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CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

“Stella, this is Mom.” Nina tries to keep the annoyance from her voice. “Please check in. We’re not mad, we know you probably got caught up with your friends, but please call when you get this. It doesn’t matter what time.”

Nina presses the red end-call button on her phone. What a shit show. From snorting coke on that appalling couple’s plane to mentioning Cody Carpenter to her daughter to the endless fighting with David. Nina has always been superstitious that way: do a wrong, get a consequence. And this is her consequence: alone in a hotel room, her daughter doing a disappearing act, and her husband on a run, likely planning their divorce.

She opens the mini fridge and takes out a chocolate bar, likely a fifteen-dollar one, but she doesn’t care. She rips it open and takes a big bite. She can’t remember the last time she ate chocolate, and it’s delicious. She eyes the miniature wine bottle, but decides against.

She’s already performed her nightly routine: her skincare regimen, the multitude of creams, the hydrating lotion for her legs, brushing her teeth until her expensive toothbrush automatically stopped itself at the optimal number of minutes.

She pulls back her comforter, throws the extra pillows on the small sofa, clicks on the television. The host, the cute one with the dimples, from Access Hollywood , tells her about the hotel’s movie selection.

She sits on the bed, checks the time. David has been gone for a while. Longer than his usual run, but he’s angry. Even factoring in sulk time, though, he should be back by now. She picks up her phone, sends him a text.

She hears a ping from the other side of the bed. His phone sits on the nightstand. He left it when he stormed out.

There’s a knock on the door. She has a sensation—relief, maybe?—that he’s returned. He must’ve forgotten his key card as well.

“David?” she calls through the door.

“Ma’am, I’m the night manager.”

Nina peeks through the peephole and sees a nicely dressed man. Next to him a woman in a hotel uniform. Her pulse hitches.

“Hold on, please,” Nina says. She pulls the white robe tight, pondering whether to get dressed before answering.

“Please hurry, ma’am,” the voice says, “it’s an emergency.”