Page 10

Chapter Nine

–––

You and Me

Las Vegas, Nevada

I spent what little remained of the night staring at the ceiling of our motel room while Kat dozed peacefully beside me. Returning to Vegas apparently had inspired my mind to compile a reel featuring all the terrible things that had happened six months ago. Every time I shut my eyes, I saw the Pikachu killer’s dank basement kill room. Or Jessie, dead in a motel room bathtub. Or Grace, passed out and bleeding on a table in a wig store.

So, you know. The usual.

It’s not as if I never had nights like that in San Francisco, but thankfully they’d become less frequent during the past few months. Meeting Kat had definitely helped, too.

And now, I was right back in it.

Around seven a.m., I finally gave up and got dressed as quietly as possible. I pulled my hair into a ponytail and tiptoed out of the room, carrying my sneakers. As I eased the door shut, I cast a last glance at my girlfriend, who never seemed to have her sleep interrupted by terrible flashbacks. Feeling an unreasonable surge of jealousy, I let the lock click and bent to put on my shoes. Then I set off.

Last night, I’d sussed out a good spot a few blocks away. It was a long stretch of sidewalk that flanked empty lots, warehouses, and body repair shops. When I reached it, I was relieved to see there wasn’t a lot of foot traffic at this hour. Not that I really cared, but I’d learned from experience that my particular workout routine sometimes attracted unwanted attention.

Mind you, it wasn’t a real exercise regimen. More my own sort of therapy. The previous spring, it had become glaringly apparent that maintaining a basic level of fitness was critical if you tended to attract a lot of serial killers. Even one serial killer, really. So a couple months ago, I decided to go out a few times a week to run. Literally run. I wasn’t bothering to jog or engage in marathon training. This exercise was specifically intended to enable me to flee for my life if necessary. And I figured not even a super-committed serial killer would bother chasing me over long distances.

Was this the healthiest thing for my mental state? Tough to say. But it served the dual purpose of imparting a sense of control while also generally making me feel better about myself (at least, compared to my previous utter lack of conditioning).

Here’s how it worked: I would start out walking very casually while I composed an image in my mind, usually Grace’s twin, Gunnar, but sometimes the Pikachu killer in his leather apron. As soon as I developed enough of a mental picture to kick my pulse up a few notches, I ran. Full tilt. All out. The sort of running a person only did when a tsunami was bearing down on them. I sprinted for as long as I could, until it felt like my heart and lungs were on the verge of ripping free of my body. Then I stopped dead, panting and covered in sweat.

After I caught my breath, I did it again. And again.

Four or five rounds were usually enough, but I never decided in advance how many I was going to do or how long I would go. I just stopped when it felt impossible to continue. Probably because of all the feelings kicked up by returning to Vegas, that morning I set a personal record with eight full circuits. And aside from a few early shift workers I circumnavigated as they walked toward a bus stop, I managed to do it without freaking out anyone.

When I finally made my way back to the Mayhem, the streets were getting busier. It was still fairly early, and Kat always slept in. So I decided to stop by the buffet, figuring that at this hour, I’d probably have the dining room all to myself.

As I walked down the corridor to the motel’s dining area, it became apparent that I was mistaken. The place was packed—thronging, even. I stopped on the threshold and gaped at the assembled crowd. The dining room seated twenty people comfortably but there were at least twice that number packed into the small space, and the mood seemed dark. People were scowling, grumbling; some were dressed in casino uniforms, others looked like they’d come straight from cruising. I spotted Dot and Marcella by the cereal dispensers, roughly in the center of the room. Marcella had her arms crossed over her chest and looked annoyed. Dot waved her arms and called for silence. “Hey! Pipe down, all of you! Let’s get started!”

The din subsided to a low murmur. Recognizing Portia, I made my way over to her, muttering apologies as I squeezed past people. She was dressed in a finely tailored suit and towering heels. “What’s going on?” I whispered.

“Dot’s telling everyone what happened to Gina.” Wrinkling her nose, she added, “Don’t sweat on the suit. It’s Armani.”

Dot raised her voice to be heard. “Most of you already know there’s a real creep out there. Last night, he went after Gina.”

The murmuring kicked up a notch. “She’s okay!” Dot said quickly. “Just recovering. And she won’t be earning for a bit, so if anyone wants to pitch in to help her out, we’re passing around a hat.”

“So what are we doing about this?” a woman in a miniskirt and six-inch heels growled. “Is anyone going to stop this fucker?”

“That’s why we’re here, right?” Dot said, throwing her a look. “Same plan as before. We’ll spread out as much as possible tonight to cover a lot of territory. And ladies, if you get a date and something seems off, get out of there right away and call or text me.”

“Screw that,” one of the other women said. “I’m not working ’til you get this guy.”

“I have to work,” someone else said plaintively. “I got kids to feed. What am I supposed to do?”

“Rest assured, we’re doing all we can.” Grace’s voice was quiet, modulated, but it still cut through the crowd. I went up on my toes and spotted her in the far corner, partially concealed by a large fern.

“All you can?” someone snorted. “Hell, easy for you to say. I might shave my head just so I don’t have to worry about this freak doing it for me.”

Murmurs of agreement all around.

“That’s up to you, doll. But better if we stop him, right? There’s a sign-up sheet over by the juice,” Dot said loudly. “If you want to help out, let us know which corner you’re working and who you’ll be with; we’re thinking teams of three. I’ll text more info later.”

The hubbub picked up again as the crowd started to disperse. People formed a ragged line, shuffling past the juice machine to sign up and collect the paperwork Dot had left. Portia came back with a flyer: It was a copy of the facial composites Grace had produced. Noticing me staring at it, she said, “You want it? I’ve already got a digital copy.”

“I’m good, thanks.”

“Suit yourself.” Tucking it into her Birkin bag, she said, “I have to get to a deposition. See you tonight, Pikachu Amber.”

“Yeah, see you.” As she joined the group trickling out, I approached Marcella. She was wearing jeans, a sweatshirt, motorcycle boots, and a furious expression. Hesitantly, I said, “Hey. Um, how’s Gina doing?”

“Bald and hungover,” Marcella said bluntly. “So not fucking great.”

“But physically she’s fine, toots,” Dot interjected as she came over. “And Dr. Aboud is going to give her a wig; he’s been doing that for all the girls. Such a prince.”

“Cool. Well, Kat and me are happy to help,” I said. “Just tell us where to go.”

“You got it, kiddo.” Dot peered around. “Now where did Grace get to? She was just here a minute ago.”

I spotted Grace through the plate-glass window. She was standing by the firepit, having what looked like a heated conversation on her phone. Which struck me as odd, because unless things had changed dramatically, Grace didn’t have a very active social life. Last spring I’d spent two full weeks under her roof, during which time she hadn’t made or received a single phone call.

“What’s going on with her?” Marcella asked.

“I don’t know. It’s strange, though. She seems…different.”

“The two of you need to cut her a break,” Dot said. “Poor thing looks exhausted.”

I realized Dot was right; Grace did look tired. There were dark circles under her eyes, and in the daylight, her skin was pale and washed out.

What could have taken such a toll on her? I seriously doubted that trying to track a guy who shaved women’s heads was having this sort of effect; she’d spent literal decades chasing serial killers and always managed to look fresh as a daisy.

Which only served to rekindle my suspicions: Grace was up to something, and whatever it was must be pretty serious.

“I just hope we get lucky tonight,” Dot said, wringing her hands. “I overheard some of the girls talking about arming themselves with more than pepper spray. I’m afraid someone’s gonna end up getting really hurt.”

“Hopefully the asshole,” Marcella growled.

“Yeah,” I agreed, only half-listening as I watched Grace tuck the phone back in her pocket. Turning, she noticed me watching and cocked an eyebrow. I threw her a little wave, at which she rolled her eyes and stalked back toward us. Nearly everyone else had left, barring a few motel guests who were scattered around the café tables having breakfast. My stomach grumbled, reminding me that I should do the same.

Without preamble, Grace said, “I’ve adjusted the algorithm based on the data points from last night’s attack.”

“What data points?”

“Information on the car the attacker is driving, the street corners and motels he’s targeted, the day and date, and the time of day.” She shook her head. “Unfortunately, there still don’t appear to be any commonalities.”

“Aside from the fact that he’s going after working girls,” Dot said.

“Aside from that, yes,” Grace acknowledged.

“There has to be something else linking them,” I said skeptically. “What about the victims?”

“What about them?” Grace asked.

“Well, I mean…all the stuff you listed is mostly about the guy, right? So what do the victims have in common?”

“I considered that. They’re all different races,” Grace said dismissively. “A fairly wide age range, too, considering. Although obviously there are not many older prostitutes.”

“Well, not on the corners, at least,” Dot said. “And they usually prefer to be called sex workers, hon. Maybe it’s just random?”

“That would explain it,” Grace said crisply. “In which case, there’s not much more I can do.”

“Oh shit,” Marcella said slowly. “Blond.”

“What?”

“They’re all blondes,” Marcella said.

“Oh my goodness, you’re right! I can’t believe it didn’t occur to us!” Dot clapped her hands together.

“The fact that he’s choosing blond women as targets is not necessarily helpful,” Grace said. “For me to incorporate that into my algorithm, I’d have to know the hair color of every sex worker in Las Vegas and which corners they’ve worked during the past few weeks.”

Trust Grace to immediately shoot down anyone else’s contribution. “Maybe we don’t need the algorithm,” I said slowly. “If the blond women who need to work tonight wear a different color wig, and the people volunteering as bait go out as blondes—”

“That’s brilliant!” Dot said enthusiastically. “I’ll call Dr. Aboud to see if he’s got some cheap wigs he won’t mind lending us.”

“I can cover the cost if we need to buy them,” I offered. “I mean, I kind of owe him anyway.”

Grace was eyeing me. “What?” I demanded.

“It’s not a terrible idea,” she conceded.

“Well, you know how I love to add value.” Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Kat coming into the dining room. Her hair was wet from the shower, and she looked dewy and well rested. She threw me a little wave and trotted over, wrapping her arm around my waist and leaning in to kiss me. “Hey, baby. I had that dream again last night.”

“Yeah?” I asked distractedly. “What did the octopus do this time?”

“It was amazing. He told me the secret to life.”

“That sounds important. What is it?”

“No idea. I forgot as soon as I woke up.” She gestured to my outfit and asked, “Did you already work out?”

“Yeah, I couldn’t sleep,” I said apologetically. “Sorry if I stink.”

“Do not worry about it. This buffet looks amazing!” Kat gushed, as always erring on the side of exuberance. “It reminds me of my time at Rosey!”

Grace cocked an eyebrow. “You went to Le Rosey?”

“I did,” Kat said, looking abashed. “Sorry, I realize that makes me sound like a dreadful snob.”

“I went to Choate,” Grace said.

“Oh, a fellow boardie!” Kat clapped her hands together. “We will have to swap boarding school horror stories.”

Grace’s features were hard to read, but I knew her well enough to assume that snarkiness was sure to follow. Heading it off, I said, “We should probably grab a table, baby.”

“Of course. Grace, will you be dining with us?”

“I’ve already eaten,” Grace said curtly. “And I really must be going.”

“By the way, who were you talking to earlier?” I asked.

“No one,” Grace said.

“Really? Because you looked pretty upset.”

Appearing discomfited, Grace replied, “It was nothing that concerns you, Amber. Now please excuse me, I’m late for an appointment.”

“Lovely chatting with you,” Kat said formally. She squeezed my hand and then said, “I am going to see if I can get an omelet.”

“Sounds good,” I said, watching as Grace hurried out of the room. “I’m gonna take a quick shower.”

“Are you sure?” Kat said skeptically. “You must be hungry after your run.”

“Yeah.” I pecked her on the cheek and said, “It’s cool. I’ll be back in a few.”

———

I rushed back to our room and grabbed my keys, then dashed to the parking lot and dove into my car. For a minute, I thought I’d lost her, but then I spotted Grace’s nondescript sedan idling at the red light a block down on the left. I eased out of the parking lot and followed, taking care to keep a few cars in between us.

It had not escaped my attention that I was becoming someone who stalked her friends. But I didn’t particularly care. If I’d learned anything, it was that having as much information as possible went a long way toward keeping me safe. So I was tailing someone through Vegas for the second time in less than twenty-four hours. Because last night had proven I should always trust my gut, and right now it was screaming that Grace was acting even shadier than usual.

We drove for about fifteen minutes, the area becoming increasingly familiar as we went. I frowned. Is Grace staying at the Getaway? Maybe she’d taken Dot up on the discounted rate for wedding guests? Which would be weird, because she could afford somewhere much fancier.

But no, she passed the motel entrance without slowing. I heaved a sigh of relief. At least whatever nefarious business she was tied up in didn’t involve one of Dot’s motels.

I never could have predicted where she went next. My jaw dropped as Grace’s car turned into the driveway of the Buggy Suites, a dive that made the Getaway look like the Four Seasons. This was the motel where her brother had stayed, and where Grace had planted evidence of his crimes for the authorities to find. It was L-shaped, with two levels wrapped around an empty parking lot. The covered wagon neon sign was dimmed, and a banner in front of the office read CLOSED FOR RENOVATIONS . Yet there was no evidence of work underway; the exterior was the same drab brown I remembered. It looked completely abandoned and desolate.

What the hell was Grace doing here?

My confusion only grew as Grace parked her car in front of the bank of rooms at the far end of the lot. I pulled to the curb and watched as she waved her wrist in front of a motel room door and then went inside. I sat there for ten minutes, waiting for her to come out. There was no movement, and no one else pulled into the lot. Finally, I muttered, “Screw it.” Throwing the car in reverse, I backed up and pulled into the lot. I parked beside her car and went to the door of the room she’d vanished into. It had a crooked number 6 dangling from one nail, and the curtains on the window were drawn so there was no way to see inside. I hesitated. Grace decided to check in here, of all places? Repressing a shudder, I knocked.

No answer.

I banged again and called out, “Hey! I know you’re in there!”

“Go away, Amber.” Grace’s voice crackled from somewhere above my head.

Startled, I flinched, then turned until I spotted the video camera aimed down at me from the eave of the building. I cupped my hands around my mouth and shouted, “Not until I get some answers!”

“The camera has a microphone, there’s no need to shout,” she said. “This is not a good time.”

“Well, I’m not leaving,” I said, lowering my voice slightly. “So you might as well let me in!”

I heard a noise—it sounded like someone in distress. Shit. Was I interrupting one of Grace’s rescue attempts?

And worse yet, was I putting myself in danger?

I stepped back, debating whether or not to just jump in my car and make a run for it. Then I heard a loud bang!

And like an idiot, I went to see what it was.

———

The noise had come from a room a few doors down. I hurried over and started banging on the door with both fists.

Inside, it sounded like some kind of struggle was underway. I heard muffled protests and a loud wail. The hairs on the back of my neck stood up. I tried the knob and then threw myself against the door—unsurprisingly, it didn’t budge, but my shoulder screeched in protest.

And suddenly, it got quiet. Footsteps approached the door from the other side: They sounded loud, heavy. Whoever was coming was definitely not Grace. I stepped back, dread in my heart, and looked around wildly. I had no weapon, not even my phone, which I’d stupidly left on the seat of my car. What the hell was I thinking?

As the door cracked open, I braced to run. An enormous man in scrubs glowered down at me. He was probably six-five, two hundred fifty pounds. Shaved head, tattoos, and a full beard. Beefy hands that could easily squeeze the life out of me.

The smart thing would’ve been to bolt. But no one ever said I was a genius. Swallowing hard, I said, “I’ve called the cops, so you better not have hurt her.”

His brow furrowed. “What? Who the hell are you?”

“Where’s Grace?” I demanded, cocking my chin. “What did you do to her?”

“Ms. Cabot?” If anything, he looked more confused.

From behind him, Grace called out wearily, “Let her in, Chuy. It’s fine.”

Chuy? The guy stepped aside and motioned for me to enter. I edged past him carefully, keeping him in my sight line the entire time. Then I shifted my gaze to the room and stopped dead in my tracks.

I’d never actually set foot in the Buggy before, but I had been expecting something along the lines of the Getaway or the Mayhem, except much more run-down and filthy.

This…was not that.

The room was small but immaculately decorated. The size was deceptive; it looked like a wall had been knocked down to combine two motel rooms, because it was easily two hundred square feet. My eyes swept over the plush carpet, the small sitting area with a love seat and an armchair, and the gas fireplace installed in the wall. Aside from the hospital bed, it could’ve passed for a luxury hotel room, easily as nice as the grand-a-night resort Kat and I had visited in Napa.

An old woman lay on the bed, seemingly asleep. Grace sat in a chair pulled up to the bedside, giving me one of her trademark death glares. Chuy, meanwhile, hadn’t moved from the doorway, where he stood with his arms crossed like some sort of medical bouncer.

“What the actual fuck?” I said.

“Hello to you, too.” Grace sounded drained, her voice lacking its usual acerbic quality. I noted that she was holding the woman’s hand. “What are you doing here?”

“I followed you. Again.”

“That’s obvious, Amber. Why?”

“Well, you were acting kind of sketchy, and, uh,” I shrugged. “I don’t know, I guess I got suspicious. Then I heard noises and thought maybe you were being attacked.”

Grace rubbed her eyes with her free hand. “I see. Well, then. Has your curiosity been satisfied?”

“Not entirely, no. Who’s that?” I pointed to the bed.

The older woman stirred and let out a moan. Grace’s lips pursed and she hissed, “Please keep your voice down, Amber. Mother has been sedated, but it’s best not to agitate her.”

“Wait. Mother ?” I goggled at her. “That’s your mom?”

“Yes, Amber.”

“She should sleep,” Chuy chimed in from the doorway, his voice a low rumble. He was also eyeing me with sharp disapproval, my usual charm apparently failing with him as well. “If you don’t mind, Ms. Cabot.”

“Of course, Chuy. My apologies.” Grace leaned forward and tucked her mother’s hand under the comforter and then murmured something to her.

Watching, Chuy said, “Sorry I had to call you in, Ms. Cabot. She just wouldn’t settle down. Thought she saw him again.”

“I know. It’s all right.” Grace threw him a reassuring smile, which was almost more astonishing than our surroundings.

“Might be time to have that conversation,” he said hesitantly.

Grace’s smile vanished. “Not now Chuy, okay?”

“Sure, Ms. Cabot. I’m just saying—”

“I know what you’re saying,” Grace interjected, cutting him off. She seemed to compose herself and then said, “I apologize. That came out harsher than intended.”

“It’s fine, Ms. Cabot. I get it. Why don’t you take a break? We’re cool here for now.”

“Thanks, I will.” She smiled at him again. “Someday, I’m going to get you to call me Grace.”

“Not gonna happen, Ms. Cabot,” Chuy said slyly, grinning back at her.

As she turned toward me, Grace’s smile vanished. She nodded briskly and said, “This way.”

Without checking to see if I followed, she strode toward a doorway on the right. It led into another room, which was identically tricked out, except everything was white and in place of the hospital bed stood a queen-sized bed with a white headboard. Weirder still, I could swear it was the one from Grace’s Los Angeles home.

Hustling to keep up, I said, “I’m so confused. So do you, like, live here now?”

Without looking back at me, Grace cocked her head to the side. “I suppose I live here as much as I live anywhere.”

“But, I mean, the owner is okay with that?”

As Grace opened a door at the far end of the room, she said with a sigh, “I’m the owner. Try to keep up, Amber.”

My snarky response died in my throat as we entered the third room. Grace had knocked down walls here, too, and extended the ceiling to the top of the second level. The room was twice the size of the others, occupying an entire wing of the motel. It was also eerily familiar. The main section was almost an exact replica of what I’d dubbed Grace’s “Serial Killer Suite” (SKS for short) in Los Angeles: white walls, thick black floor matting, a rolling whiteboard, and an expensive wheeled desk chair facing an entire row of computer towers and monitors. The only thing missing was the giant map of the United States filled with pushpins.

The SKS was flanked on one side by a sleek, modern kitchen with top-of-the-line appliances and a marble waterfall island. The opposite end of the room sported a seating area with a large sectional sofa facing a giant wall-mounted television. Basically, Grace had replaced squalor with a luxury open-floorplan apartment.

I shook my head and held up a finger. “Nope. Uh-uh.”

“What seems to be the problem?” Grace asked.

“Seriously?” I made a sweeping gesture that encompassed the room. “Just give me a second to process this. So last May, you came here to set up the stuff in your brother’s room—”

“The evidence of his crimes, when we were framing him.” Grace went over to the kitchen and started filling an electric teakettle.

“Right, his creepy trophies. And while you were doing that, you looked around this complete shithole and thought, ‘Y’know what? This would be a great place to live. Right here in this vermin-infested, disgusting motel.’?”

“The exterminator was very thorough, I assure you,” Grace sniffed. “Besides, the benefits were clear. There’s a busy international airport close by and several major highways. This section of Las Vegas is primarily commercial, so there are no neighbors to speak of. It offers considerable privacy.”

“So, no guests?”

“Absolutely not.” Grace wrinkled her nose. “This establishment will be ‘under renovation’ indefinitely.”

“You live here now.” I shook my head. “Holy crap. Does Dot know?”

“As I said, I value my privacy. So, no. Would you care for some tea?”

“Yeah, sure.” I stalked over to the sectional couch and plopped down on it, suddenly exhausted. “And your mom is here, too.”

“Yes.”

I watched as Grace carefully filled a small teapot with loose tea and then poured the steaming water into it. She brought it over on a small tray, along with two matching china cups on saucers with a full tea service on the side. “Fancy.”

“Yes, well. My boarding school featured an entire class on tea preparation.”

“Really?”

“No,” she said, filling my cup. “Choate was more of an academically focused institution. Your girlfriend’s school, however, might offer that as part of its curriculum.”

“Probably.” I blew on the tea to cool it and then took a sip. It was delicious. Awkwardly, I asked, “Um, is your mom okay?”

“Mother has Lewy body dementia.” Grace sipped her tea without meeting my eyes.

“Oh, sorry. That sucks.”

“Yes, it does suck,” she said dryly.

“Nice of you to take care of her,” I offered. This was rapidly shaping up to be the most awkward conversation we’d ever had, and there had been one where I’d thought she might be a serial killer.

“Yes, well. Last spring there was an incident at the facility where she was staying. Mother is a bit of an escape artist, and they did a highly inadequate job of ensuring her safety.”

“Wait,” I said, suddenly realizing something. “Is that where you disappeared to when we were in L.A.?” When I had been hiding out at her house, Grace had vanished without explanation for nearly twenty-four hours and returned looking the same sort of drained that she did now.

“Yes.” She cocked an eyebrow at me. “After that, I decided she would be better off with family. And with Gunnar taken care of, there was no longer a risk to her safety.”

I frowned. “You were hiding her from Gunnar?”

Grace sipped her tea. “Gunnar was particularly loyal to Father. It seemed prudent to take precautions, considering the fact that Mother turned him in to the FBI.”

“Wow, really?” I nearly choked on my tea. “Good for her. Did she tell you that, back when—”

Grace shook her head. “Mother was never one for confiding. Father’s capture was attributed to an anonymous tip, but I realized later that only one person could have possibly known about his activities.”

“Dang.” I shook my head. “So hunting serial killers runs in the family.”

“As do serial killers,” Grace said.

I blinked at her. “Holy crap. Did you just make a joke?”

Grace smiled thinly at me. “Some people find me quite funny.”

“Sure they do. Hell, I always found you hilarious.” Taking another sip, I said, “I can’t believe you’re living right next to Dot and she doesn’t know about it.”

She looked discomfited. “In general, I prefer to protect my privacy. In light of which, if you wouldn’t mind—”

“Oh, don’t worry. I’m certainly not going to be the one to tell her.”

“Thank you, Amber. I appreciate that.”

I finished my tea as we sat in an oddly companionable silence. Almost as if we were friends. It was weird, but nice.

Grace set down her cup. “Speaking of which, I thought it over on the way here. It was smart of you to consider the victims’ profiles.”

“Thanks,” I said cautiously. Grace was caretaking, cracking jokes, and complimenting me? Clearly we’d entered some sort of Invasion of the Body Snatchers situation.

“Of course, it will likely prove to be an enormous waste of time,” she added.

“That’s more like it,” I said.

She threw me a look. “Pardon?”

“Never mind. Thanks for the tea.” I carefully set my saucer back on the tray and got up. “Fifty bucks says we get him tonight.”

Grace reached out her hand. “You never tire of wasting money, do you?”

“Nope, never,” I said as we shook. Looking her in the eye, I said, “So this is it, then? No other deep, dark secrets you’re hiding?”

She smiled thinly at me and extricated her hand. “No, Amber.” There was more than a hint of sadness in her voice as she added, “This is my life now.”

As I climbed back in my car, I tried to shake off an overwhelming sense of melancholy. It was funny; I never thought Grace was capable of regular human emotions, especially sadness. I was starting to realize that maybe I didn’t really know her at all.

One thing was for sure: I was done following people. I planned on spending the rest of the trip appreciating the fact that my life was going great. I had money, a hot girlfriend, and friends who liked me enough to include me in their weddings.

All in all, I was killing it. Rapping my knuckles on the console, I muttered, “Knock wood.”

Because it’s never a good idea to tempt fate.