Chapter 4 #2
In came the guard, walking around the perimeter of the lab. His flashlight passed over the crab tank. Lid in place. All quiet within the sand and rocks. He moved back out of the room.
Stillness.
Then one of the rocks. . . winked.
It grew eight arms. Clutching a wriggling crustacean, it pushed back the Dungeness lid, slithered out of the tank, used three tentacles to carefully reset the mesh cover, and returned to its own aquarium.
All the while, two other hungry arms cracked the crab into pieces to fit through its tubing hole.
“We’d been losing crustaceans every few days. We couldn’t explain why. But when we checked the security footage—”
“—you discovered that C-189 had the munchies?” Wes couldn’t help laughing.
“He knew he wasn’t supposed to be snacking late at night, and he didn’t want to get caught.
He remembered the guard’s routine. When the patrol came by, he knew what to do.
He was probably repeating his own routine from the last several raids—”
“Exactly, and—”
Brrrriiinng!
The chime of an incoming call overrode the video and her excitement; Isabel’s response cut off with a sharp inhale. The numbers ringing on her screen weren’t from the same caller as her missed messages. She scrambled to silence the noise anyhow, her ears reddening.
“No, wait.” Wes recognized the digits. “That’s Ethan’s number.”
“I don’t—”
“Yeah, it’s rude to take calls in a restaurant.
But we’re outside and no one else is seated close by, right?
I can let Erin know I’ve arrived early in Monterey.
You can notify Ethan about your plans to drive his hatchback to Palo Alto today.
” He paused for another bite of bananas and chocolate as her phone continued to chime, and studied her across the table while she avoided the call and his gaze. “Assuming that’s still your plan.”
“I. . . yes.”
“Then why not answer him?”
If she lowered her eyes to conceal a spark of anxiety, the compression of her lips was only too visible. After another shallow inhale, however, she nodded. Visibly steeling herself, she clicked into the call.
Ethan Meyer appeared on her screen. His own device was propped up on the kitchen table in Palo Alto, a golden retriever’s tail wagging in the background. He blinked at the camera. “. . . Isabel?”
“Yes.”
“I didn’t think. . . but you answered.” He hadn’t expected her to, had he? “Uh, good.”
“Yes,” again.
“Right,” and now a grimace cut lines into his cheeks. “But after last night, are you. . . Is there anything I can—I mean, is everything. . .?”
“Yes,” a third time. Isabel reached for her mug.
Out of frame, her fingers trembled. “Thank you. But I—I’m still in Monterey.
With your car. I’ll return it this afternoon.
I’ll wash the sheets and towels, too. I’ll be gone, and then you can.
. . I’m sorry, I never meant to inconvenience you, not after. . . and—”
“None of this is your fault.” Ethan folded his arms on the table. “It isn’t. We’d planned to head down to the bungalow last night, but if you need more time, stay for another few days.”
She set aside her mug again, tea untouched. “I wouldn’t want—”
“You can even stay longer. Erin and I could fly to Cape Canaveral for a satellite launch on September nineteenth and see Neil deGrasse Tyson without wasting our booking—except that her brother’s arriving back in California soon.
Depending on his hostel situation, he might need to crash on the couch for a couple nights. ”
“No, not might.” Wes leaned into the video, waving. “Hey, Ethan. I flew in yesterday. I’ve got comments about the couch cushions, but no complaints about the chocolate-covered strawberries. Sorry about those, by the way—”
“Wait.” Erin’s surprised face appeared over Ethan’s shoulder. Coffee sloshed in her own mug. “Wes? You’re back from Costa Rica already? And you’re in Monterey?”
“Frizzy!” He waved a second time, buying Isabel a moment to collect herself—if she needed it. Seriously, what happened yesterday? “Guilty as charged. Like usual. Sorry I didn’t call. I forgot to switch my phone plan back to stateside service. But I should make it to the Monday chat.”
“Thank God, because I was about to file a police report for your missing Jeep. You picked it up last night?”
“Yeah.”
“Then drove over Route Seventeen to the coast? With that engine? Plus a non-functional phone?”
“Guilty again.”
“Idiot,” she said with a huff, dropping her chin onto the top of Ethan’s head. “But that probably means you also spent last night at the bungalow—”
“A third time: guilty.”
“—with Isabel.” Though she’d dropped her chin, one eyebrow rose. Erin put down her mug with a deliberate thunk and glanced between them at their Loulou’s table. “You’ve met.”
“Yeah, we have.”
He didn’t think about transparent silk or wide, rainy eyes. Didn’t think about fingers brushing across his shoulder under drips of salt water. Didn’t think about Isabel prying an oyster from a tide pool, her smile luminous in the sun.
“Hmm.” A sly pucker angled Erin’s mouth. God, he loved his sister, but she could be so irritating, especially since she continued with, “That’s a fun narrative twist. It’s almost too bad that Chase already flew to Las Vegas—”
“What?” Isabel’s grip spasmed around the phone. “He left? T-today? Not tomorrow?”
Erin pulled a face.
Ethan’s grimace deepened. “That’s what he told us.”
“But—but he. . .” She swiped over Erin and Ethan’s video square, minimizing it. She scanned the texts she’d ignored earlier. Words blurred under her fingers. Then her chin jerked. Confirmation. “Y-yes. On a red eye flight, right after. . .”
“I’m sorry. He’s an asshole.”
“No, he. . . he—”
Wes didn’t mean to rattle the table when he set down his fork. But he did. “Chase? Ethan’s brother? What’s he got to do with anything?”
“He’s—”
A shake of Isabel’s head nixed whatever diatribe Erin might have kicked off. She released her phone. Her right thumb scraped obsessively across the diamond on the fourth finger of her left hand, though her voice was inflectionless when she said, “Dr. Chase Meyer Jr. is my fiancé.”
Silence.
For once, Wes was quiet—and acid surged in Isabel’s stomach around the few bites of granola and yogurt she’d eaten.
If she moved right now, she’d vomit. Freeze.
She could do nothing but sit. At least if she didn’t speak, she couldn’t make this particular situation worse.
It was bad enough already, Wes frowning at speckles of syrup that had splattered the table when he’d slammed down his fork. A muscle ticked in his jaw.
Keep silent, keep still, don’t interrupt, don’t make a scene.
“Is he still your fiancé?” Erin had no such reservations. Her tortoiseshell glasses wobbled, skidding toward the end of her nose before Ethan nudged them back into position for her. “You’re planning to go through with the wedding? Even after last night?”
Last night: September first.
Today: September second.
The Presidio Officers’ Club was booked for the thirtieth.
She had twenty-eight days left.
So how. . .
How had she seriously managed to convince herself to remain in Monterey this morning?
To sit here while the minutes ticked past toward the expiration date on her visa, eating breakfast with Wes and reviewing footage of C-189?
Chase had left California, and if she’d thought more quickly yesterday, been smarter, known how to react, what to say, what to do—but she hadn’t.
She’d frozen then, just like she was frozen now, which meant that he was at BioPulse’s headquarters in Las Vegas twenty-four hours ahead of schedule—hours on which she’d depended—so how could she possibly fix things?
She couldn’t go to Nevada—
“Isabel.” Wes. His voice was very, very neutral. “Why does my sister think you might not go through with. . . it?”
He’d seen her ring. Ignoring it was impossible. But he hadn’t known about Chase. She hadn’t lied. She just hadn’t said anything. Now?
“Because—” from Erin on the screen.
“I’m not asking you, Frizzy. Ethan, we’ll talk later,” and Wes closed their call.
Then, still very neutral but implacable too, pushing Isabel’s phone back toward her, before interlacing his fingers on the tabletop and dropping his gaze to study the tide passing by the boardwalk’s pylons beneath them, “So. You’re engaged to Ethan’s brother.
Chase. The party that Erin and Ethan were at last night in San Francisco?
It was some pre-wedding event. But today the guy’s off in Las Vegas, alone. While you’re here in Monterey. Right?”
Yes.
He was right. He was also continuing not to look at her, was so calm, his hands immobile despite the muscle jumping in his cheek, and. . .
“L-last night,” she heard herself say.
He dragged a napkin over his chocolate-smeared mouth and picked up his fork again. But he didn’t glance back in her direction. Maybe he wasn’t listening.
“You’re right,” she told her parfait. Somehow her spoon was in her hand, shifting and sifting yogurt and berries for.
. . something. “Last night was the. . . was our wedding shower. A cocktail party. It was going—well. I could feel a headache coming on, though. From the cameras. The noise. I went to the bathroom. I might’ve been gone for fifteen minutes, and I should’ve remained with Chase.
Like I was supposed to. Maybe I would’ve been all right.
I just. . . I thought I needed a little time alone, away from the flashes and the alcohol.
But if I hadn’t gone, maybe he wouldn’t have—”
Maybe.
Wes took a large bite of his French toast.
She rasped her spoon against her glass. “Fifteen minutes was too long. He’d been drinking.
He came into the bathroom after me, w-with a caterer.
I ran out. So did he. Everyone saw. Ethan gave me his keys and the beach-house address.
I ran again. But I should’ve stayed. Because now I’m. . . here and. . .”