Page 166 of Mexico Can Choke On It
“That’s enough advice.” My voice turns icy, in a way that would make my father proud.
“Certainly, Mr. Sterling. I shall return once you’ve concluded your… reflection.”
“No, stay. I’m done here.”
I get up and drop the ruby ring into my pocket. It rattles against the engagement box already hiding there. The sound shouldn’t mean anything, but it does. It’s Petra leaving. It’s Amanda waiting.
My eyes scan the room, like a junkie chasing one last hit.
Please let there be something of hers.
A tissue stained with her red lipstick. A hair tie. A single goddamn strand of hair. Something to hold on to.
There’s nothing on her nightstand, except for Echo’s sketchpad.
I pick it up. The spine is warped, the cover is bent, and the pages are curling from humidity.
I flip through the disturbing images. Page after page of some old man called Marvin. Close-ups of liver spots, nose hair, wrinkles. The words:Gross Manare scrawled everywhere like he’s documenting his own personal nightmare. And then weird sandwich diagrams.
“This belongs to Echo. Petra—um… borrowed it. See that he gets it back.”
Nigel’s gloved fingers hesitate before taking the sketchpad and flipping through it. The crease in his forehead deepens, lips pressing into a thin line. When he lands on the detailed sketch of a man’s face, his posture stiffens.
“Mr. Sterling, might I ask why Miss Brinkman had this particular item in her possession?”
“She had a theory that Echo and Fiona were involved in some kind of nefarious scheme. She thought these sketches could prove something, but she never figured out the old man’s identity.”
“Dear me,” he whispers.
“What?”
“She may have uncovered something quite serious.”
“What the hell are you talking about?”
He shows me the sketchpad.
The page depicts a balding man with tired eyes, sagging jowls, and countless liver spots. Echo captured him in stark, unforgiving detail.
“This cannot wait until morning,” Nigel says, white as a ghost. “You must come with me immediately.”
“Why? What’s so urgent?”
“Because I know precisely who this man is. And he may not live long enough to tell us what he knows.”
***
Thecallgoesstraightto voicemail. Again.
Those three little dots popped up twenty minutes ago. She’s seen my messages, she knows it’s urgent, but she’s not answering. Every second of silence feels like an eternity.
In order to avoid my father’s surveillance, Nigel escorted me to an isolated, off-limits section of the mansion, allowing me to call Petra and reveal all that we had discovered.
I hit the FaceTime button for the twelfth time. It rings. One beat. Two.
Then, she answers… sort of.
Her camera jerks around like it’s strapped to a rodeo bull. I catchglimpses: a shoulder, a bottle, what looks like a middle finger, and then her face. Blurry, shadowed.Where the hell is she?
