Page 82 of Our Last Resort

Literally anywhere but here?

“The nearest town.”

Catalina presses a button and tells someone on the other end of the line that a guest has requested a ride to downtown Escalante.

“You can go to the entrance lounge,” she says. “The driver will meet you there.”

The car pulls up a minute later, so clean it looks brand-new, Ara-branded water bottles in every cup holder.

“It’ll be about thirty minutes,” my driver, whose name tag saysLeon,informs me.

“Sounds good.”

The car passes rock formations, a handful of tourists posing for photos. A gas station sprouts along the side of the road.

Then, the town.

I haven’t seen a town in almost a week.

My shoulders relax. It’s a reflex, something I’ll never be able to rewrite: Towns, no matter how small, mean safety. They mean freedom.

Leon drops me off on Main Street. There are low buildings on each side: a grocery, a thrift shop, a couple of motels, and a store that appears to sell everything from office supplies to souvenirs. The sidewalk is so hot that it burns my feet through the soles of my sandals.

“Will you need a pickup?” Leon asks through the driver’s side window.

Good question.

“I…don’t know yet.”

Leon considers me.

“Just call the hotel if you do,” he says. “Someone will come.”

I nod.

Leon gives me a little wave and pulls away.

It dawns on me that I haven’t brought anything aside from my phone and a pair of sunglasses.

Yeah, well. I’ve survived worse with less.

A coffee shop comes into view, minuscule but well-tended-to. Its façade is pink and bears the establishment’s logo (a prowling bobcat). Inside, the furniture is modern, the walls decorated with artful renderings of bones—very Georgia O’Keeffe.

“What can I get you?” the cheerful, blue-haired barista asks when I approach the counter.

“Coffee. Please.”

“Iced?”

“Sure.”

I pay with my phone and settle at a table in a corner. Just me,myself, and my three possessions: my cell, my sunglasses, my coffee.

My memories.

Of the night Sabrina Brenner died. Of Gabriel, who wasn’t in the suite when I returned. Who switched off the ceiling light as soon as he came back. He’s never liked bright lights; it’s a migraine thing. But you know who else doesn’t like bright lights?

People with things to hide.

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