Page 14 of Undertow

“Maybe.” She searches my eyes, inching closer. “But like I said, they’ll be gone for a while. The spa here is first class. You should take advantage of it while you can. One last luxury before going off to The Pit?”

“The Pit?”

“What we call Undertow.”

The Pit.I add that to my mental dossier.

“Thanks, but I still have a lot of work to do.”

“Shaw.”

I recoil when she grabs my arm, and her hurt look quickly melts into indignation.

“So New Orleans meant nothing to you? Is that what you’re trying to tell me?” she hisses.

We clearly have very different memories of that night.

“It was just another job.”

Again with the lies.

She clenches her fist, her gaze turning cold. “You can’t be serious.”

“I’m surePatrickwould love to enjoy the first-class spa with you,” I say, pushing to my feet. Clearly, she’s missing the messages. Or ignoring them. I’m not sure which is worse.

Her stance relaxes slightly. “Is that what this is about? I don’t love Patrick. My father chose him, not me. You know what I want.”

“I need to get back to work,” I say, moving to the desk.

“Shaw, wait. I’m sorry, just?—”

“You should go, Ms. McArthur.”

I settle in the chair, dismissing her by firing up my laptop.

It takes a full ten seconds for her to accept reality.

I flinch at the slam of the door.

3

PREY

Breathe.

I shift on the splintered bench, studying the decaying building in front of me. A café of sorts, or so I was told. I’ve spent countless hours in cafés over the years. The anonymity of being isolated in public, combined with the inviting smell of freshly brewed coffee, was a prime writing environment for me. One of the few places the words flowed freely, uninhibited by judgment and secrecy.

But there’s nothing comforting about the rundown shack called “Mama’s Café.” The tops of the As on the eroded sign painted above the entrance have chipped off, making it look like “Mumu’s Café.”

They call UndertowThe Pit.And twenty minutes into the exploration of my new home, I can see why the residents of Palmetto Acres consider this side of the island inferior to their palace grounds.

It’s like this region has gone out of its way to mock the glitz and splendor beyond the gate. Palmetto Acres is a fantasy oasis. Hartford territory is cluttered with shanty-like buildings that have been weathered by time, storms, and something more sinister. Even the air reeks of neglect.

I spent all morning after Scarlett’s unfortunate visit developing my strategy. According to the paltry notes, Julia Hartford runs this café on weekday afternoons, so my best hope at establishing contact is to plant myself at this location. I was hoping for a visual before making a play, but now that I’m here, I see there are no windows for a glimpse inside, just an old rocking chair beside the open doorway.

Added to my long list of grievances against the McArthurs for this assignment is the utter lack of information they provided to carry it out. For sharing a tiny three-mile island, they sure haven’t shared much about their rivals. I got more from an internet search and satellite view of the area than the notes they gave me.

Use Julia to infiltrate their inner circle and discern, then dismantle their operation—the extent of my instructions. The rest is up to me. And as always, they made it clear I’m on my own if things go badly.

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