Page 40 of Our Last Resort

That night, I spotted the coyote again, hobbling in the distance. Either the helpers hadn’t arrived yet, or they hadn’t been able to find it. So, on the third day, when Gabriel skipped ourhike, I ventured off the trail for a few minutes and replenished my furry friend’s snacks.

I know. I know! Wildlife, National Park. But I couldn’t help myself.

I didn’t get a chance to go yesterday. Gabriel didn’t beg off any of our activities, and I didn’t feel like explaining. He’d worry about me, my safety.You went where? You did what? They’re wild animals, Frida.

In our suite, I grab a fresh bottle of water, one of the paper cups stacked by the coffee machine, and a bag of crackers from the selection of complimentary snacks arranged next to the minibar. Then I make my way as swiftly as I can out of the hotel, off the hiking trail, back to the coyotes’ den.

I pour the water, shake some crackers from the bag.

When I step back onto the trail, I hear the coyote crunching away.

Yes.

I like it, this wordless kindness. It’s imperfect, I know. Some people would scold me for it. But in this moment, it feels right.

There’s a lightness in my step as I approach the main building.

“Thank you,” a voice says. “Yes, I’ll let you know.”

Are you kidding me?

There’s just no way.

But here he is. Ending his call, sliding a finger across his phone screen. He hasn’t noticed me, but I can see him clearly from where I stand: dark circles under his eyes, polo shirt untucked. He’s been through it, but he’s here,right here,in the fucking entrance lounge. No handcuffs. Just a man in a hotel, finishing a phone call, cracking his knuckles.

William Brenner has returned.

Slowly, I take a few steps back. Why are my sandals so loud? But William doesn’t notice me. He’s focused on his phone, tapping on the screen with his index finger.

Who’s he writing to? A friend? A lawyer?

Probably both.

I tiptoe behind him and slither to the dining room.

Where’s Gabriel?

A hand waves from a table at the back. Like it did just this morning, moments before William’s arrest.

How long was he even at the police station? Seven hours? Eight?

“Hey.”

Gabriel gets up, pulls the chair across from his away from the table.

“You want to order something? I’m sure we can get you a menu if—”

“He’s back.”

Gabriel, who was trying to catch a waiter’s attention, goes still.

“Who?”

“William Brenner.”

His arm comes down.

“What?”

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