Page 71 of The Business Trip

I kept thinking over every detail again and again. Had I forgotten anything? Done anything that would trace police to me? I couldn’t think of any loose details, and I finally began to relax. True freedom was waiting for me as soon as that bus would begin to pull away.

When I walked into the Greyhound depot at 2:55 a.m., the smell of urine was strong and there were a few loners and drunks milling about. Finding a bench off to the side, I tucked all of my belongings close to me and waited.

They called for boarding at 4:40 a.m. I was the first one in line, my fake passport in my new cloth holder right on my chest. Taking a seat in the back row, I set my stuff on the seat next to me so no one would join me. I needn’t have worried. There were less than a dozen people on the bus.

It was still dark as we pulled away, the lights of the city whizzing past. I thought of Trent, likely being hauled away to jail, and I smiled. I thought of Stephanie and how she had to die to make this possible, and I felt a pang of remorse again, but I pushed it away. For the first time in my entire life—childhood all the way through adulthood—I was doing something on my time, just for me. And I had succeeded. I was hiding in plain sight, just as I had wanted to do. Memories of Allison and Stephanie seemed to be fading with each mile the bus drove from Atlanta.

It had taken me less than a week from the morning I woke up at Glenn’s and snuck out. Less than a week and I had succeeded in upending my entire world. I had more money than I had ever had in one setting. I had new clothes and a fake passport and a destination. Glenn would soon think I was dead, my family too. I had a plan, a future that was all my own. And it hadn’t been that hard. A little stealing, a few hair changes, a bunch of lies to various people. OK, yes, one murder. But here I was. As a major bonus, I’d sent a total jerk down the river for the murder of two women twenty-seven years after I had done the same to Drake for the death of Allison.

Not that I hadn’t been scared at many points. It was terrifying that morning six days prior when I had to tiptoe out ofthe trailer with Glenn sleeping. I had been apprehensive about buying a ticket to San Diego, scared to sneak into Stephanie’s hotel room, to put that pillow over her face, to dispose of her body, to go into Trent’s room and plant evidence, to follow Trent and frame him, to dig the holes in his backyard as my final damning evidence to put him away.

I figured between the DNA in Trent’s suitcase, the two pairs of underwear with his semen in his breast pocket, the paper trail I had left for Robert and others via texts, the voice memos and photos, the money withdrawn from Steph’s accounts, the 9-1-1 call, and Steph’s and my personal items buried in the backyard, he was cooked.

After all, Steph had said she was flying to Atlanta with him, and there was evidence of her paying with a credit card for a ticket and showing up to board the plane. Heck, even if you watched a video of passengers going through security, you would see her (me) walking through, and she (me) had made it through security with no issues. I had even cocked my head slightly as she did when I greeted the TSA security officers just so the footage would be believable.

There was evidence she had been at his condo from the texts and photos. Trent had no alibi thanks to Raven slipping a little something-something into his drink. He had been inside sick for two days, so he couldn’t claim he wasn’t doing what Steph’s texts said he was doing. She had told Robert on Sunday that she and Trent stayed in all day; then she told Robert on Monday they were sightseeing.

As for me, there was the text exchange I had with Anna. That should be enough to place me with this guy and show that he had a temper. That would make it seem believable to Glenn and everyone else.

How was I this fucking good? I leaned my head against thewindow of the bus and felt a huge smile coming on as I congratulated myself. I had outsmarted everybody. I was a mastermind. It was all just sweet justice, and as my eyelids began to feel heavy and close, I said a final goodbye to men like Glenn and Trent and Drake. They could all fuck themselves.

I was in charge now.

CHAPTER 43Jasmine

Three Weeks Later

Crossing the border at Tijuana had not been a problem—Raven was 100 percent right. Mexico seemed eager to have me, and the lone female security guard only gave my passport a cursory glance, even as my heart threatened to burst out of my chest for fear of what would happen if she detained me.

Once across the walking bridge into Tijuana, I wanted to get away from the Baja peninsula quickly—too many Americans—so I caught the first bus south and just kept going until I got to the place I somehow always knew I was destined to be: Puerto Escondido.

The aging bus sputtered into the station just as the sun was starting to set. I walked a few blocks to the beach, bags still in hand. Birds were circling and singing overhead; a warm breeze kept me at just the right temperature. I watched the sun slowly melt into the horizon, and I was hooked. I would never leave.

The village was exactly what I had pictured from high school and more. Out of the way, still with fishermen leaving on boats every morning, but touristy too. It was casual and fun as heck, not as overrun with Americans as other Mexican hotspots. Barsand restaurants dotted the boardwalk and beach, nearly all of them withSE BUSCA AYUDA(help wanted) signs.

The first place I walked up to hired me on the spot. I couldn’t tell anyone how much money I actually had with me—still over $10,000 of Stephanie’s—or I’d be the next dead American tourist, so I lived in a cheap motel, went to work as a waitress, bought another phone, and started refreshing my Spanish. I even got a tattoo—real this time—of a compass. It reminded me to go where the wind blew.

It had been hard to keep up with news about myself and the murder. One, because the news was entirely in Spanish, and two, because I didn’t want to be obvious every time something came on about the high-profile case back in America. I also had a phone that wasn’t very high quality, and service was spotty. From what I could gather through the weeks, investigators had somehow figured out that an imposter was at the conference (I had no idea how they deduced that), and that the person had then gone back to Atlanta. They thought it was likely to be me, but also said they believed Trent had then killed me in a dispute over Stephanie’s money.

Ha! Let them run with that story. They hadn’t found my body yet, but they were sure it was coming at some point. Meanwhile, Trent rotted in jail. It made me smile.

Theonlyfly in the ointment was that some guy with a poodle and a purple cape held his own press conference, dog in hand, to say he saw Stephanie and a woman in a tight top sitting on a bench near Trent’s apartment talking to each other the night Trent got back from the conference. He claimed he had secretly taken a picture of the women from down the street because he had a gut feeling we were not from that area and it would be important.

I remembered seeing the man in purple eye us as I went tohand Raven her money, right at the moment when she hissed at me not to do it there. Now this guy wanted to have his moment in the sun and share this little tidbit. But nothing seemed to have come of it, so I didn’t worry. Besides, an actress from LA was now being reported as missing, and news stations were covering that. I was moving out of the limelight.

As I went about my days in this new paradise, I looked for Raven in crowds and on the beach, just in case, but there had been nothing yet. Meanwhile, everything was so cheap down here, from food to clothes, it made me drool. I finally felt like a wealthy woman, and I loved every second of it.

On my way to work I would pass a small beach shack painted a brilliant turquoise blue. One sparkling sunny morning, anEN VENTA(for sale) sign was on it and I noticed two men inside doing some plastering. Gingerly, I walked up the wooden front steps and poked my head in, calling, “¡Buenos días!”

“Buenos días, señorita,” one of the men said, and then added when he saw me, “¿Puedo ayudarle?” (Can I help you?)

“¿Me permite ver?” (Would you allow me to look around?)

“Sí,” said the younger guy, looking at me eagerly. Even with my dark hair, I knew I looked different from most of the Mexican women down here. My skin was a pearly white, my eyes light.

They went back to plastering, chattering to each other in Spanish and stealing glances at me. I walked around, trailing my fingertips against walls and banisters, peering into a cozy bedroom and an office, imagining myself sitting on the porch gazing out over the sun and sand with a cup of warm, rich coffee. The place was delightful, and I could already see myself filling it with Mexican pottery and rugs, the bright colors so inviting to the eye.

A sea breeze swept past me as I stood at the window, and Iknew that this was my future home. Quickly, I walked back to the workers.

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