Page 10 of Still See You Everywhere

The lawyer simply nods, leads me across the packed parking lot.

“Did Lea write that letter? Is she still alive? I guess that’s the key question.” I’m rambling, my thoughts ping-ponging around in my overtired brain. “Except, what would be the upside for pretending such a thing? Not like the appearance of a long-lost sister makes a difference for Keahi’s upcoming execution, right? There’s no sudden-appearance-of-a-missing-relative clause that makes one exempt from lethal injection?”

“Definitely not.”

“Is it about money? Keahi implied she had plenty. Could this be an imposter heiress sort of play?”

“Not that kind of money,” Twanow assures me. “More like if you only have a month left to live and want to go wild at the prison commissary kind of wealth.”

“She offered a first-class ticket to Hawaii.”

“She has benefactors—”

“Future husbands? Or would that be more like future widowers?”

Twanow rolls her eyes. We’ve arrived at a sensible silver compact with a rental company sticker on the top corner of the windshield. She unlocks the doors, gestures for me to get in.

“Getting the money for a plane ticket to assist with Keahi’s dying wish won’t be a problem,” she provides. “But that’s not to say these gentlemen have a ton of resources, or would magically hand them over to a long-lost sibling.”

“Then why the letter now? I don’t like that timing. God, I have a headache.” I slide into the front seat, scrubbing my temples furiously.

“Food,” Twanow states firmly, already putting the car in reverse. “I’m starving, too, so it’ll help both of us. As for the timing, Keahi’s case has been all over the news as the date approaches for her execution.”

“Her face was all over the news seven years ago when she was arrested for eighteen murders,” I retort dryly.

“Seven years ago, Lea would’ve been ten. Young for taking action, let alone did she have access to news and TV coverage? If she was under MacManus’s control, he’d have reason to keep her in the dark.”

“But she found out now.”

“Older, wiser. And being a teenager, probably plenty tech savvy.”

“So she sent a handwritten letter? Not an email, message board post, something quicker and easier for a computer-age teen?”

“Too traceable. Anything she did on an electronic device would leave digital footprints for someone like MacManus to find. Sneak out and slip a note in a mailbox, however, and she leaves no evidence behind. Doesn’t have to worry about someone going through her phone, laptop, etc.”

“Assuming she has access to electronics. Or, for that matter, assuming she has access to a mailbox.”

“She could give it to a sympathetic party to mail. Early in my career, I worked a few human trafficking cases where that’s how they got out a message for help.”

“Isn’t it still early in your career?”

“I can only hope.” Twanow flashes me a quick smile, then pulls into the promised fast-food heaven.

Last time I was this hungry, I’d barely survived several days in the wilds of Wyoming with a psychopath picking off the members of our search party one by one. I made it out. But not everyone did. Those long weeks of recovery afterward… I don’t like to think about that case, though maybe I should. I survived. I healed. I carried on.

Compared to that, just how frightening could investigating some tech billionaire on a tropical island be?

The rich, greasy smell of hamburger hits my nose. I forget about the past, place a highly enthusiastic order for the present, and get down to the serious business of eating. Twanow not only inhales an entire cheeseburger but also dips her fries in her chocolate shake. I respect her on those grounds alone.

That lasts all the way to Waco, where we liberate my suitcase from the bus station, then check into the as-promised, no-frills motel, and finally get down to the business of finding a billionaire.

“ARE YOU FAMILIAR with Marlon Brando and the remote island he bought back in nineteen sixty-seven, after filming Mutiny on the Bounty?”

“Haven’t a clue.”

We’d each taken a sixty-minute break—Twanow claiming she needed time for a run. Me, who never ran unless someone was chasing me, using that time to wash the prison out of my hair. Now we’re sitting in her room. I’m barefoot and cross-legged on the bed. She’s in the lone chair in front of the window, looking even younger and fresher in a pair of black leggings and a dark green tunic top. She’s wearing socks, which probably says something about her opinion of the cleanliness of the carpet. On the other hand, given some of the places I’ve lived, I consider this room the height of luxury.

“Marlon first visited Tetiaroa, an atoll in the French Polynesians, while filming the movie,” she explains now. “Legend is he fell in love with the island and bought it, determined to protect its natural beauty and cultural legacy. Eventually, he hired Richard Bailey, an American hotelier in Tahiti, to develop the first ever eco-friendly, completely sustainable, incredibly luxe resort. Challenging premise from the start, as luxury generally implies waste—elaborate lighting, frigid air-conditioning, and excessive amounts of everything.”

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