20
The Australians are on board for a day at the remarkable beach; of course they are. Sydney had done a great job pitching the outing.
“Aiguablava means blue water,” she’d said, over a simple breakfast of toast and jam. “It’s so beautiful there. And all the glamorous old movie stars hung out at the hotel.”
“It’s a really special place,” Curtis added.
But after he washes the dishes, Curtis finds his wife stuffing a canvas bag with beach towels and holds a hand to his belly. “I’m not feeling great,” he says. “I think I’d better stick around home.”
“What’s wrong?” Syd moves toward him, face scrunched with concern. “Do you need to see a doctor?”
“No. Damian’s risotto didn’t agree with me.”
“You barely ate any.” Syd’s eyes are narrowed. “And the rest of us feel fine.”
“It’s something else, then,” Curtis responds. “I just think I should stay cool. And close to the bathroom.”
“I’m not going to leave you if you’re sick.”
“I’m not sick.” He lowers his voice. “I need some alone time, babe. Damian is kind of a lot.”
This seems to sink in. Syd can’t be oblivious to how loud and obnoxious their guest is. “Okay,” she says grudgingly. “We’ll be home in time for dinner. I’ll pick something up.”
Alone in the house, Curtis makes a cup of coffee and sips it by the pool.
Caffeine might be a mistake; his heart is already racing with nerves and anticipation, but he needs to kill some time.
He needs to wait at least half an hour, to ensure the trio has gone too far to turn around and come back.
And then he’ll get busy. Because something isn’t right about the Australian couple, and he’s going to find out what.
He’d pushed away his niggling concerns because Syd was enjoying their company, but he can’t ignore them any longer.
Last night, as he lay in bed listening to Damian hold court about food like he was Anthony fucking Bourdain, Curtis realized it was more than the big man’s bluster and bravado getting on his nerves.
There’s something malicious about Damian, even malignant.
But if Curtis asks the pair to leave, he’ll look jealous and insecure. What he needs is a reason.
It’s more than just bad vibes he feels for his Australian guests.
There are too many coincidences. What are the odds that their van would break down right outside Syd and Curtis’s house?
That Damian just happens to have a background in construction?
That he showed up armed with bright ideas for the shed renovation?
It’s too calculated. Too premeditated. Syd was so starved for company that she couldn’t see it. But Curtis is not so blind.
There are handyman scams all over the internet, supposed builders who show up and pressure the homeowner into using their services.
Of course, Damian hasn’t asked for any payment—yet—but if Curtis’s suspicions are correct, he will.
At the end of their stay, he’ll present a bill for services rendered, demand payment or they won’t leave.
He might even tear down all the work he did.
It’s not a new grift, and Curtis is embarrassed he fell for it.
There’s another possibility, far darker and far more dangerous.
Taking his last sip of coffee, Curtis tries to push it away, but it buzzes in the back of his brain like an insect.
Could Damian and Bianca know Sydney and Curtis from their old life?
Could they have crossed paths back in New York?
The Australian couple claim they’ve never left Freo, as they call Fremantle, but they could be lying.
What if they came to Spain looking for Curtis and Sydney?
Curtis is confident he’s never laid eyes on the pair, but what about Sydney?
Could there be some connection? It’s unlikely but not impossible.
And after what Curtis has done, he can’t be too careful.
Getting up, Curtis takes his empty mug to the kitchen and heads toward the guest room.
He’s practically tiptoeing down the tiled hallway even though he’s alone, his pulse audible in his ears.
As he pushes open the door, the hinges creak loudly in the empty house.
For a moment, he lingers in the entryway, taking in the hastily made bed, the clothes strewn on the floor, the two half-emptied duffel bags.
Is he really going to invade his guests’ privacy and rifle through their personal belongings? He is. It’s the only way.
The double bed is pressed against the wall, one bedside table next to it.
On the wooden surface, there’s a bottle of sunscreen, some lip balm, and a mug half full of cold coffee.
Behind it, in a tidy little pile, there’s a necklace.
He picks up the delicate gold chain, examines the oval-shaped locket.
He hasn’t noticed Bianca wearing it, but that doesn’t mean she hasn’t been.
Ever since the topless encounter, Curtis has kept his eyes far from her collarbone.
He pries open the tiny gold oval, takes in the photo of a blond girl with an unfortunate haircut who is missing a front tooth.
The picture is faded, the girl’s outfit dated.
It must be Bianca as a child. Turning it over, he sees the initials engraved in the back.
L.B.
The letters mean nothing to him. He doesn’t even know his guests’ last names. As he carefully places the necklace back in its spot, he remembers that Bianca’s mother passed recently. This must have been her pendant with a photo of her daughter inside. It’s completely innocent.
Curtis opens the two drawers in the bedside table.
A pen rolls around in the top one, a frilly sachet of dried lavender in the bottom.
Otherwise, they’re empty. He moves to the piles of clothing at the foot of the bed, sifts through them.
Picking up a pair of Damian’s shorts, he finds a crumpled slip of paper in a pocket.
His fingers feel damp as he smooths it open, eagerly reads it.
But it’s only a receipt from their recent trip to the hardware store.
He’s still not familiar with the Catalonian language, but the items appear to be tools or building supplies.
The total is less than fifty euros. If Damian asks for reimbursement, it’s not going to break the bank.
Gingerly, Curtis rifles through the rest of the clothing, moving on to Bianca’s bag.
He feels like a creep digging through her belongings, and when he finds her birth control pills and a box of tampons, he abandons the task.
Moving to the dresser, he opens all four drawers but finds them empty.
There is nothing helpful to be found in this room: no personal documents, no passports or ID, no invoices of any kind.
Those items must be locked inside the van.
Curtis needs the keys, but they’re not in the room.
He lifts the mattress, checks under the bed, tips out a few pairs of shoes.
No keys. Damian must have taken them with him, but why?
Because he doesn’t want Curtis to get inside his vehicle. Because he’s hiding something in there.
Curtis hurries to the closet and grabs a wire hanger.
When he was a kid, his dad locked the keys in their older-model car and opened the door this way.
Curtis was small, but he remembers it. He untwists the wire and creates a hook at one end.
Moving outside, he goes to the passenger door of the van, slides the wire down inside the window well.
In the middle of the door, there will be a locking mechanism.
He needs to grab hold of it with the hook and pull.
He moves the wire around searching for it, but it won’t catch.
“Fuck,” he mutters. He draws the wire out, notes the scratches in the paint near the window.
Will Damian notice that the door has been tampered with?
Curtis will deny it, say the marks must have been there before or blame a tree branch or a stray dog.
Moving to the driver’s side, he inserts the wire again, but still no luck.
He can’t waste this opportunity. He needs to know what’s in there.
Cupping his hands, he peers through the side window.
The interior is dark, most of the windows covered by heavy vinyl privacy screens.
Curtis’s eyes scan the cab, peering between the seats for any personal items, roving over the dashboard, the glove box, the ignition.
In the back, he can just make out the bed, some closed cupboards, a few plastic bins full of camping supplies.
Peeking out from under the stackable boxes, he sees a wooden handle.
It’s the machete.
His heart thuds in his chest, his pulse rushing through his ears.
Damian never returned it to the neighboring farmer.
Was it Damian’s all along? It’s normal to have a tool like this when camping, but then why had he lied about it?
Why stash it in the tall grass? Panic washes over Curtis, a sheen of cold sweat.
Why would Damian hide this weapon from them?
A thought occurs to him then, a brilliantly simple idea.
All this snooping around has been overkill.
There’s an easy way to get proof of the Australians’ true intentions.
Why hadn’t he thought of it before? If this works, he’ll have evidence that the pair are disingenuous, even shady.
Sydney will agree that they need to leave before they can cause any damage: financial, emotional, or physical.
Dropping the wire hanger in the outside trash bin, he hurries back into the house.