Page 70 of Savage Beauty

CHAPTER22

Sloane

Four long canvas bags, five black duffels, and my navy wheeled suitcase line up in the hallway like an orderly row of beakers. Max’s bag, another duffel, remains upstairs. After he showers, he’ll change and finish packing.

Our plan is to stop by my apartment, pack up anything I want to keep and either ship it or carry it on the jet with us, get lunch, then head to the tarmac to meet the Sullivan corporate jet.

A sense of finality comes with packing up an apartment. The plans center around my not returning here. It’s frustrating. I liked my job. It was perfect for me.

They keep telling me once they have more answers, I can return to Origins. The plan they’ve put into place, however, doesn’t align with their words. Whoever did this to me came after Sage too, so I have to be cautious. Whether I agree or not doesn’t matter as much as erring on the side of safety for Sage.

After I meet with the government agencies, I’ll update my LinkedIn, which is my only social media account, and my resume, and begin the job hunt.

Or, in an ideal world, the men I’m meeting with will have answers. And everything will be clear, and Origins will ask me to come back and work for them, and I can resume my research. But I saw for myself the empty lab where I’d worked. I’d been the only one who pushed to keep my research going.

The stillness in the villa has me expecting someone to knock and announce housekeeping is here and ready to clean. Which is nonsensical, given we’re not in a hotel. But it feels like a hotel. It’s not a lived-in house. We’re not on a schedule. I don’t have a purpose. It’s like an extended vacation and I’m antsy to get back to my routine, even though I don’t have a routine to return to.

Max won’t be back for another two hours, as he’s doing his long run this morning. A swarm of zombies would have to be nipping at my heels before I’d ever run for hours, but it’s his thing and it’s a gorgeous morning.

Before he left, he fixed me a smoothie with no trace of sandy protein residue. It’s been a long time since anyone cared enough to adjust recipes to arrive at something I liked.

For my part, I researched the steroid he’s taking. It’s not the worst of them, but I don’t like the risk. And there’s truly not enough data or research available on long-term health implications, but users do record it eases aches, and I can’t help but wonder if that’s part of the appeal. I’ll do more research, but I’m hopeful I can talk him into transitioning off it. He might be lifting with body builders, but he’s not one of them. He doesn’t need to be a hulk of muscle.

I step out onto the deck and am greeted by the shrill cry of seagulls and a swooping pelican off in the distance, splashing into the water. My feet sink into the smooth, white sand. The tide is going out, but it’s left behind shallow tidal pools, and I meander along the ocean’s edge, letting my feet splash in the water.

As I pass the villa two down from us, movement on the deck catches my attention. There’s a man in sunglasses sitting in a lounge chair with what looks like a mug in his hand. He waves, and I return the gesture. I continue farther down this stretch of beach than I’ve walked before. Past the curve of the shoreline, the villas are built closer together. Up ahead, there’s a hotel. Judging from the abundance of matching umbrellas and lounge chairs, it’s a luxury hotel.

Voices carry on the beach. There’s a Jet Ski zooming by. It’s interesting because once you round the bend, the waves are substantially larger. Kids are in the water, and laughter and shouts mix with the crash of the waves.

It’s a cheerful scene. But it’s also crowded. I prefer our secluded cove.

If Sage were with me, I wonder which she would prefer? There was a time I could count on her to want exactly what I wanted, but that’s not the case now. We don’t have a time scheduled to talk to each other. We used to hold a weekly video chat every Sunday at five. When I get back, we’ll need to get our recurring video call scheduled.

My palm rubs over my belly, attempting to soothe the uncomfortable sensation growing there. A sharp shell digs into the bottom of my foot. One-legged, I stand, checking my sole for a cut.

“Sloane? Is that you?”

There’s no blood. I set my foot down and turn to the familiar feminine voice. And dress pants. Gray—no, putty-colored slacks I recognize. And dress shoes. But no suit jacket, just a white silk shell. Dr. Kallio dresses nicely when she’s on the beach.

“Sloane? What’re you doing out here?”

“I’m staying…” My arm lifts, pointing in the direction I came from. But… “What’re you doing out here?”

“I had a business meeting.” She gestures behind her to the hotel. “We were sitting outside on the veranda, and I thought that was you. But I figured that couldn’t be right, because you left the island. Are you back for good? How’s married life?”

My fingers lightly tap my thighs through my dress. Her shoes rest above the sand, but if she comes closer, her shoes will sink in.

“Sloane? Your email shocked me. I didn’t expect that from you. I had to clean up?—”

“I didn’t get married. I didn’t resign. Someone else sent that email.” I want to apologize. It’s on the tip of my tongue, but I will not apologize because that would make me look guilty, and I’m not guilty. I didn’t do any of this. This is not my fault.

“Are you serious?” She steps closer, and I was right. Her pointed toe sinks in, and the sand rises over the shoe almost to her skin. “Why didn’t you call? Where did you go?”

“Someone abducted me. I just recently made it back here.”

“Sloane.” Her hands fall to her waist. In fists. “Wow. You’ve got quite the creative mind, don’t you? Whatever. I won’t fight you. But for the future, let me give you some helpful advice. If you want to resign, it’s best to give your two weeks’ notice and to do so in person.”

Those fists fall to her side, and she steps back onto firmer sand.

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