Page 70 of A Very Happy Thanksgiving
“What? No, he isn’t. He’s just realigning his priorities.”
Exactly as he’d said he’d do in the interview with Reba Miller, and as for the Stockholm syndrome, it hadn’t worn off—he’d merely put it on hold for a night.
I knew he’d visited with Kamryn Delacort in jail after I left Indonesia, and she’d broken her “no comment” vow to say that between the confusion and the concussion, she didn’t remember anything that happened in the forest. Priest had pulled strings as I’d begged him to, and Marc’s wish had been granted—the members of Wild Roots would get their slap on the wrist, three months in a reasonably comfortable prison instead of the life sentences they’d been facing. The charges had been downgraded from abduction to coercion, and the authorities had successfully blamed most of the trouble on the West Papua Freedom Army.
Included in the three-month deal were Umar and Rain, who’d also been jailed for Malati-related crimes, and Caroline Fortier, who’d broken down and confessed to punching herself in the face after one of the bruises turned out to be the exact size and shape of her carat-and-a-half diamond engagement ring, with a smaller mark underneath that matched her wedding band. Funny how she’d been allowed to keep those and not her iPad, wasn’t it? Plus she’d turned off iCloud, and although the prosecutor offered her immunity if she identified the six missing “backpackers,” she’d turned him down and opted to serve her time instead. Ditto for Kamryn, Frank, Ricky, and their surviving colleague from the stilt house. In a strange way, I had to admire their loyalty.
The downside of the deal? As part of the negotiations, I’d gotten co-opted into giving a hostage rescue seminar with Emmy, so I’d been forced to fly back to Indonesia for two days, and my insect bites had only just stopped itching. Don’t even talk to me about the jet lag.
“‘Realigning his priorities’ means installing solar panels and recycling more,” Dice said as I yawned, “not abandoning his multimillion-dollar career.”
“He’s doing that for the environment, not for me.”
“Oh, please.” Dice moved in closer and jabbed at the screen. “‘Reconnecting with the things I left behind’? That means you.”
“I’m not a ‘thing.’” The snake slithered across my shoulders, and I shuddered. “Get that creature away from me.”
“She has a name, you know.”
“Fine. Get Marigold away from me.”
I reached for the cookie jar, but of course it was empty. I knew now why Marcel had stopped whining about Drumstick and Butterball—the turkeys had discovered my pot plants, and they were stoned. Off their fucking heads. My lovingly tended weed garden had been decimated when I needed it most, and now we were having lentil stromboli for Thanksgiving dinner.
“You should call him. Or better yet, go home for Thanksgiving.”
“I am going home for Thanksgiving.”
“I meant actual Thanksgiving, not your made-up version a week later.”
“Three days later, and we’ve always done it this way. It’s tradition.”
“You’re talking bullshit, as usual.”
“Leave her alone,” Tulsa said, and it must have been a rough night if she was wearing sunglasses indoors. “All men are assholes.”
“Oh no, did you accidentally sleep with your pet mafioso again?” Dice asked, her voice overflowing with fake sympathy. “Or did you hook up with a different douchebag?”
“I tried to hook up with a different douchebag, but he stuttered an apology and left, and then Romeo appeared out of nowhere.”
“Smooth.”
“It’s like this vicious circle. Every time we fuck, I hate him more, which makes the sex crazier—like, the good kind of crazy—so I can’t resist doing it again. Someday, I’m gonna toss him into the Grand Canyon and be done with it.”
“Well, make sure you do it from the North Rim. Too many tourists at the South. And we’re talking about Dusk’s disastrous love life here, not yours.”
“Do not mention Romeo Serafini and love in the same conversation.”
Dice rolled her eyes. “Whatever. But it’s obvious Dusk is still hung up on Marc.”
Jez meandered in. “That didn’t stop her from breaking his heart again.”
For fuck’s sake. “Don’t you start. Marc and I are fine, okay? I bought him a Thanksgiving gift, and I said I’d email him from time to time.”
“What gift?” she asked suspiciously.
“A year’s subscription to a password vault.”
“That’s a joke, right?”
