Page 138 of The Session

“Yeah.”

Lightman returned the ball and sighed. “Let’s do this again. I missed this kind of thing.”

“Sounds good.”

Mark watched as Max walked back up the tiki torch–lined path to the party.

A moment later Tru walked down to the beach.

“How did that go?” she asked Mark.

“He asked me what I thought about Morris.”

“What did you say?”

“I used a story about something else to tell him I didn’t trust Morris. Hopefully that worked.”

“Hopefully. That must have been difficult.”

“Ha! I talked to Morris. That was way worse.”

“How did that go?”

“Awkward. I think he was disarming me with kindness, but I don’t know how much he knows.”

“Well, I spoke to Marnie,” Tru said.

“That’s good. You sort things out?”

“More of a truce. I think the best thing we can do is just do our best to keep our eyes open,” Tru said. “She told me about your idea on how to use Blaise against Morris. Clever.”

“Has she leaked it yet?” Mark asked.

“A few hours ago.”

“When Morris gets singled out, things’ll go ballistic,” Mark warned.

“Eh, he’ll play it cool,” said Tru. “Trust me. But he’ll be plotting. So keep an eye out. He’s been preparing for this for a while.”

Insider

Mark was sitting in a beach chair at the farthest end of the resort, staring down at the glowing screen of Kevin’s phone. He was still trying combinations. The problem was that the phone could take up to six letters or numbers, which meant Mark could be trying to crack it well into his retirement years.

He’d tried variations on the names Max, Marnie, and Tru, as well as Kevin’s, and nothing worked. Kevin’s birth date didn’t work either. At this point, Mark was just trying random words like “beach” with no result. It would probably take a forensic technician to get it to open.

“Looking for my number?” a voice behind Mark asked.

Mark glanced over and saw a woman standing there. It took him a moment to realize it was Diane, wearing a wig and different makeup than the last time they’d spoken.

“How did you get in here?”

“Security’s not so tight on the south end. They’re slipping.” She was wearing a black cocktail dress and holding her sandals.

“Mind if I sit down?” she asked, already lowering herself into the chair.

“You’re not a podcaster or a private detective, are you.”

“Nope,” Diane replied.