Page 27 of The Lookback

“You must be kidding,” I say. “I stay at the Ritz-Carlton—you’re telling me they can’t keepbedbugsunder control? It must be a reaction to a new laundry detergent or something.”

“Then you should be happy to show me your bedroom. With this many spots, one quick peel-back of the sheets should show some signs of them if they’re the cause.”

I want to refuse, but her logic is sound, so I find myself leading the woman back to my room. “I’ve barely been here two nights in the past week.”

“Which would explain all the bites. They were probably hungry while you were gone.”

I might be sick.

“Uh-oh.” The woman’s pointing at some kind of blotches on the sheets. “Yeah, you’ve got a problem with bedbugs.”

“Did you say you’re a nurse or that you work for Terminix?” The hair on my arms is all standing on end. I’m scratching my head, and then my arms, and then my entire body itches like mad. “This can’t be happening.”

But it is. Two hours later, I’ve bludgeoned the biggest bedbug company in Salt Lake into bringing everything they have down here. I’ve dumped all my clothing into a pile to be burned.

“You know, we don’t have to burn everything,” a man’s telling me.

“Are you kidding?”

“Some of this stuff looks pretty nice.” He’s bumping my designer shoes with the toe of his black work boot. “If you put it into bags and left it in the attic for a few months?—”

“I would rather die,” I say. “Burn it.”

He looks disappointed.

“Or take it home to your attic and sell it on Poshmark next year for all I care.” There’s a reason I never buy secondhand. I suppress my shudder.

He’s gathering up my infested stuff so fast I can barely get out of the way.

“Where are you going to live while this is being treated?” the other tech asks.

I shrug. “It’s not like there are great hotels here.” I think about going to Abby’s. I’m going to have to tell her—and Ethan—about the bedbugs, I guess. I hate the idea of tellingmorepeople, but Ethan can’t live here either. He’ll probably come home from Beth’s with that poorly trained border collie puppy of his and stare, dumbfounded, at the house. I’m doing the full court press, of course. Heat treatment—we’ll need new blinds—tenting with chemical treatment, and spraying around all the walls and furniture.

I want every single one of those bloody boogers and all their children and their children’s children all deader than dead. Which the bug guys keep telling me isn’t possible.

Actually, my preference would be to burn the house down, but the tech assured me repeatedly that it’s not necessary. My bed was apparently, horrifyingly, ground zero. The Ritz-Carlton is going to be hearing from me, because this is just. . .

I shudder again.

I don’t even have a bag packed, because I’m burning all my clothes. The obvious place for me to go is Abby’s, but she has so many kids. Beth’s place could be infested, with as much fraternization as she and Ethan have. I can’t risk it. I could try Amanda’s house, but Maren’s worse than a baby, and Emery never stops talking.

Mandy Saddler.

She’s a tough lady—she won’t faint when I say bedbugs. She’ll also let me take a hot shower and burn my current clothes. I can wear something of hers until my assistant gets my new stuff here. I told him it has to come quick. Quicker than quick.

I call Ethan on the way to her place, and I text David and tell him I’m in the middle of a nightmare, and I’ll explain what’s going on later. Ethan’s way less worried than I expect, but then again, maybe he’s just keen for any excuse to stay the night at Beth’s place. Hopefully he won’t be angry I had all his blankets and clothing burned along with mine.

Oh, well. By the time he figures it out, my assistant will have a whole new wardrobe of boring work boots and khaki overalls ready for him. He’ll get over it.

There are a bunch of cars here when I reach Mandy’s, and for a moment I worry that I’m interrupting a party or something, but then I realize that one of them is hers, one is Amanda’s, and one is Abby’s. Just the usual suspects.

Abby sent me a message earlier saying she had paperwork for me to sign—probably why she’s here. We can get it all done at the same time. Plus, with everyone here, she can’t really turn me away, right?

I march through the front door without knocking, and everyone turns toward me, their eyes wide, their breath almost bated.

“What’s going on?” I ask. “Did I toss the invite for a Mary Kay party or something?”

“You have horrible timing,” Abby says.

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