Page 29 of Moonlighter
And I have to admit that the gear Max and Gunnar have perfected over the years is pretty damn impressive. Gunnar waves his hand in front of the screen to start the silent video playing. On it, our hotel room appears in perfect resolution. The door swings open, admitting a man who is already shoving a key card into his pocket. He’s wearing a fishing hat with a wide brim that dips over his features. If you passed him in the lobby, it would only look a little sloppy. But it does a remarkable job concealing the top half of his face.
“Shit,” I curse as he moves through the frame without showing his eyes. I can barely make out his jawline.
“Please tell me you recognize him?” Gunnar asks. “Because that doesn’t look like Jared Tatum to me. His shoulders are too broad.”
Alex just shakes her head. The intruder does a quick circuit of the room, pulling on gloves then stopping in front of Alex’s laptop on the desk. He opens the lid, and the screen blinks to life. I hear Alex’s sharp intake of breath as he pulls out his phone and snaps a picture of the login screen.
Then he closes it again and walks away, circling behind the camera.
“Now he’s offscreen for seventy seconds,” Gunnar says.
Alex groans. “I left my prenatal vitamins in the bedroom. And there’s a pregnancy book in my luggage. I should have been more careful.”
“You think this guy is working for your ex?” I ask. “That was fast.”
“Itwasfast,” Gunnar says. “Can I ask you a question, Alex? Tatum registered for the conference at the last minute, right? Does he have any real business here, besides asking you to get back together?”
“Well, sure,” she says slowly. “He needs to do another round of funding for his startup. There are people here who could help him.”
Okay. I’m still in the dark, though. “Who else would stalk Alex?” I ask.
Gunnar’s forehead wrinkles. “When you run a big company, you make enemies. On any given day, there are a dozen people mad at Alex.”
“Sad but true,” she murmurs.
In my peripheral vision, I see Pieter wave his hands. We all look up at once, and he beckons to Gunnar.
“So let’s not leap to conclusions yet,” Gunnar says in a normal voice. But he’s already on his feet and walking toward the bedroom. “I’m just going to use the bathroom before I head out.”
“Um, okay?” Alex says, clearly confused.
Gunnar holds up a hand that’s meant to keep us where we’re seated. But I’m not in the mood to obey. I kick off my flip flops and then pace across the rug to see what the hell they found.
In the bedroom, Pieter is standing beside a framed painting on the wall. He points, and I see it—something small on the top of the frame. It’s no bigger than a coat button.
I hear water running behind the bathroom door. And then Gunnar opens the bathroom door, holding three fingers to Pieter. On a count of three, he flushes the toilet.
At the same moment as the loud flush, Pieter reaches up and plucks the device off the picture frame. He places it on his palm, and then cups his hand over it, the same way you would a real bug. He walks by me, heading for the door to the suite, while Gunnar rushes to open it for him.
Pieter leaves with that thing in his hand. And when I turn around again, Alex is heading out onto the terrace, looking white as a sheet.
Gunnar is still poking around the suite with some kind of sensing device in his hand, scanning every baseboard. As I watch, he picks up the hotel’s phone and examines it. Then he sets it down again. Then he heads over to the bed and starts tossing pillows onto the floor.
I follow Alex outside. She’s sitting on one of the outdoor sofas, her knees tucked in tight to her chest as if making herself as small as possible. This posture of fear hits me right in the solar plexus.
The Alex I remember is bossy and forthright. She doesn’t curl up into a ball. Ever.
“Hey,” I say, sitting down right beside her. Then I drag the footstool closer. I stretch out my legs and nudge her to do the same. “You’re going to be okay.”
“I know that,” she snaps. And then she puts her head in her hands and cries.
8
Alex
Well,this is both terrifying and mortifying.
“I’m sorry,” I gasp. “I’m not a crier.” It’s true, but pretty difficult to prove with all these tears streaming down my face. I swipe at them hastily. “It’s the hormones.”
