Chapter 9 Calder
Calder
“Don’t,” I warned in a low voice as Lara strayed toward her former rusty red Volvo in the parking lot.
I placed my hand on her lower back and drew her close. “There are cameras facing the lot and no reason for you to be snooping around a car you shouldn’t recognize,” I murmured, making sure my head blocked the sound and the view from the footage.
This was why she shouldn’t have been here—why we shouldn’t have been here. She wasn’t prepared for this kind of work. And I wasn’t prepared for her.
Her determination. How my resistance faltered in the face of it. Her questions. The ease with which I wanted to answer them. Her sleeping on my couch. The way I wanted her in my bed.
It was no surprise when the GPS coordinates sent to Lara’s phone this morning had directed us here, to the unmarked lot from Callum’s video.
In spite of the full parking lot, the small building had no business sign, and the exterior didn’t promise much: chipped paint, cracked window frames, all the shades drawn like there was nothing more to see. It wanted to fly under the radar.
Sketchy strike one.
Lara turned and smiled wide. “Got it.”
We continued toward the building, Rachel’s car intentionally forgotten. I should’ve removed my hand but I couldn’t. Sure, it was part of our cover story, but I was having a harder and harder time keeping myself away from her. Especially after last night.
Since Mom died, I’d never been a great sleeper. Even on the road, away from any concern for my family or their safety, I still slept light. So when the first strains of Lara’s cries bled into my room, I was out of bed with my sweatpants on in seconds.
I’d reached her quickly, quick enough to know she was having a nightmare, to hear her whimpering someone’s name, but not quick enough to hear what it was.
She knew, though. Just like she knew the reason for the nightmare.
Something haunted the woman at my side. Maybe it was her sister’s disappearance, but that wasn’t the only thing.
The door to the small building swung open as we approached, and Lara stiffened. We were being watched.
“Lara?” There was no mistaking Brielle’s voice from our call yesterday.
The brunette receptionist was petite and wearing a tight skirt and blouse.
Professional attire, yet her hair was pulled into two buns on either side of her head, each tied with a bow.
The choice made her look young—young enough to make me wonder, with concern, just how old she was. Sketchy strike two.
“Yes, hi.” Lara inched ahead to greet the woman and then introduced me. “Brielle, this is my partner, Calder.”
“Welcome, welcome. Please come in.” She ushered us inside, the polished interior a Mr. Hyde compared to the exterior’s tattered Dr. Jekyll.
Bright professional paint. Big, fake floral arrangements.
To the right, a cushy waiting area that could’ve passed for the lobby of a fancy spa, its green velvet sofa looking untouched.
Photographs of happy couples decorated the walls, and I recognized some of them as stock images like the ones Callum had manipulated to create our fake backstories.
The reception area was a mannequin made up in luxury, masquerading to the clientele who paid, according to Lara, $8,000 per person for their two-week retreat.
At the desk, I clocked two security cameras: one behind reception and facing out, the other mounted behind a hanging plant on the far side of the room.
That was the important one. I followed its line of sight to a short hallway on our left ending in two locked doors with keypad handles that advertised something worth protecting.
“Welcome to Wilderness Within. We’re so glad to be working with you toward achieving ultimate happiness.
” Brielle bubbled another canned response as she moved behind the desk and motioned to two tall glasses on the counter, both filled to the brim with a green mixture.
“I have our proprietary matcha smoothies here for each of you. Beginning this journey with healthy intentions and an open frame of mind is the first step to success.”
“Thank you.” Lara took a glass and a sip before I could stop her. When both women looked at me, I declined with a sharp shake of my head.
Lara glared, and my hand balled into a fist as she took another sip. Dammit.
“I received the forms you filled out via email, Lara. I do have some final consents and waivers here for both of you to sign. Since you’re joining us a day into the seminar, Dr. Julia doesn’t want to delay your arrival, so I’m going to ask that you take them with you and fill them out on your way to the retreat or later this evening. ”
She set the small stack of papers on the counter.
“Sure,” Lara said as I slid the forms in front of me. Liability waivers. Confidentiality notices. And nondisclosure agreements. Interesting.
It was possible that they genuinely wanted to protect all conversations and proprietary methods used during the retreat. But the gut feeling I had wasn’t one of legitimacy.
“And I see we brought no bags, which means you followed the instructions in my message perfectly,” she continued, genuinely thrilled that we’d followed the orders to not bring any clothing or personal belongings with us, indicating that they would be provided.
That was a new one for me. We’d just finished picking up Lara’s things from the B and B when the message came through, so now our bags sat in the back of my truck.
“At the retreat, we want everyone to feel like they’re in a safe space to be vulnerable and that all of our guests are on equal footing while with us.
So in order to eliminate any distractions or unproductive judgments, we provide all participants with the same uniform, so to speak.
Do you have any questions about anything so far? ”
“No,” I answered. None she’d be able—or, more likely, willing—to answer.
“Wonderful.” She extended her arm in the direction of the hallway, Vanna White–style.
“Beyond the door at the end of the hall is a locker room. There, you’ll find two things.
First, there are shelves for men and women containing sized bundles of our Wilderness Within wardrobe that you will need to change into before you head to the retreat. ”
A metal key clicked onto the counter, a tag with the number 19 attached to the ring.
“After you’ve changed, you can secure your clothes along with any personal effects in locker number nineteen.
Cell phones. Wallets. Everything.” When neither Lara nor I made a comment, she went on.
“I can assure you, this building is very secure and is monitored by twenty-four-hour surveillance. Also, as you’ve experienced, we are very selective about handing out our location, only doing so to those who have pledged their commitment to the retreat. ”
Meaning anyone who forked over enough cash to prove they were worth admittance.
“The code for the locker room is 0129. Once you’ve changed and secured your things, I’ll be waiting for you here and will escort you to your ride.”
“Great.” My frown deepened as I watched Lara lift her glass, her intention to drain the rest of the drink before heading back to change.
Shit. I shot my hand out for the key and purposely knocked into Lara’s arm, sending the glass flying from her fingers.
“No!” Lara let out a choked cry, attempting to catch the cup, but all that did was send it spinning toward her, spraying the front of her shirt and blazer and jeans with green goop.
“Damn. I’m sorry.” I feigned dismay, picking the glass up from the floor; the rug under the desk had prevented it from shattering.
“Do you have tissues or something?” I asked, seeing Brielle just standing there, eyes wide, hands over her mouth like she’d just witnessed a car crash, not a spilled smoothie.
“Oh, y-yes. Yes,” she stammered, darting from one side of the desk to the other like a squirrel stuck in the middle of the road, unsure which way to go. “I . . . I’m sorry. I guess we must be out.”
“Maybe in the back?” I prompted.
“I have to change anyway . . .” Lara said, her glare barely tethered behind her calm facade.
“I’ll check, but changing is just easier,” Brielle said with a nervous laugh. “The code is 0129,” she reminded us as we moved down the hall, her voice carrying the distinct edge of panic.
“You did that on purpose,” Lara accused as soon as the locker room door closed behind us. “Why—”
I silenced her with a hard look and a finger to my lips. Mercifully, her whole demeanor became compliant, begrudgingly, as her head swiveled to follow me while I scanned the room.
A video camera in a changing area was illegal, but I wasn’t willing to put it past them.
Moving along the perimeter, I scanned the corners of the ceiling and then stopped in front of the shelves of individually wrapped clothes.
I slid the bundles side to side, confirming there was no camera behind them or some kind of peephole from another room.
Taking a pack of clothes labeled Small from the women’s rack, I held it out to Lara along with my explanation.
“I don’t trust that they didn’t put something in the smoothie.” I kept my voice quiet. No video surveillance didn’t implicitly imply no audio recording.
Her eyes rounded and sank to her wet shirt. “It tasted like matcha . . .”
“How do you feel?” I asked when she took the clothing bundle from me. I turned then to pull a large one down for myself.
“Nervous but otherwise fine so far,” she admitted honestly, tearing open the plastic and pulling out what amounted to a loose T-shirt and matching pants.
“Good.” I opened my own pack, relieved it was only clothes we had to change, not shoes. When I looked back, Lara was staring at the shirt she’d held up in front of her, her brows knotted. “What is it?”