The Business Trip

Chapter 38. Jasmine

CHAPTER 38

Jasmine

One Day After the Flight

I wasn’t sure if I would sleep, but the next thing I knew the alarm was going off and sunlight was poking around the edges of the heavy curtains. Startled, I sat up and rubbed my eyes.

Where was I?

It all came flooding back.

Glancing over at the suitcase, I saw Stephanie’s body, still and curled into a fetal position. My stomach roiled. Somehow by the light of day things always seemed worse than in the middle of the night, the black magic of darkness gone.

Shit. I had killed this woman. Now I had to be her. Quickly I got up and made coffee with the room coffee maker. There was a minibar stocked with alcohol and snacks, and a small placard listed the outrageous prices. Still, I was very hungry, and I didn’t want to risk room service, so I broke open some of the fancy cheese and ate that along with a chocolate bar, downing it all with coffee.

I took a shower and got dressed in her underwear and bra, the black dress with the pink blazer, and the funky shoes with two pairs of socks. Spraying the Italian perfume all over me, I put on her makeup and jewelry, took her robin’s-egg blue purse and returned her ID to her wallet, then added her phone and mine to the purse, plus the sheet of hotel stationery where I had put my notes about Stephanie’s life. I was ready.

Zipping the suitcase all the way, I put it into the corner of the room and plopped Stephanie’s suitcase on top of it, just in case, so that someone who entered wouldn’t see anything to suspect.

I knew from my days working at motels and hotels that housekeepers would be happy when there was a room they could skip, so I hung the DO NOT DISTURB sign on the exterior of the door handle.

Even though I had done everything I could think of, the elevator ride down had me filled with anxiety. I was heading into a strange place to pretend to be a woman I wasn’t, at a conference that had topics I knew nothing about. But I had to do this little charade for at least a day. It was part of my master plan. I would just be as quiet as I could and not draw attention to myself.

When I stepped off the elevator, there was a big sign that said WELCOME TO THE NEWS COVERAGE SUMMIT . An idea hit me. Pulling Stephanie’s phone out, I snapped a picture, went to her Facebook page, and posted it with the caption “I’m in San Diego for a conference. Can’t wait to learn new things!” Within thirty seconds, the first like came in, and I smiled.

When I entered the ballroom, a young woman with short hair, a nose ring, and a name tag that said WILLOW was the first to speak to me.

“Good morning, can I help you find your name?”

“Yes… uh… Stephanie, Stephanie Monroe.” The words sounded so unfamiliar on my lips.

“Monroe… here you are. Your table assignment is on the corner of the tag. Looks like you’re table four. Can you sign in, please?” She handed me a pen.

The guy whose name was above mine, Trent Something-or-other, had signed so largely that it spilled into my box, but I wanted mine to be small and almost illegible anyway so that no one would know that it wasn’t really Stephanie. Scribbling her name, I turned to find my table.

The ballroom was crowded, and most people were at their spots already. As I approached table four, I tried to walk in a steady, confident way but felt like I might faint. Three others were already there. A tall woman in a dark blue pantsuit and gold earrings, a short guy with curly hair and glasses in a gray suit that looked like it was made of cheaper material, and a taller guy with broad shoulders and slicked-back hair with a suit coat over a T-shirt. Steady, Jasmine , I told myself, steady and calm.

“Are you the fourth person at table four?” the tall guy asked and flashed me a smile with teeth so white I knew they had to be fake or at least mega-bleached.

“Yes,” I said, controlling my voice and trying to project confidence. “My name is Stephanie Monroe.”

“Trent McCarthy, NBC6, Atlanta, and it certainly is nice to meet you , Stephanie.” He gave me a full up-and-down look. I realized that this was likely the guy who signed his name in such a sprawling way, and based on that, his white teeth, and his leering eyes, I did not like him.

The woman and the other guy introduced themselves and asked what station I was from. My mind raced back to the piece of paper where I had scribbled notes, the one that now sat in Stephanie’s purse on my shoulder. I couldn’t remember the call letters of the station she worked at, but I knew it was CBS in Madison, so I said that and they seemed to accept it without any further questioning. We sat down, and the emcee went up onto the stage.

“Welcome, one and all. We are so excited to have you at the News Coverage Summit. I hope you all had a good trip to beautiful San Diego. We have a jam-packed few days for you, so let’s get going!”

What the hell am I doing here , I thought as the speakers started up. Most of what they were talking about didn’t make sense to me. I mean, I got it in a broad sense, but they were throwing around terms like “FOIA” and “VOSOT” and “package” and “stand-up” and “nat sound” and “track” and “MMJ” that were like Greek to me. I tried to stay still and stoic, though, just sitting quietly as if I were absorbing all of the information. I couldn’t help sneaking a peek at Stephanie’s phone once or twice to make sure no one had called or texted her (they hadn’t) and at mine to make sure Glenn hadn’t somehow been able to get ahold of me (he hadn’t). There were two texts to me from Anna asking me if I was OK and telling me that Glenn was pissed, but I ignored them for now. The good news, though, was that there were now a dozen likes and a few comments on the fake Stephanie Facebook post I had put up. Perfect.

As we were getting close to lunch, I began to feel nervous again. Listening quietly to speakers was one thing. Conversing with strangers and pretending to be Stephanie was another.

“OK, folks, before we break for a wonderful lunch, I want to invite you all to turn to your tablemates and share things that are working in your newsrooms. Go ahead—don’t be shy. Be sure everybody gets a chance to share!”

The room began humming with conversation. My anxiety spiked. What was I going to say? At table four, Trent took command, as I could have predicted.

“Dorothy… Alan… Stephanie.” He pointed at each of us and looked piercingly into our eyes. I tried hard not to avert mine. “In Atlanta, I run a tight ship. I’ve learned over the years that if you give an inch, most will take a mile. It’s also important for the boss to be decisive, so I choose what we’re covering each day and stick to it. Crime is rampant, and we’re known as the breaking news station. People turn to us for that, and we have to live up to it. It bleeds, it leads. You know what I mean, right, Al? How about you, how do you run things up there in the Zoo?”

The wiry guy spoke. “Well, we actually take the opposite approach from your style,” he said. “We try to hear all viewpoints in the newsroom about what we should cover. I think that makes for the best newsroom atmosphere. It should be a democracy, not a dictatorship.”

Immediately, I liked him more than Trent. Then the woman took her turn in a warm voice.

“We’re trying community journalism in Boston. We have assigned reporters to specific neighborhoods and they are embedded there. Some even live in those neighborhoods. We do what we call ‘hometown stories’ and profile restaurants and people in addition to breaking news, politics, and, yes, crime. But crime is not our focus. I think people want solutions-based journalism, not just an amplification of problems. We’re actually trying not to run out breathlessly to every breaking news scene. Just because crime happens and is the low-hanging fruit doesn’t mean it automatically gets anointed to the top spot.”

I knew I was next, and my mind was scrambling for something, anything to say.

“So what about you, Steph? How do you do it in Mad-town?” Trent asked and grinned with those ridiculous teeth again. My distaste for him was growing.

“Umm,” I answered and spit out the first thing I could think of. “We kind of do a little bit of everything you all said. You know, we just do our best to cover the news every single day.”

“Uh-huh,” Trent replied. “But like, what is your style?”

“My style?” I gulped. What did that mean?

“Yeah, as a news director,” he added, taking a sip of water and staring at me. Dorothy and Alan were also waiting for a reply. Trent went on: “Are you someone who likes to… punish others? Or do you prefer, you know, a softer touch?”

I saw him wink. His attempts at innuendo were so obvious. It reminded me of guys at the bar who just tried too hard. But I had to answer something.

“Oh, ummm.” I shifted in my seat, uncomfortable. “Well, my style is to be nice to everyone—but tough when I need to. I can do it all.”

They all just looked at me, and I wondered if I had said something wrong. I needed to get out of there.

“Excuse me, I have to run to the restroom.”

Grabbing Stephanie’s purse, I dashed for the bathrooms at the back. In the stall, my head was pounding. Being someone else was exhausting, and I was living off very little sleep and only cheese, chocolate, and coffee for breakfast. My stomach growled. I needed some real food. I would have to eat something at lunch, but my original plan to stay all day at this conference was seeming more and more difficult to achieve. It would mean I would have to put on the facade for a very long time, and what if they did more “sharing” things and I looked like a fool? Would I invite suspicion then? One step at a time, girl , I reminded myself. Get through lunch and then decide.

Emerging from the restroom, I saw the attendees making their way to an outdoor plaza area with a big fireplace. Tables were set up all around, and waiters and waitresses were starting to mill about. My plan was to get away from my current tablemates and just eat quietly with a new group. I drifted toward a table off to the side and near the back and was just about to sit down next to a woman about my age when Trent came up and pushed his way past her.

“Mind if I take this seat?” he said. “There’s an empty one over there for you. Stephanie and I have some unfinished business to attend to.” He winked at me. The woman huffed and walked away.

“Hiya, table-four friend. I thought we should get to know each other better,” he said. As we sat down, he turned his body so that it engulfed me, making me feel trapped in my chair and unable to turn my head to talk to the person on my other side. Then he started asking me questions. My brain was tired, but I managed to have enough firepower to accurately answer where I went to school (DePaul), where I was from (Indiana), and if I had any kids (a son named Evan). Trying to deflect the conversation from me, I asked him about himself. University of Illinois (he even told me what frat he was in, as if I cared), divorced, two kids, wife wanted all of his money. It started to feel too personal for a business conference.

Trent looped his arm around the back of my chair in a much-too-familiar way as we spoke, and he leaned in closely. I could smell stale coffee breath and feel his sexual desire oozing off him, and it sickened me. I mean, we had only just met. Did this guy think I would just go back to the room and sleep with him? I had seen his type many times at the bar, too many. I found myself leaning away from him as much as I could. Thankfully, the waitress approached.

“Hi, I’m Miranda, and I’ll be your server today. It’s a pleasure to have you with us. Are you ready to order?”

Trent turned toward her. She was very pretty, with red lip stick that made her features pop. Red lips always reminded me of Allison, but I pushed that thought down. Twenty-seven years ago, Jasmine, twenty-seven years ago. Trent looked the waitress up and down.

“Hiya, sweetheart,” he said. “I’ll take the biggest piece of chicken you’ve got, all right?”

He put his hand on my wrist. Reflexively, I jerked it away. His touch reminded me of Glenn giving me the bruise that was hidden under the pink blazer. Who did Trent think he was? Touching me so soon? Putting his arm up over my chair, his legs splayed open in front of me? I could tell all of his clothing was super high-end; I could see the large silver watch on his wrist; could smell the eucalyptus bodywash that I had seen in the shower. But his gut protruded over his belt, and he had so much gel in his hair that it was practically shining.

“Stephanie, what would you like?” Trent asked, reaching for my wrist again. I put my hands in my lap.

“Chicken is fine,” I told the waitress and tried for a slight smile. I needed the protein.

“Anything besides water?” she asked both of us.

“Coke,” said Trent in that bellowing voice he had. I shook my head. I didn’t want any more caffeine right now. The waitress walked away, and the person on the other side of Trent asked him a question about some sports team in Atlanta. Trent was forced to turn toward him, and I used that moment to angle my chair to the woman on my other side. I began asking her all kinds of questions just to keep the conversation going and keep Trent away from me. I could hear Trent and the guy he was talking to changing the subject and now comparing notes about how they had managed to scam various workers over the years to do things at their condos for less money than it should have been.

“And the guy barely spoke English, so I really got him good on that one! He never knew what hit him!” Trent guffawed, and I winced, anger rising as I thought of all of the workers I knew who scrambled for every penny.

We made it through lunch, me wolfing down some chicken and drinking a lot of water to try and clear up my headache. During dessert and coffee, Trent pulled out his phone.

“Let’s get a selfie!” he said to the whole table. “The best lunch group at the conference deserves a picture!”

“No, really, that’s OK,” I protested, thinking that photo evidence was the last thing I needed. What if he posted it and someone who knew Stephanie recognized that I wasn’t her? “We can do it later, OK, Trent?” If I could hold him off, I could disappear before this happened.

“Later? No, we have to do it now! Why put it off? Come on, gang.” Trent was already hustling the entire group into a huddle, and most people were complying, the women fussing with their hair and sucking in their stomachs as they posed with one hand on their hips, trying to make themselves look thinner.

“Come on, Steph, you stand right next to me,” Trent said, wedging his body tightly by mine. He put one arm around my waist and squeezed my side provocatively as he extended the other arm up with the camera in one hand. I was trapped again, trapped by a man and what he wanted. I started to feel angry. But the rest of the table was laughing and jostling in for the picture. They were acting like sixteen-year-olds rather than forty- and fifty- and sixty-something news directors.

“We have to get closer, I can’t see you all,” commanded Trent, and he moved in even more behind me as everyone scrunched together. He pushed his crotch against my behind.

“Whoopsie, pardon me,” he whispered in my ear.

I fought back nausea.

To the group, he bellowed, “OK, picture coming in five… four… three… two… one…”

When he said “one,” I turned my head, hoping he would see more of my hair than my face in the final shot or maybe it would be blurred.

“Going on social right now!” he called out. “Who wants to be tagged?”

“Me!” called several of the women, and the whole group began crowding around him.

Trent looked over at me.

“Steph, what’s your handle?”

I didn’t even know what that meant.

“I’ll pass, thank you.”

“Aww, come on. We’re just having some fun. I’m going to caption it, ‘The Lunch Bunch, best News Directors in the country.’”

Did no one ever grow up? People who ran newsrooms still did this kind of stuff?

I needed to get out of here. It was suddenly very clear that I couldn’t possibly stay put any longer. If people kept taking pictures, if Trent kept coming on to me, if I kept having to talk at this conference and make shit up, I might lose it and make a mistake. My original plan to stay all day looked ridiculous. I needed to bail. And I was thinking about Stephanie in the suitcase. I had to see if housekeeping had obeyed my orders and not come in today. Plus, I desperately needed ice.

“I already posted on Facebook today, I’m good,” I said.

“Suit yourself.” He shrugged and called out, “Planet earth, here is your social media gift for the day!” He hit a button.

The group started dispersing back toward inside, and Trent pulled ten dollars from his wallet.

“Always tip waitresses, especially those who aren’t hard on the eyes,” he said to me with a wink and slid the money under his plate. Disgusting creature. I tried to smile back.

“Come on, Steph, I’ll walk you to table four.” He put his arm out and crooked his elbow.

“Oh, thanks… I, uh. I have something I have to do. I’ll catch up with you.” I forced myself to smile again.

“Sure,” he said, straightening up and running one hand through his gelled hair. “I’ll keep your seat warm for you.” He grinned like a Cheshire cat.

I went to the side of the portico and looked at both my phone and Steph’s again, trying to act like some important news director checking messages. In reality, I just wanted to be sure there were still no texts for either of us. There weren’t. I exhaled.

Our waitress was at our table, picking up Trent’s ten-dollar tip. No one else was close by, so I walked over to her.

“Excuse me,” I asked. “Do you know where I can find some ice?”

She looked puzzled. “Do you mean ice water?”

“No, actually like a bag of ice, or even two,” I replied, hoping that the request was not too bizarre.

“Umm, I think we have some in the back,” she answered. “Aren’t you going back to the conference, though?”

“I’ll go back in a little bit,” I answered and thought fast. “I just have some medicine in my room that I’m trying to keep cold.”

“Don’t you have a refrigerator?”

I was starting to get annoyed by her questions but hid it and answered back quickly. “My refrigerator is broken. I have some medicine in my room that I’m trying to keep cold.”

“What room are you in? I can send it up.”

I hesitated. Should I lie? Should I tell the truth? Should I avoid the question? If I lied and they found out, they might get super suspicious.

“It’s… uh, 630,” I replied, then hastily added, “but I’ll take them up.”

“OK,” she said. “Sure, I’ll go get them.”

I drifted back to the door closest to the elevators and waited for her, looking at my phone again. The waitress came back with two bags of ice neatly tied at the top with zip ties.

“Do you want help?” she asked. “I can send one of the guys in back to go with you.”

“No, thank you,” I said, and straightened my shoulders as she handed me the bags. “I appreciate it, though.”

Turning toward the elevators, I tried to walk as upright and confidently as I could. It was only when I got into the elevator alone that I crumbled, putting the bags of ice down and hunching over, rubbing my throbbing temples.

Back at the door to my room, I was relieved to see the DO NOT DISTURB sign still in place, and even more relieved when I opened the door and confirmed that the bed was unmade and the towels in the bathroom not replaced. Clearly no housekeeper had been here in my absence. The suitcase sat across the room. I felt a bit sick looking at it. I needed to get Stephanie’s body away from me as quickly as I could.

Disposing of a dead body was not an easy task. I had to think through a way that wouldn’t arouse suspicion. I couldn’t just roll through the lobby now in the middle of the day. Someone might ask me where I was going or comment that “Stephanie” was leaving the conference with a giant rolling bag.

The back of each name tag had a tiny schedule printed on it, and I flipped mine over to read what was happening. A cocktail hour that night caught my eye. Everyone in this group was sure to either opt in for the free drinks or crash out in their room. There might be people in the hallway, sure, but likely people not from the conference—people attending a wedding or in town for some other sort of thing. I could walk down rolling my suitcase and maybe find a side door to get to my next destination, which was… where?

Kicking off the black tennis shoes that were too big for me and sitting at the desk, I googled “hidden places, coastline San Diego” and found one just a few miles from the hotel.

“Completely secluded and quiet,” the description said. “A short bridge goes over the deepest part. Bring a flashlight, there are no lights.”

That seemed spot-on to me.

Now I needed the weights. Again, the hotel gym came to mind, and I realized suddenly that the best time was right now. It was midday, and there were not likely to be many people working out. To be safe, I would try not to look like Stephanie as I went down there, in case anyone from the conference happened to be walking through the hallway and saw me.

Putting the ice in the suitcase next to her and changing out of Stephanie’s expensive clothing and back into my crappy stuff, I pulled out my trusty baseball cap and tucked my hair under it, then stepped into the bathroom, did some transformative makeup tricks to make my face look a bit different, and got out my John Lennon glasses again, adjusting them on my nose. I had no idea if hotel gyms had security cameras, but I would look around the place first to make sure I didn’t see anything obvious.

Wheeling Stephanie’s smaller suitcase to the gym, I peeked in the windows. Not a soul. Just a row of treadmills facing some nondescript buildings and palm trees with steppers and bikes behind the treadmills. The free weights were off to the side, lined up neatly on a rack. Using the key card to click my way in, I scanned the walls and corners for cameras. Nothing I could see. It was as sterile and empty as could be.

The weights ranged from five pounds to fifty. I walked over and started picking up the various denominations to see what felt like it could weigh down a suitcase with a body in it. I figured I needed at least a hundred pounds.

Hoisting two fifty-pound weights off the rack and into the suitcase wasn’t easy, and I braced myself for a story in case anyone unexpectedly walked in on me. I was a worker taking them for cleaning, I would say if the person arriving was a guest. I was a guest wanting to use them in my room for a bit, I would say if a worker came in. Just for good measure, I threw in two twenty-pounders. I had the suitcase zipped and was out of there without a soul bothering me. I couldn’t wipe the smile off my face as I sailed back to my room. Every part of my plan was working.

Carefully, I manipulated the weights into the larger suitcase, wedged around Stephanie’s body and the bags of ice. It was still early afternoon, and I knew the conference downstairs was ongoing. I needed to wait at least until cocktail hour and darkness to wheel Stephanie out, to use the wheelchair lift on the minivan to get the now incredibly heavy suitcase in, and to head to the secluded spot for the dump. In the meantime, I had to rest. I was going on very little sleep from the last two nights—the first being the night I left Glenn and the second the night I arrived here.

Drawing the curtains on the room and removing my baseball cap and Lennon glasses, I wiped off some of my transformative makeup, smearing my eyeliner and eyeshadow in the process. Oh, who cared? I just wanted to sleep. Lying down in the quiet, dark room, I was completely conked out within minutes. I was having a dream that my grandma was walking with me through a forest, down a path that was littered with purses all a robin’s-egg blue. It was twilight, and Grandma told me we were going to the deep spot over a river. Just as I was about to ask her what river, I heard a knocking. It startled me out of sleep, and it took me a minute to realize this was not in my dream but here in the room.

“Maintenance,” a man called. “Is there a broken refrigerator in your room?”

Oh, crap —my mind raced. Why was he here? How would he know this? The stupid waitress from lunch, that’s how. I had to think fast. No one could enter this room. I jumped out of bed and went to the door, opening it just a crack and peeking out.

“No, I’m OK. False alarm,” I said. “It seems to be working now.”

“Do you want me to come in, ma’am, and take a look?” the worker pressed. “The kitchen staff told me you had to get ice to keep medicine cold.”

Shit, shit, shit.

“No, thank you. I’m fine. I think—I think—” My mind scrambled. “It just wasn’t plugged in all the way. It works now. I must have bumped it when I was unpacking. I’m sorry for the hassle.”

“OK, ma’am, if you’re sure. We want you to have everything you need during your stay.”

“I’m good, thank you. I will call if there are problems.”

“OK, very good, ma’am.”

Relief flooded me, and I closed the door and put my ear to it to see if I could hear him moving away. Footsteps got softer, and there was the ding of the elevator. Exhaling, I turned to go back to bed when someone knocked on my door again. What the fuck? I froze and didn’t respond. The knocking got harder. Without moving I called out:

“The fridge is fine, thank you.”

“Stephanie? It’s Trent. From the conference. How ya doing? You OK? You never came back after lunch.”

You’ve got to be kidding me. That asshole had resurfaced again. I stayed stock-still and hoped he would go away. How did he even know I was in here? I had never told him my room number.

“Steph from Mad-town? Did you hear me? It’s Trent, from Atlanta.” He was practically yelling now. A sudden panic went through me that he might raise too much of a ruckus and others would notice. I had to respond in some way. Inching toward the door, I opened it just a slight crack again. I wasn’t wearing the same clothes from earlier and I didn’t want him to see me all the way.

“Well, hey there,” he said and leaned against the door frame. “How ya doing? We missed you at table four.”

“Oh, hi, Trent. I’m sorry I didn’t come back. I have a migraine.”

It wasn’t too far from the truth.

“A migraine? I thought you were having refrigerator problems,” he replied. My panic meter shot up again.

“No, that’s fixed now… and… how did you know that?”

“I just saw the maintenance guy talking to you. I’m two doors down. Listen, if you need any help with anything in your room, no need to call maintenance. I’m a super handy kind of guy. I fix everything. Just give ol’ Trent a ring and I’ll come down to help you.”

“Thank you, I’m fine,” I responded and started to close the door, but he stuck his hand out and stopped it from shutting.

“Whoa, whoa, slow down. I’m sorry you have a headache, but maybe a drink will help. I decided to bug out early from the conference too. Maybe you and I should just play hooky.” He grinned, his eyes radiating desire. I was repulsed.

This jerk wouldn’t leave. I had to figure out how to shake him before he manhandled his way in. If he pushed the door hard enough, there would be no way I could stop him. Fear crept into the reaches of all of my limbs.

“Really, Trent, I have a terrible headache. I get migraines and this one is bad. But if I rest tonight, I’ll be back tomorrow fresh, I’m sure.” I threw in a smile in what I hoped was a slightly flirtatious way. It seemed the best way to get him away from me—the promise of more later.

“Listen,” he said. “Here’s my key card. I have another one. I’m going down to the pool for a bit. If you want to hang out, just let yourself in.” He winked at me.

I stood there, frozen, trying to decide what to do. This jerk wanted me to come down to his room. Clearly I couldn’t do that. The risk of spending more time with him, him asking me questions, plying me with drinks while he tried to get into my pants. It was all way too much of a gamble, and he made me sick anyway. He reminded me of Glenn, cocky and demanding. A flash of Drake came into my mind too. Forcing sex on Allison and then running off without so much as a word. Although I despised her, his actions had always made me feel angry too. Rage started to surge. Men. I was sick of them.

And then a thought came into my head.

Maybe it wasn’t a bad thing to have his key card. In fact, the most sinister plan of all started to reveal itself. If I had his key card and he was gone at the cocktail party or elsewhere…

I held out my hand and took the card from him, giving him that shy, flirtatious, come-hither smile that always got guys.

“Thank you, Trent. If I feel better, I’ll come down, but if not, I’ll catch up with you tomorrow. I’ll be sure to look for you. I promise.” I gave him my most flirtatious smile.

“Right on,” he said, and I sensed his triumph. “Mi casa es su casa—come on by. You don’t even have to knock, just come in. The minibar is stocked.”

Remembering Spanish from high school, I knew that “Mi casa es su casa” meant “My house is your house.” I batted my eyes.

“Goodbye for now ,” I said in a purr and pushed the door closed. Turning the latch, I stood in silence, Trent’s key card in my hand.

He had no idea what a huge mistake he had just made. I had a very strong feeling that Trent was another one of those rich people who had always gotten whatever he wanted. He probably didn’t have to spend a cent himself for college and then likely paid some nerdy dude to write papers for him to get good grades and impress his wealthy parents. He probably had Daddy’s money for anything he wanted and dated a hot sorority girl and then cheated on her with another hot sorority girl. I bet he had a crazy-expensive car and belonged to a country club and had his initials monogrammed on his shirts and had soft hands because he never truly worked a day in his life and left dirty towels all over his hotel room knowing some worker would pick them up and tipped cute waitresses and now believed he could get me to sleep with him just by flashing that stupid fake smile. He made me sick, so sick. The thought of his paws on me turned my stomach, but the thought of me turning the tables on him brought me a rush of joy. Oh, he wouldn’t know what hit him, that piece of shit.

My newly forming plan would be payback for every woman out there who had to deal with guys like him everywhere. It might even be retribution on behalf of Allison, for the way Drake had treated her, and I couldn’t believe I was thinking that.

I crawled back into bed and began to hash out my plan. I knew when the conference ended Saturday, thanks to the name tag. I would look up flights to Atlanta to get the general sense of when he’d be leaving; then I’d change my hair, pick up my money from Western Union, return my rental car early, and wait in the ticketing area until I saw him. When he was out of sight, I’d buy a ticket on the same plane and follow him there, getting an Uber behind him to his condo and texting one of Stephanie’s friends that I had met a great guy.

Except after a short time, Trent wouldn’t be so great anymore, and then I’d drop some sort of bomb on Steph’s friend about him wanting to kill me. That would be the paper trail for police. The DNA would already be inside his condo without him even knowing it. And he lived in Atlanta—perfect. Raven came to mind. She would be happy to help—she had even told me so. She was always out to make a little cash and liked a good scam.

First, I needed to secure money. Getting out of bed and grabbing Stephanie’s laptop and the hotel stationery and pen, I propped some pillows up behind me and set the laptop on my knees, then went back to “Passwords” and wrote down all of the ones for her banking accounts. I could go to an ATM with her debit card tomorrow. Right now, my plan was to draw $5,000 from each of her three credit cards and ask that it be wired to the closest Western Union. Five thousand seemed like a safe number. Not something so outlandish that it would raise giant flags, but the combined $15,000, plus whatever I could get from her debit card, would be enough that I could have a cushion to do what I needed to do in Atlanta, pay Raven, and get myself to Mexico.

The wire transfer was easy, and all three promised to be ready by eight a.m. Friday morning. Things were clicking into place. Picking up my phone, I scrolled through my contacts until I found Raven.

Hey, girl, long time, no talk. Are you in Atlanta right now? Do you want to make $1,000?

She wrote back almost right away.

Jasmine!!! I’m here. You know I want some of that $! What do I have to do?

I need you to follow a guy and slip something into his drink for me. I’ll text you the address. It’s going down Saturday night. I’m coming to town. You free?

For $1,000 I am. I got ya, sister. I’ll be ready.

And with that, satisfied that I had done everything I needed to do, I shut off the light and finally fell fully asleep.

When I woke, it was dusk, and I could hear commotion in the hallway, people talking and laughing, doors closing.

Cocktail hour. It was here.

Shooting out of bed, I went to my window and pulled the curtain back a touch. My view was right over the courtyard where the big outdoor fireplace was, and I could see the first conference attendees starting to show up, mingling around the bar area holding beer bottles, glass tumblers, or wineglasses. Servers were milling about with appetizers on trays. The sixth floor was all for conference people, and based on the noise in the hallway, everyone seemed to be going. I watched as the courtyard filled up, hearing the ding of the elevator down the hall again and again until the hallway was quiet.

Continuing to peek out, I waited until I saw Trent. There he was, looking smarmy as always, walking up to the groups with the prettiest women and holding court. I couldn’t hear him, of course, but I could see him gesturing, telling stories while chugging on the perennial bottle of beer in his hand. My eyes drifted across the courtyard and found Dorothy and Alan, my other tablemates, in an entirely different part of the cocktail party, standing around a high-top table with glasses of wine, seeming to have a deep conversation with a couple of other people. Trent headed back to the bar for another beer, and I knew the time was now. But I had to act fast, just in case.