Page 26 of Sapphire Spring

The message was clear, and it was for him. Naser needed thisphone, and the glimpse it had given him into MasonWorther’stortured, drunken life, gone.

And there was only one way to do that.

Or so he thought.

He scrolled through the apps quickly, trying not to spy. Buthe was looking for anything that might give him Mason’s address. He foundsomething better. After a few seconds, he stopped swiping at an icon featuringa sloping roof that was meant to sayhome.The app was calledDigiKey. Inside was a portal for the homeowners’association that includedMason’s streetand a homeaddress Google Maps told him was smack in the middle of Capo Beach. The appalso yielded a QR code he figured would get him through the gate. If he was metby a manned guardhouse instead, he’d simply hand the phone to the guard and beon his way. Easypeasy.

The entire drive there, at every red light, Naser wastempted to pick up Mason’s phone and start swiping. Maybe peer into the guy’sphoto library, check for hookup apps that might suggest an undercurrent oftruth to PeteWorther’shateful insults. With everysecond he resisted the urge, he felt prouder of himself.

A little way south of Sapphire Cove, Capo Beach wasconsidered prime real estate in a county awash in it—a row of mismatched two-and three-story houses that fronted right on the sand. But Naser had alwaysthought a strong enough rain could bring down the giant cliff that sat rightbehind it, crushing all those multimillion-dollar boxes into dust.

The app worked just as he expected. As the gate arm swungupward, he pulled his Volvo XC40 onto MasonWorther’sprivate street. There were no streetlights, so the reflection from hisdashboard was making it hard to see the addresses. He powered the passengerside windows down to get a better view. Cool ocean air filled the interior of hismini-SUV. A puddle of warm light fell across the street one house ahead. IfGoogle Maps hadn’t steered him wrong, it was coming from Mason’s home.

The closer he got, the more he could see of the house—abland concrete box with a spacious alleyway between it and the house to thenorth, which was under heavy construction. The garage was wide open and empty,save for a few high-ticket items. What looked like a jet ski underneath aplastic tarp, and then a set of skis for the water and the snow, both leaningagainst the wall. Only one of everything. A storehouse of bachelor treasuresleft open to the shadowy night.

Oh, dear God, no. Tell me he didn’t take off drivingsomewhere.

From where he’d stopped the car, Naser could see a back doorto the house inside the garage standing open by several inches. The light frombeyond was dim. He waited for someone to emerge, but with every passing minute,it felt more and more like he was studying the evidence of a rapid abandonment.A drunken one. He parked his Volvo against the fence on the opposite side ofthe street and saw the dark railroad tracks that lay on the other side. Mason’sphone in hand, he hurried into the garage. Even though he could easily stepthrough the back door, he knocked on the inside of it twice, three times, thenfour times and loud. No answer.

“Mason?” It felt silly, ridiculous even, to be calling outhis former bully’s name with what sounded like neighborly concern. “Mason. Ihave your phone.” There. He’d said it. It was almost like a confession. And hewas sure it would bring the man stumbling toward him if he’d heard it.

Apparently, he hadn’t, because there was no response.

He pulled the door open with one hand and slowly ascended aset of blond wood steps that put him in a gleaming, empty kitchen defined byAmericanPsychominimalism. It was open to the vast living room, with a centralisland covered in white marble and silver fixtures. The range was so big itcould feed a party twice the size of any this spacious house could accommodate.The rest of the house was so white he was willing to bet Mason probably bannedeven closed bottles of red wine.

“Mason?”

No answer. He set the phone down on the counter. The littlethud it made against the marble was the cue that he needed.

You’ve done your job. Depart the devil’s lair.

But he couldn’t move. There was still cause for concern, hetold himself. If he had knowledge that someone as drunk as Mason was on theroad currently, did he have an obligation to report it? Should he establishthat Mason wasactually gone? Was it worth the risk?Mason might shoot him if he drunkenly mistook him for an intruder. He seemedlike the type to own more than one gun.

Naser wandered into the living room and right up to theseashell-supported glass coffee table. A large shadow was visible beyond thewalls of glass looking out onto the night-dark ocean. Dim golden light camefrom both ends. It was a car. A nice one by the looks of its curvilinear shape.The headlights were off, but the parking lights glowed. And it was farther outon the sand than any car should be.

He opened the house’s back door and started toward it. InJanuary, the night winds right by the water were strong and chilly, but theFerrari’s top was down. Where he sat slumped to one side in the driver’s seat,Mason’s blond hair blew in the wind.

“Mason!”

Not a peep, not a stir. Naser ran. Sand filled his shoes,but he didn’t care. The wrongness of the scene before him had swept aside allrules and boundaries. MasonWorther, it seemed, hadtried to drive himself straight into the ocean, and that could only mean onething.

Had he been trying to drown?

Naser yanked open the driver’s side door. Mason jerkedsideways. He’d been resting one arm against it, and with the support gone, hewas suddenly groaning and trying to right himself. He’d changed into a T-shirtand jeans, but he was barefoot, which might partly explain his lousy driving.

Fine, he’s alive. I should go.

Instead, Naser surveyed the beach. He must have missed itwhen he drove past the alley, but somehow Mason’s Ferrari had traveled betweenhis house and the one north and managed to drive all the way out onto the sandwithout drawing anyone’s attention. Probably because his northern neighbor wasswaddled in scaffolding and billowing plastic tarps. Then Naser looked to thehouse just to the south.

Mason had been noticed after all. A lone figure stood on thesecond-floor balcony, floral print robe billowing in the wind even as she heldthe tie at her waist. The woman’s flame red ponytail looked poised to spillloose from her scrunchie. Large potted plants filled most of the space aroundher, their leaves dancing in the wind. An empty hammock swayed beneathglittering strands of string lights, and the light pushing through the glasswas honey colored and warm. By contrast to her welcoming abode, Mason’s lairlooked like a spaceship that had fallen out of a wormhole and landed on thesand next to it.

Naser felt a pressure against his fingers and jumped.

Mason had reached out through the shadows and taken hishand.

He’s touching me. Again.

“Nas.” The nickname turned into along, low moan. “Nasisheeerrrreee.”

---