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“I fell in love with Deacon. Now he’s gone, and it’s tearing me up inside.”
I expected Andy to look uncomfortable. Instead, the expression he gave me was sympathetic. “Yeah, I figured it was something like that.”
Then, to my surprise, he brought out a thick manila folder. My file. “Kendall, I was going over your attendance records and I don’t think you’ve ever taken a vacation. Am I right?”
“Yeah,” I admitted.
Andy just looked at me. Waiting.
I opened my mouth and closed it. The knee-jerk fear reaction of going back to the mainland was still there, but the heart-wrenching grief of knowing that Deacon hated me was worse.
“When is the next boat leaving?” I asked, breathless.
Andy’s smile spoke volumes. “As a matter of fact, the next shuttle out leaves tonight.”
“Andy,” I said, standing up and deciding, “I’m going on vacation.”
* * *
I didn’t know if I was chronically self-absorbed, incredibly lucky, or if the world moved on from a scandal that had happened years ago.
Either way, there were no paparazzi waiting to ambush me the second I stepped off the plane with bulbs flashing and cameras clicking. No part-time journalists, or even a bored blogger or two looking to make a name for themselves.
All the weird, paranoid scenarios I had tortured myself with over the last few years came to nothing. I wasn’t sure if I should have been relieved or aggravated.
Airport security had tightened up and I was forced to use my passport with my real name. However, the customs official who welcomed me back home didn’t even blink at my dorky teenage photo.
He didn’t recognize me at all.
Once outside the airport, I took a deep breath of air from within the United States for the first time in too long. It smelled a lot like overheated asphalt.
“I’m home,” I told myself, paused to savor the moment, and went on a search to find a taxi.
As a relaxation consultant, I had access to Deacon’s entire resort file. That included his billing and home address. Using that information might get me in trouble when I got back to the island, but I would just have to deal with it. Either way, the information gave me a starting point.
Deacon lived in a fancy high-rise apartment in the middle of downtown. The type that was manned by a legitimate doorman and everything. I hoped I didn’t have to tip the guy. I had no cash on me.
I tried to sneak past him, only for him to step in my way.
“Can I help you, sir?”
“Deacon Helman,” I breathed, my heart beating jackrabbit fast in my chest.
He gave me a strange look. “Excuse me?”
I cleared my throat. “I’m here to see Deacon Helman,” I said and then added a reluctant, “Please.”
The doorman nodded and stepped aside to access an old-fashioned landline phone. I waited with bated breath.
This was it.
At least Deacon was going to know that I was here for him. When he inevitably told me to take a hike, I planned to just plant myself here and wait him out. He had to come out of the building sometime.
But to my shock, the doorman replaced his old-fashioned receiver back on the hook and gestured me to step inside.
“Thirtieth floor, penthouse. Do you know the code?”
“No?”
