Chapter 16
I slip away downstairs to my room, where the storm is fractionally quieter, grateful the internet is working for now. I collapse on the mattress, swaddled by the fluffy comforter.
When I free my phone from my pocket, I pull out the one I found in the crew cabin too.
I forgot to ask the others about the abandoned phone, but now I get an idea.
Although much newer and more expensive than my own phone, it’s the same brand, and when I roll over on the mattress, plugging the found phone into my charger, the screen blinks, a lightning bolt icon indicating it’s charging.
It’ll be a few minutes before I can turn the phone back on; it was completely dead for a while, so I turn back to my own screen in the meantime.
First, I get online to check out the storm tracking reports. Trey was right; the storm is headed north, dancing along the coast but losing steam as it moves. The news is predicting bad weather for a few days, but nothing that should result in “severe damage or loss of life.”
That’s comforting.
Next, I quickly tap out a text to Emily, updating my sister so she doesn’t worry. She doesn’t respond right away—Emily is often swamped with her family and her remote sales job, but at least she will know I’m all right.
I tap back over to the news, which is loading very slowly. What I read makes me feel both better and worse. On the one hand, I no longer worry that we’re going to be ripped from the ocean and flung into the sky by a monster cyclone. On the other, we’re still trapped.
Ping. Ping. Ping. Ping.
I glance over at the end table where the second phone is charging.
Its screen has lit up, finally juiced up enough to turn back on, notifications stacking on top of each other as the phone connects to the Wi-Fi.
I abandon my own phone, crawling over to the end table and eagerly picking up the dark pink case, scanning the screen.
The notifications are coming in faster than I can read them, and when I try to tap on them, nothing happens.
The phone is locked, obviously, and I have no idea what the passcode is.
But the lock screen image is of a gorgeous girl with dark curly hair.
She’s sitting at a bar, nursing a red drink, her eyes sultry and reminiscent of postcoital satisfaction.
Approximately eight million social media notifications flood in, too swift to keep track of, and the phone grows hot in my hand.
There are texts too, but they are dwarfed by the algorithm apps.
Whoever had this phone didn’t keep a privacy setting on the lock screen notifications—I can read them, see if they are “likes” or comments or messages.
And the same name appears over and over again: Elena.
Elena! U up? Thinking about you…
Saw your last post, missing you, Elena!!
Get 30% off your next order, Elena! Use code HOTTIE by 10/20!
Like a bolt, I recall the words traced on my foggy bathroom mirror: Elena didn’t leave.
“Oh, hell no,” I mutter, sweat beading on my forehead.
I drop the overheating phone and race over to the bathroom, trying to ignore my pale, disheveled reflection, which is difficult because the mirror is clear.
There’s no evidence of what I saw, even when I lean forward and exhale on the shiny surface, waiting to see if letters will appear in the steam from my breath.
They don’t. But I remember them.
Piper’s suggestion from right before the sky collapsed rings in my head as I tumble back into the bedroom and lunge for my phone this time, opening Instagram as the other phone continues to ping.
There’s an unusually high number of notifications on the right-hand corner of my screen, but I don’t have time to engage with whatever book my followers are trying to discuss with me right now. Service won’t last much longer judging by my phone’s loading speed.
I head to the Empress page, scrolling back weeks until I find a group shot of all the influencers together. Just as Piper predicted, Elena is there and tagged. Her eyes are covered by large sunglasses and she’s wearing a backward cap. That won’t do; I need a better photo. I tap over to her page.
Elena Roma has just over a million followers, and her feed alternates between stunning selfies, provocative full-body poses, and text posts with dating quotes and tips written on a pale pink background.
Her bio states she’s a “sex and love expert” and former Miss America participant.
Her page is very clean and neat, but when I tap on her latest post, I realize it’s weeks old.
Her last photo is a shot of her posing on a bed, hip cocked to the side, legs folded underneath her.
I recognize the bed. It’s the one I’m sitting on right now.
I recognize her too; she’s the woman in the lock screen photo.
But in this image, she’s wearing a pair of black booty shorts and a cropped white T-shirt. I zoom in, studying her. She’s extremely pretty—dark curls cascade to her shoulders, her eyes are wide and expressive, and her build is petite and compact.
I scroll down to her caption:
Taking a social media break for a bit while I cook up something special for you lovers! Stay tuned, love you all, and remember to love yourself too.
The comments are filled with people asking dating and love advice, sending her heart and eggplant emojis, and asking if this means she’s finally writing her modern dating book. Elena hasn’t responded to any of them. She couldn’t. Because her phone is sitting next to me.
The phone I found is Elena’s. Elena, who was supposed to have quit.
Maybe she lost her phone before she left? Had to get a new one?
The storm rages outside the porthole window and a shiver of apprehension trails up my spine. I glance around the room like I’m expecting Elena to suddenly pop out from the closet.
The woman I’ve been seeing… What if she’s—
“No,” I say firmly, not caring that I’m talking to myself. “No, I didn’t see anything. This is a misunderstanding.”
I scoot over to the edge of the bed, reaching for Elena’s phone again. But my hand is shaking and I accidentally knock the phone off the end table, nearly ripping the charging cord from the outlet. Elena’s phone falls face down, pink case gleaming up at me.
That’s when I finally notice it. It blended so well with the pinkish red OtterBox: a brown stained fingerprint near the bottom of the case.
Holding my breath, I bend down and gingerly pick up the phone, careful not to touch the mark.
It’s almost a perfect print; the whorls and ridges of a finger pad visible if you look close enough.
And the color—russet. It’s dried, slightly rubbed off.
My stomach clenches. Blood. There’s a bloody fingerprint on Elena’s phone.
The mirror message wasn’t a metaphor or a poetic statement. It was literal.
Elena didn’t leave.