“The call, it said it was from a town in Mexico.”
Maggie examined the call log. The phone said it was from Tulum, a place called Moloko Bar.
“There are services that can generate fake caller IDs,” Maggie said. “It could be a scam.”
“Or not,” her father said.
Maggie pulled up a travel site on the phone. It described Tulum as “a stylish vacation spot along Mexico’s eastern coast, with amazing beaches, historic ruins, and a cooler, more laid-back vibe than the mega-resorts of Cancún and Riviera Maya.”
Her father stared over Maggie’s shoulder at the photograph on the travel site: a beautiful young woman on a beach sitting on a swing set made of carved wood, paper-white sand under her feet, the neon-blue ocean behind her.
Maggie googled Moloko Bar. It was a nightclub, images of young women in glittery attire getting bottle service, apparently having the time of their lives.
She looked at her dad again. It was as if a lightbulb had gone off over his head.
“Next week,” he said, “for spring break, how’d you like to go on a trip?”
Maggie tipped her head to one side. “Where? You mean there?” She pointed at the screen.
Her dad nodded slowly, his eyes alight.
“I thought we couldn’t go anywhere this year—that money was—”
“Let me worry about that.”
“But Mom is—”
“They get back from Nebraska on Sunday. We can leave later that day or the next morning.”
“I don’t think Mom will like—”
“Let me handle your mother.”
He was acting impulsively. No, obsessed, crazy. Maybe he did have a concussion. But Maggie didn’t have the heart to pop this balloon tonight. He’d come around.
“Get some sleep,” he said. “We’ve got a lot of planning and packing to do tomorrow.”
She wanted to tell him what had happened earlier. That she’d lied to him and was sorry. That she’d been terrified. That she’d used what he’d taught her and gotten away. But instead she kissed him on the cheek and said, “Good night, Dad.”
* * *
Sitting on her bed in her sleep shirt, Maggie hugged her knees as her mind returned to the party. Her heart thrummed looking at the fingerprint bruises on her wrists. She’d been a fool. Believing Eric was interested in her. Believing he was a sweet boy, like her brothers. She tried to suppress the tears, but that look in his eyes. If she hadn’t tricked him into letting his guard down, he would’ve … She didn’t want to think about that. She wanted to forget about tonight. She wanted this stupid year to end so she could leave for college and start over. Someplace where it mattered how intelligent you were, and not just how you looked or how well you threw a ball. Someplace where she wasn’t just Danny Pine’s sister.
She wished her mom was home. She could call her, of course. But she didn’t want to call this late, worry Mom while she was out of town. Mom had enough going on, dealing with Grandpa. And returning to that town where everyone hated them.
She thought about Eric again, pretending to care about Danny’s case. Faking interest in the video. She reached for her laptop, which was at the foot of the bed. She wanted to check for any comments or tips about the video. If there was one thing the Pines were good at, it was using Danny’s case to avoid their problems. Excitement flickered in her chest. The page was filled with dozens of new comments, potential tips. But then she read them:
Slut
You should KYS
No one invited a loser to the party
Your brother’s a killer and you’re a whore
Skank!!!!!!!
A sob escaped her mouth. It was Eric or his friends, it had to be. And KYS? Kill yourself? Because she’d rejected him? Or was all this to deter her from saying what had really happened in that laundry room? She snapped the laptop shut. She pinched her eyes closed and cried herself to sleep.
CHAPTER 15
MATT PINE
The consular officer who was supposed to pick up Matt at the airport was a no-show. Matt texted Agent Keller, then made his way past the luggage turnstiles crowded with travelers waiting anxiously for their bags. He stopped at the rental car counter, but they had no vehicles available. The rental agent told him that Tulum was about two hours away, and cabs and shuttles were just outside the main exit.
He careened around the frazzled masses and through the surprisingly small doors that led outside. Bright sunshine assailed him.
Near a cluster of vans, a man holding a clipboard approached him. “Welcome to Mexico,” he said in accented English. “Do you have a reservation?”