She threw that note away and started again. “Leave $5,000 in a—”
She threw that note away. She took a photo of the stolen tomb treasures. She printed the picture, put it in a plastic bag and wrote, “I know what they’re worth. Leave $25,000 in cash here in an envelope on Sept. 12. When I have the money, I’ll return the box to Ocean Notch Park beside the high schoolers’ painted rock.” She’d make the drop-off in broad daylight, on her way out of town, when there were people around. She’d be safe.
She reread the note. The handwriting was shaky, but she sounded clear and tough. She knew the smuggler—who could it be?—would follow directions. Because…millions. All she had to do was put the letter in the bag with the photo, return to the tree and drop them off, and not get caught by someone who… Briefly, she shivered. Someone who might be violent.
She would not chicken out. Better do it now. She donned dark clothes, pulled a dark wool hat over her blond hair and ran in a crouch back to the tree. She put the plastic bag in the hole at the base and a rock on top of it. She raced back to her cottage, and every moment she felt the back of her neck crawl. When she was inside, she locked the doors, checked the rooms, sat on the bed and stared at the collection of statues.
They stared back, solemn, angry, cruel.
They gave her the creeps, so she packaged them up again and stashed the box in the closet.
The next morning, the sun was shining. She went to work and apologized for being late. Annie was, as always, a sweetheart. That skinny exercise freak and spa director, Mara Philippi, invited her to attend the new self-defense class. One of the pilots who flew guests into the airstrip confided that he was a war hero and hinted at a tragic disposition that only a woman’s true love could cure.
As Priscilla worked on the resort’s supply orders, she began to think she had a future here. She began to have second thoughts about demanding money from a smuggler who, well, might be willing to kill for a fortune. Millions. Maybe she shouldn’t have sucked down that entire bottle of wine…
At noon, she returned to her cottage, got the box, brought it to the resort and stashed it. But now what? She couldn’t give those statues to the authorities. She had incriminated herself by writing that note. She needed to retrieve the note. Then she would take the box of horrors to Mr. Di Luca and tell him…tell him what happened, but say she forgot about it. Or she didn’t realize what was in it.
No, not that. Better to pretend she hadn’t opened it.
Whatever. She’d figure it out.
She spoke to Sheri Jean Hagerty, the guest experience manager, and volunteered to lead a tour of the property. Sheri Jean was surprised, but civil. She gave Priscilla a stern lecture about how to behave to the paying guests, then anointed her official Yearning Sands expedition guide.
Priscilla promised to do everything precisely right. She put on the charm for the guests, made a point of taking them to the tree and explaining why it was called the One-Finger Salute and glowed when they laughed. She directed their attention to the nearby stack of boulders and explained it was called the nut sack, because the rocks were shaped like walnuts, and she pulled a disbelieving face. They laughed again. With some surprise, she realized she could be good at this. She directed them to the path leading to the Butler Lighthouse Viewpoint, told them it was a great spot to watch for whales. While they were off exclaiming about the panorama, she checked on the plastic bag.
It was gone. In its place was something that looked like… She leaned down and brushed at the dirt. Something mostly buried… She brushed a little more.
A finger.
A hand.
A woman’s hand. With polished nails. And a ring.
A hand. Dear God, a hand, a hand, a severed hand.
Priscilla didn’t scream or throw up. She had enough sense for that. Head swimming, she stood, wanting to get away from the vile thing. That threat. That promise of death and dismemberment. What should she do?
Run away. Now.
“Are you okay? You look ill.”
She jumped, looked up at the older woman, a guest with concern on her plump face. The hand in the ground was revealed, crumpled in death’s agony, so Priscilla made eye contact with the woman and started shoving dirt into the hole with her shoe. “I don’t feel well. A sudden sickness… Flu season has started…”
The woman took a step back. “You should head back.”
“You’re right. I should. I’ll call the other guests…”
“No!” The woman took another step back. She didn’t want to be infected. “Send somebody from the resort for us.”
“Thank you. I’m sorry.” Priscilla must look bad. White. Sweaty with fear.
She was going back to her cottage to pack. Now. Put everything in her car and run away. And whoever found that box of cursed statues could keep it.
I have three confessions:
I’ve got the scar of a gunshot on my forehead.
I don’t remember an entire year of my life.
My name is Kellen Adams…and that’s half a lie.
2
Washington State’s Pacific Coast
Yearning Sands Resort
January of this year
On January 27, a low tide revealed ocean caves normally submerged by water, Leo and Annie Di Luca left on vacation, a woman’s mutilated corpse was found on the grounds and it rained.
The rain was business as usual.
In early November, US Army veteran Kellen Adams had accepted the position of assistant resort manager. Annie had warned her she had arrived at the beginning of what the locals called the Monsoon Season.
Kellen had chuckled.
But they weren’t kidding. In winter, on the Washington coast, wind blew. Rain fell. The sun rose late and set early. Every day was an endless gray. The holiday season had been busy and full of guests and lights and cheer, but when the decorations came down and January trudged on, their few guests came for discounted prices on meals and rooms. The resort used the downtime to paint, repair and clean, and Annie practically pushed the hospitality staff out the doors, telling them to go somewhere sunny and come back refreshed and ready to face the Valentine’s Day rush. Everyone snatched at their chance to vacation elsewhere, and they knew where to find deals. They were, after all, in the hospitality business. They had connections.
Kellen told Annie she had nowhere to go, no relatives to visit and no desire to smell coconut-scented sunscreen. She stayed, reveling in the isolation, determined to learn everything Annie could teach her, and kept so busy she fell into bed at night and rose early in the morning. She loved the schedule; it left her little time to think, to remember—and to not remember.
Then on that dark, cold, rainy morning of January 27, Annie followed her own advice. She and Leo prepared to fly to warm and sunny Bella Terra, California, to celebrate their family holidays at the original Di Luca family resort.
Under the hotel portico, a group of elderly tourists climbed into a tour bus, so Annie rolled in her wheelchair through the rain toward the limousine.
Her assistance dog, a black Lab named Hammett, trotted beside her.
Kellen walked on the other side, holding an umbrella and protecting Annie from the windblown blasts of rain, her brain’s little quirk kicking in, her mind subconsciously scrolling through its catalog of data on the elderly woman:
ANNIE DI LUCA:
FEMALE, WHITE, ELDERLY, HEIGHT UNDETERMINED. TOO THIN. CURLY WHITE HAIR, GREAT CUT, BROWN EYES. WHEELCHAIR BOUND. RHEUMATOID ARTHRITIS. RESORT MANAGER. BRILLIANT WITH STAFF AND GUESTS. KIND TO A FAULT. FRAIL. HUSBAND: NAPOLEONE (LEO) DI LUCA, MARRIED “SINCE THE EARTH’S CRUST COOLED.”
“We’ll be back in two weeks,” Annie said. “After my last experience with an assistant, I was determined not to hire a replacement. But Leo insisted, and you know the only reason I relented was because you were a wounded veteran.”
“I wasn’t that wounded.” Kellen rotated her shoulder.