Chapter 30
Jacob had never seen his girlfriend sit so still before. She’d entered a state of intense concentration, no calories wasted,
her body’s every nonessential function suspended. Every resource diverted to that million-dollar brain.
Finally, she spoke. “The camera is waterproof, right?”
“Probably.”
“What about the memory card?”
“Those can last for years. Even underwater.”
She said nothing.
Their biggest threat today was never the survivor herself—it was the camera mounted to her helmet. Jacob imagined the inevitable
search parties converging on this cave, rescuers finding the low tunnels choked with toxic gas. They’d send in specialists
kitted out with rebreathers and oxygen tanks, and ultimately they’d find the woman’s body with her GoPro in her stiff hands
or a swallowed memory card in her stomach. On it, a perfect record of the day’s events. And a last laugh frozen on her purple
lips.
The sun was low now, blazing like an orange fire behind the trees. Babygirl squinted directly into it, refusing to look at
him. “You said you tricked her into giving it up. Hours ago.”
“It was blank.”
“You didn’t watch it?”
“I didn’t know she had more than one.”
“Verify everything, Jacob.”
Verify everything. Her stupid childish mantra.
“We can’t leave without her camera.” Her voice was low, perfectly controlled. “If that footage stays with her body, we’re
both going to prison.”
“I’m aware of that.”
“I am not going to prison, Jacob. Try talking to her again.”
“She’ll never give us the camera.”
“Then threaten her.”
“With what?” He hurled his first aid kit at the ground. “She knows that footage is the only thing keeping her alive. Whether
she lives or dies, she still wins.”
She wins. God, he hated saying it.
This bitch was supposed to be unprepared and oblivious, walked into an ambush by her trusted best friend. Instead the situation
had devolved into a total soup sandwich. And Jacob knew he needed to be honest with himself—he wasn’t even here for the thirty
grand. He was here because he’d relished being needed, and a small, naive part of him had imagined this would consecrate their
relationship. He never should have gotten involved.
Now Babygirl stood by his Jeep and hesitated, working her jaw soundlessly. She was building herself up to say something truly
serious, something she dreaded.
“I love you.”
“I love you, too.”
That wasn’t it. Jacob waited, watching her as she controlled her breaths and formed the words: “We’ll go down and fight her, then. Both of us.”
He was admittedly impressed she’d found the balls to propose this.
But it wouldn’t work, either. “There’s nothing to tie a rope to in Razor Alley,” he said.
“There’s only one anchor bolt left and it’s rusted to hell.
It could break at any second. Anyone who follows her is likely to get stuck down there with her. ”
“We have to risk it.”
“And she still has my gun.”
“You said you shot six times, right? That means she only has one bullet left.” She lowered her voice. “There’s two of us.”
He felt a cold breeze on his skin. This was getting truly dangerous.
“She’s smart. If she misses, it’s over. So she won’t take her only shot unless she absolutely has to. She knows the gun can
threaten both of us but only kill one of us. We can use that against her.” Her eyes burned with focus, and for the first time
today, Jacob felt less like her hired badass and more like a chess piece between two skilled opponents. “If you pretend to
surrender, I’ll sneak up behind her and—”
Jacob held up a hand, silencing her.
He’d always had what his father called hunter’s eyes, a subconscious attention to shapes that don’t belong. He could pick out motion at a hundred yards, and sure enough, across
the streambed and shadowed in a grove of darkening evergreens, he just barely recognized the subtle outline of a human figure.
His blood turned to ice water.
“Someone else is here.”
I’m missing something, Washington knows. Still.
She’s reconstructed the violent stalemate—two killers above, a desperate survivor below—but too many variables remain, too
many unknowns. Her brain feels overmatched, her cells cluttered with stray thoughts, a city on garbage strike.
As if sensing the unease, Tess frowns. “Something has been bothering me.”
Washington glances at her. “What?”
“I’ve been thinking about Allie. Her actions . . . they don’t make sense.”
“How so?”
“If she . . .” Tess hesitates, still struggling with the idea. “If she really brought me to that cave so her secret boyfriend could murder me, why’d she give me a camera to wear?”
A good point, the detective knows. Bringing helmet-mounted cameras along while you commit murder is a spectacularly bad idea
and out of character for such a clever woman.
“Maybe Allie was considering appearances,” Washington suggests. “She always brought her GoPros caving, right? So it would
have been suspicious if the one day you were murdered by a random psycho was also the day she didn’t bring them.”
“And why did I only ever see Jacob? Why didn’t I see or hear Allie once?”
“Because she hung back. She let Jacob do all the work and ordered him around from the shadows. She didn’t want to be seen
by you.”
“Why?”
“You were her best friend, Tess.” Washington rubs her arthritic knuckles. “She grew up with you. When your mom abused you
and tortured you with bleach, she empowered you to tell the truth. When you were bullied at school, she stuck up for you.
Her family took you in. You’re like sisters, almost. And now for some still unknown reason, she’d just arranged your murder.
When that plan went to hell and you refused to go quietly, did you really expect her to look you in the eye?”
“That just seems . . .”
“Cold?”
“Cowardly,” Tess says. “She wasn’t a coward.”
Maybe.
Allie Merritt remains a troubling mystery. She’s not dead—at least, not yet—and her true role in the day’s events is still uncertain.
“The question we need to answer is this.” Washington leans forward, keeping her voice gentle and professional. “What motive
would Allie have to kill you?”
This visibly hurts Tess. “I have no idea.”
“Have you ever had any disagreements?”
“Nothing major.”
“Was she ever jealous of you?”
“If anything,” Tess admits, “I was jealous of her.”
“Maybe you were, but it’s all in the open now. We know Allie’s life wasn’t as glamorous as she made it look on Keep Calm. We know she’s under federal investigation for wire fraud. What other secrets has she kept from you?”
She says nothing.
“And you were a potential witness, Tess. You didn’t realize it, but you were right there at the scene of the crime. You had
access to Allie’s emails, her bank accounts, her lines of credit, her correspondence with her networks of sponsors. Maybe
you were about to discover a discrepancy. Maybe you even already saw it, and you just hadn’t connected the dots yet. And Allie
needed you gone, before you realized what you’d seen.”
“Stolen money?”
“Or something worse.”
“How much worse?”
“You tell me.”
Tess shakes her head. She looks nauseated.
There’s an old Balkan proverb quoted on Allie’s website. It must have resonated with the enigmatic woman because it’s displayed
prominently under the title header: It is permitted you in time of grave danger to walk with the devil until you have crossed the bridge.
A streetwise travel motto? Or something more sinister?
For a decade, the world has been Allie Merritt’s playground. Airports. Train stations. Resorts. Hostels. Every place has an
underbelly. What kinds of people has she crossed paths with? What criminal activities might a solo traveler have gotten herself
unwittingly entangled in? The drug trade? Human trafficking? Who might Allie owe? What secrets might an intelligent and successful
young woman be willing to kill to conceal?
And somehow, Washington senses Costa Rica is the key. The timing of Allie’s conspicuously aborted trip is too close to be
a coincidence. Something happened to her there, just a few weeks ago. Something that altered the course of her life. “That
night she called you crying from Costa Rica, where in the country was she?”
“The Northern Zone, I think.”
“Is that a rainforest?”
“Yes.”
“Remote?”
“Very.” Tess hesitates. “Why? Do you think it’s connected?”
Washington gives no indication.
I’m missing something, she knows. All of the pieces are there inside your head. I just haven’t connected them yet.
“We’ll solve this, Tess. Both of us. Keep remembering.”
The survivor glances toward the doorway, as if expecting someone else to enter the hospital room. “Don’t detectives usually
work with partners?”
“Mine retired last month.”
“I’m sorry.”
“It’s all right.” Washington smiles gently. “I have you.”