, was a spoon. She lifted off the top piece of sourdough and grinned. A thick, hearty beef stew waited inside, its fragrant smell promising beef, carrots, onions, potatoes, and spices. For dessert, she’d been given strawberries with a dish of whipped cream. As she gazed at the simple feast, her stomach rumbled, and she realized she hadn’t eaten since breakfast.
She found it hard to believe her brother had arranged all this opulence. It had to be an apology on his part for making her live in a dive for half a year. But how in the world had he managed to get the FBI to pay for her star treatment?
“This is heaven,” she murmured, sitting down. She poured a glass of wine, and ate, savoring the flavorful stew and nibbling around the edges of the “bowl.”
After she had finished, she refilled her wine glass and carried it and the strawberries and cream out to the deck. Candles had been lit along the rail, too, with a single tealight on the small table. She put down the plate of dessert and meandered to the rail. Hayley watched the waves roll in, listening to the water rush the sand and then the sucking sound of it receding. The moon was just a sliver of pale light, and the stars looked liked diamonds embedded in black velvet. The sky looked like the ultimate jewelry store. Her gaze drifted along the beach. She spotted a man standing at the edge of the surf, and her body went rigid with alert as she squinted for a better look at him. He wore a tank top and shorts. The wind toyed with his shaggy blond hair. Blond hair meant he wasn’t Santos, but it didn’t mean he didn’t work for him. The man turned and looked her way. Hayley resisted the urge to duck under the deck rail. She couldn’t make out his features, but saw the flash of his smile. He lifted a hand, waving.
She waved back.
Who was he? She was the only guest so he must be the bellboy, or maybe the caretaker. Something about his stance looked familiar but before she could discern what, the man turned and walked toward the hotel.
Logic told her that he was probably harmless. For heaven’s sake, how would Santos figure out where this island was—when she didn’t even know.
With the beach empty again, she returned to gazing at the dark water. The ocean was between her and California, and so it felt like the danger was far, far away. But so was Ben. Her brother had been her anchor. She knew if it were possible for him to get inside her head and help her carry the burden, he’d do it.
Hayley put her glass of wine on the table then went to the kitchen where she’d dropped her purse onto the counter. She noticed her suitcase had been delivered and stood near the door. She opened her purse and pulled out the cell phone. She had one text message:
Glad you made it. Everything will be okay.
She didn’t recognize the number, but she knew the message came from Ben. After all, no one else knew her location. She’d left her job, her friends, and her life. Walked away from all of it to ensure that Maria would get justice—and Rodrigo Santiago got put into prison where he belonged.
In the weeks after the murder, she’d been a ghost. She hadn’t been able to erase the image of Rodrigo entering the bedroom, lifting the gun, and pulling the trigger.
The utter coldness of the act staggered her.
Breathe, Hayley.
She walked out to the deck, kicked off the slippers, and stretched out on the chaise. The breeze wafted over the deck, and she watched the tiny flames of the candles flicker and dance. She loosened the belt of her robe and allowed it to fall open. She enjoyed the way her skin prickled at its gentle assault. She settled deeper into the chaise and closed her eyes, enjoying the little gusts assailing her flesh.
After a while, she returned to the bed and snuggled under the covers. As she drifted into sleep, she repeated her new mantra.
Everything will be okay.
Three
“Have you found Hayley Nelson?” Rodrigo Santos stood at the floor-to-ceiling window of his luxurious office and stared at the concrete and steel landscape of Los Angeles.
“No, sir.”
“That’s disappointing.” He turned and glared at the young man with the sharp haircut and the bad news. “I hate loose ends.”
The underling—Tom or Tim or something—swallowed hard. Rodrigo smiled at the flash of fear that crossed the boy’s face. He should be scared. He knew Rodrigo could snap his fingers and make his sorry ass disappear.
“Go away.”
“Yes, sir.” The idiot practically ran to the double doors. He’d probably peed himself, too.
He went to his phone and pressed the speaker button. “Genevieve, call Mr. Riley and issue an invitation for lunch.”
“Right away, Mr. Santos.”
“Oh, and the young man who left my office?”
“Timothy Jones, sir.”