Page 61 of Last Destination

Madman slowly unhooked his arms and drew a small leather wallet out of his pocket, producing a Mexican identification card. He’d cashed in the cocaine with a connection in Panama City and spent some of his earnings on a fake identity. The relief I felt at the bit of plastic was akin to the relief of a long draw of drink.

“Salvadore Ramirez?” The agent turned over the ID in his palm, inspecting its markings. “You are the pool boy?” He dropped it back into Madman’s waiting hand, seemingly satisfied.

“I am the pool man,” Madman grunted in response, tossing a rather dour look my way before turning on his heel and leaving through the sliding door. Laughter swelled up in my chest and into my throat, but I choked it down.

“All interviews have been completed, then?” I asked instead, diverting attention from our very scary pool man. “Has Jamie provided the last details you’ve requested?”

“I cannot speak about an ongoing investigation.” Agent Hernandez hiked his bag over his shoulder and turned on his heel, apparently ready to leave. “Your interviews are complete, and you will not be needed for anything else. But there will likely be a financial settlement and criminal prosecution. Your survival may make you a rich man.”

My good humor melted into a pot of melancholy. “Perhaps, but I don’t think that trade was worth it.”

His solemn nod was the last expression he gave me before he walked out the door, leaving me alone with my thoughts.

Marley was upstairs sleeping. She’d done quite a bit of it these last few weeks. Madman was nowhere in view, perhaps scared off for now by the threat of discovery. Ambrose was still on the ship home with limited service, though I expected my usual evening text in a few hours.

I was alone, with no business being alone.

Walking over to the abundant liquor cabinet on the other side of the room, I trailed my fingers over the bottles with tender care, mouth watering with each delicate touch.

Surely, I could have one celebratory drink? Pulling one slender, clear bottle off the shelf, I uncorked the stopper and inhaled its sweet scent.

One drink.

Two days later …

“Hey-er, Nik?” Marley’s tentative voice hung at the threshold, cautious and sweet. A groan escaped my throat before I could pretend I wasn’t still languishing in self-induced stupor.

I’d have given anything for her to share a bed with me last night, but since her request for space, I’d given her as much as possible, as much as it pained every part of me. We’d all taken up residence in separate bedrooms over the last few weeks while we recovered. There’d been a few blissful evenings where she’d chosen me, crawling into bed at the eleventh hour and snuggling into my back for warmth.

Other evenings she’d chosen Madman, but many more nights she’d shut herself into her own room and barred the door. I’d dug through so many online files once we’d settled in and found news articles related to her woods excursion and her father’s mental illness, his years of service in Afghanistan, and the attack on the bank that killed four people. An obituary spoke of her mother’s suicide.

My poor, beautiful baby girl.

I’d heard her sobs through the thin walls, and my broken heart traversed the short hallway to the reception room to snag a bottle of Belvedere, allowing its warming presence and smooth taste to keep me company when I so desperately wanted to soothe away her anguish.

Ambrose had anchored on the other side of the world. His text last evening had included a selfie of him standing on a pier at the edge of LA’s harbor. I’d come to terms with his return home — sort of — but I’d secretly clung to the ludicrous fantasy of him changing his mind mid-voyage and ordering the captain to turn around the ship, the adorably bossy bastard.

Bit of a delusional prat, apparently.

Which is why once I finished the delicious dregs of the Belvedere, I’d moved on to bigger and better things: Irish Whiskey.

“Nik?”

The door cracked open, followed by the light rustle of feet padding across the floor. Then the sheet slid open, exposing me to air far cooler than we’d gotten used to in the jungle heat.

“Nik, please answer me. I know you’re not asleep.”

Blowing out a breath, I rolled over and cracked one eye. The morning light eviscerating every blood cell in my brain. I slammed it shut. She looked beautiful in that briefest second, a few weeks of medication and actual meals had filled out her face like a cherub angel, but the sorrow remained as potent as the day she’d collapsed.

Would we ever be well and truly healed, or was the trauma so deeply embedded, we’d never be free of its curse?

Would I ever be free of my curse? The pounding drumbeat of one thousand percussionists at my temples said no.

“I hate seeing you this way, Nik.” When I braved another look, a flood of tears trailed down her cheeks, soaking into the white duvet.

She was crying for me. Oh no, no, no.

“Please don’t cry, baby girl.” The plea was scratchy and raw, like I’d spent the night screaming all my troubles into an abyss. From where I sprawled, I trailed my long fingers in a soft line down the length of her exposed thigh. “Please don’t cry.”