Page 53 of The Business Trip

Slowly I slid from the driver’s seat and walked to the rear of the minivan to retrieve the suitcase. It was huge, meant for a family going to Disneyland or something. I hoped I didn’t look too comical, but I couldn’t think of another way. Drawing in one more breath of the San Diego air that just felt different, I threw my shoulders back and kept my chin up in a confident, professional stature, then strode as calmly as I could toward the lobby.

The glass doors slid open and the woman at the desk looked up. Smiling, I glided over. Someone at a previous job had once told me that if you keep smiling and look confident, people will believe just about anything you say.

This was it.

“Hello, I checked in earlier, but I seem to have misplaced my room key.”

“OK, no problem,” the woman replied. “What’s your room number?”

“Oh, I’m such a dummy. I go to so many conferences for work,” I faked. “I’m sorry, but I don’t remember.”

“We can look it up. What’s your name, and may I see your ID, please?”

“Sure, Stephanie Monroe, I’m here for the news conference.” Opening up my Walmart purse, I pulled out my wallet and pushed the ID forward. My heart was a jackhammer. She glanced at the ID, then up to my smiling face and back down again.

“Very good, Stephanie. Room 630—here you go. I’ll give you two just in case you lose one again.”

My mouth went dry, but I kept on smiling. She slid me two key cards, and I thanked her and turned toward the elevators, trying to walk at a normal pace.

Stepping onto the elevator, I had a feeling of being outside of my body, of this being a movie and not really happening. I was lightheaded.

The sixth-floor hallway was quiet, not a noise to be heard. I really couldn’t believe I had made it this far, had followed Stephanie and done everything I needed to do to impersonate her and get a card to her room.

But a new thought came into my mind. What if Stephanie had more than just the main door lock on in her hotel room? What if she had one of those security locks that acts like a chain and doesn’t allow an outside visitor to come in? My confidence faltered as I walked toward room 630. What would I do then? All of the money I had just spent would be blown, a total bust. I would have to slink back to my motel in shame and figure out what to do. Maybe I could try again the next night, or the next, if I had to. It wouldn’t be ideal, me as “Stephanie” coming into the hotel in the middle of the night all the time, and I only had a few nights to do this. She had told me she was flying home this weekend, and today was Wednesday, but maybe the real Stephanie would forget the latch or be too drunk one night to use it.

Rolling the suitcase down to 630, I stood outside her room for a moment, summoning up the final bit of courage I needed to go through with this.Now or never, Jasmine, now or never.Putting my ear to the door, I thought I could hear the low hum of a TV but wasn’t sure. There was no movement, though. She must be asleep. And if she wasn’t? If she heard me and called outWho’s there?when I opened the door, I sketched a plan to lower my voice an octave and say,Housekeeping, sorry, mistake, then dash away before she saw me.

Pulling a rubber glove from my pocket, I put it on before touching anything. Couldn’t risk DNA being discovered.

My hand went to the metal of the door handle, and I let it sit there for several seconds before gently touching the key card to the black square reader above the handle. It made a soft click, and the light turned green. Pushing the handle slowly down, I braced myself in case the safety lock prevented me from going farther.

But the door kept opening. There was no extra lock.

Holy shit, I was in.

Peering around, I saw it was dark except for an old episode ofThe Golden Girlsplaying on TV. Stephanie was sleeping on her side, a bottle of some sort of prescription on the nightstand next to her. I recognized her hair in the semidarkness. She must have crashed with the TV on.

Letting the door close very quietly behind me, I moved like a ninja again, resting the giant suitcase against a wall so it was out of the way and setting my purse on top of it. Surveying the scene, I saw clothes hung neatly in the closet and expensive shoes—oh, those shoes—lined up on the floor. Black pumps, cream flats, funky tennis shoes, running sneakers. They sparkled like jewels to me. Her robin’s-egg blue purse sat on top of the long, flat dresser. A quick glance into the bathroom showed me expensive cosmetics, a curling iron, and a flat iron.

I could hear her deep breathing. She was sound asleep. Moving with a little more confidence now, I got to her side to see the prescription medicine bottle next to her. Picking it up, I read the drug name: zolpidem. That was the official name of Ambien, the same drug Glenn used. Wow, what a coincidence. I knew this drug, knew how it knocked him out. The fact that this fancy lady had to use it too made me silently laugh. It must be another sign from Grandma. This was almost too perfect.

Grabbing the remote, I thought I might turn the TV off, the sound of canned laughter fromThe Golden Girlsseeming too odd for the moment that was about to transpire, but then I realized that turning it up a few notches might be smarter, just in case someone were to hear anything. I hit the volume button twice, and the laughter got just a bit louder, the women arguing over an exercise class they all wanted to take. Female friendship. Would Stephanie have been my friend in the real world? I didn’t think so. She was several economic tiers above me, and if I had run into her in high school, I bet she would have been living in Maple Hills. If I met her later in life, I would have been nothing more than an anonymous service worker to her. Yes, she chatted with me on a plane, but I was sure she’d forgotten all about me by now, moving on to her gorgeous friends and clothes.

My guess was that she had probably spent her whole life tipping people like me but never going beyond. Did she volunteer for battered women’s groups? I doubted it. Did she donate money to causes that would truly help anyone? Debatable. She was a richy-rich, what we called a “Maple Hills Molly” when I was growing up. Polite, not disparaging, but not truly in my corner either. The kind of person who had probably never been in a car not advertised as “luxury.” The kind of person who thought organizing a glittering banquet fundraiser with silent auction items that included trips to Paris, box seats at sporting events, and full spa days was truly helping the homeless. I had been a cocktail waitress at some of those events, eavesdropping as the moms gave one another tips on the top cruise lines, the new boutique in town, and the tutors they used to help their kids get into the best colleges.

It was comeuppance time. In some ways, it felt like theentire underbelly of America might be cheering with me. The workers who really made conferences like this possible. Those cleaning the toilets, making the beds, mixing the drinks, and cooking the food; those driving the airport shuttle vans and working late nights at a bar just to make ends meet; those like me who had been living in a trailer home.

What I was about to do felt oddly like a lifetime of vindication against the elite, the ones who had it so good they didn’t even recognize it. Their gripes were about how they couldn’t get a reservation at a popular new hotspot or how the contractors had screwed up the bathroom remodelagainby using the wrong tileagain. They didn’t have a clue what real life was like.

The bed was littered with so many fluffy white pillows that one had fallen to the floor. I picked it up, keeping an eye on Stephanie. She was out.

Positioning myself next to her, I planted my legs wide to create a base of support. Her eyelids fluttered, and she let out a soft snore. My heart jerked for a moment. I had been a lot of things in my life. Up until this point, premeditated murderer had not been one of them. Murderer, yes, I guess, but not premeditated. There was a difference. Everyone thought it was Drake—except Raven, who knew the truth. But my reputation was clean in most people’s minds.

Here I was again standing on a cliff in my world. I could go back right now, put her ID in her wallet, leave her room, never bother her again, never see her again, and figure out my next move without her, or I could go through with a moderate version of my plan, stealing a credit card or two and then leaving. If I enacted the full plan, though, I would have access to everything she owned and plenty of time to make a run for it.

I pondered the three options for a moment as I stood above her. If I left now, I would have wasted time and money gettingto San Diego for no reason. If I stole her credit cards, she would surely notice at some point tomorrow, so my window of opportunity would be very, very small. The choice seemed simple. I rolled her onto her back, took a deep breath, and closed my eyes.

CHAPTER 37Jasmine

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