Margot （9:10 p.m.）： I’m glad he’s okay.
Margot （9:10 p.m.）： Are you still staying the night, or do you think you’re going to drive back?
Olivia winced. Getting back in her car and driving the forty-five minutes from Enumclaw to the lodge on little sleep, only to have to make a similar, if not slightly longer because of traffic, drive in the morning sounded unappealing. Even if she got right in her car, she wouldn’t make it to Salish until after ten.
Olivia （9:12 p.m.）： I’m going to crash here and head out in the morning. I’ll see you tomorrow and we can talk more then. Okay?
Three little dots danced across her screen, starting and stopping, starting and stopping, almost hypnotic if not for how they caused her heart to race.
Margot （9:15 p.m.）： Okay.
Her stomach sank. That was it? Okay?
Her phone buzzed.
Margot （9:16 p.m.）： I’ll see you tomorrow.
Margot （9:16 p.m.）： ??
How silly was it that a simple heart emoji had the power to loosen the knots inside her stomach? She pressed her fingers to her smiling lips and typed back with one hand.
Olivia （9:17 p.m.）： ??????
*
“Hey, Livvy?”
God, no. There was no way it was time for her to wake up. Hadn’t she just fallen asleep?
“Whattimeisit?” she slurred, burrowing deeper into her pillow. She cracked one eye open. Through the gauzy curtains covering the window of her childhood bedroom, it was still pitch-black out.
Dad chuckled. “Early. I just wanted to let you know I was heading out. Fishing, remember?”
Fishing. Right. She nodded. “Uh-huh. Okay.”
“You’re okay with locking up?”
She nodded. “Mm-hmm.”
Dad laughed again and leaned in, buffing his lips against her temple. “I’ll call you. You drive safe, okay? And good luck tomorrow with the wedding. I’m sure it’ll be great.”
She smiled. “Thanks, Dad.”
“You go back to sleep.”
She did. Or something close to it. The blaring of her phone’s alarm jarred her awake at eight thirty, and she dragged herself out of bed and down the stairs, in desperate need of a cup of coffee.
And the pot was empty. She shut her eyes. Figures that Dad would’ve filled a thermos for the road, but he couldn’t have left her even one cup? She sighed and reached for a new filter to make a pot, checking the clock above the stove. She had time to brew a pot and slug down a cup before running through a quick shower and hitting the road.
While the coffee maker sputtered and hissed, the pot filling, she opened the refrigerator, surveying her breakfast options. Eggs, bacon. Dad had no business eating—oh, turkey bacon. That was better. Maybe he was taking his diet seriously after all. The produce bin was stocked, and there was a tub of Greek yogurt tucked behind a jar of applesauce. Kudos to Dad. The next time he said he was doing fine, she’d take his word for it.
After filling a bowl with yogurt and topping it with fresh raspberries and a handful of granola, Olivia perched a hip against the counter, spoon in one hand, phone in the other, studying her checklist for the next two days while she ate. The coffeepot beeped just as she set her empty breakfast bowl in the dishwasher.
Mug in one hand and phone in the other, Olivia padded back up the stairs, setting her favorite Spotify playlist to shuffle and running through a speedy shower. Her ancient blow-dryer—the one she had from high school that smelled more and more like burning metal with each use—conked out halfway through drying her hair, so she let the air do the rest while she rifled through her toiletry case in search of her mascara, which, in all likelihood, was probably buried at the bottom of the bag. Concealer, no. Lipstick, lipstick, lipstick—how many tubes did she have? More than she needed—but no mascara. Screw it. Olivia upended her bag, shaking the contents out atop the counter and—
No.
At the very edge of the counter, her phone teetered before taking a tumble and bouncing not against the tile floor but the open rim of the toilet seat.
Plop.
Oh, fuck.
Her stomach made a slow descent, sinking all the way to her knees, further. She palmed her face and groaned. Gross. Reaching inside the water, she snatched her phone up and grabbed a spare towel from the hook beside the sink. She dried it off, crossed her fingers that by some miracle the screen would still come on, and—oh, thank God.
The screen lit up and she pressed to enter her passcode and—everything went black.
Fuck.
Rice. She needed rice. That’s what you were supposed to do when your phone wound up waterlogged, right? You were supposed to shove it in a bag of rice and it would soak up all the moisture over the course of a few . . . hours? Days? She didn’t have that long.