“We aren’t supposed to let you go anywhere on your own,” says Ed. “Especially if your life is at risk.”
“Yeah,” adds Mel. “This is really when we should be at your side.”
“That’s true,” I say. “But they aren’t going to let you in. We could wait for your security company to send us some female agents, but we really don’t have the time. We’re just going to have to risk it.”
Neither Ed nor Mel is happy about this, but there isn’t much they can do. They are bound to obey my orders.
I walk past the front desk with purpose. I act as if I am meant to be here so that no one will dare question me. I’m already dressed the part in my red tracksuit, a lucky choice this morning, as it turns out.
“Uh, excuse me, ma’am?” says a young blond, grinning and running up to stand bashfully in front of me. “We need to sign you in.”
“Of course,” I say, reluctantly following her back to the desk. “But wait”—I pretend to search my purse—“I left my fob at home.”
“Oh, okay, that’s fine,” she says. “What’s your last name?”
“Nylo,” I say.
She looks at me, recognizing the name. She frowns, scanning her computer.
“Oh, okay, it actually looks like you already signed in and left,” she says.
Gabriella must have a membership here. It is definitely the kind of place where she would enjoy hanging out, looking for validation and camaraderie.
“Yeah,” I say. “I did the hard part first and then grabbed a quick, early dinner and now I am going to do my long run for the week.”
“Enjoy your workout!” she says sunnily, not really hearing my lame excuse.
I at least know that I’m behind Gabriella, which makes sense. She would remember where Mom used to work out, especially if she now has a membership here herself.
I take out my game phone and hold it in my hand as I peruse the main floor of the gym, where people are lifting kettlebells, running on treadmills, stretching, and riding stationary bikes while watching the business channel.
Mom liked to exercise late at night. She would leave at one or two in the morning, frustrated and yelling, letting us all know that she was tired of our bullshit and that she needed some time alone.
She wasn’t subtle about it. She would tell us that we were the ones who were making her crazy, that it was our fault she was leaving and that maybe she would never come back. She would usually return early in the morning, sweaty and ashen. We always assumed she went out drinking in her workout clothes rather than to the gym. And yet, she must have been exercising at least some of the time. What else could explain her perfect figure, despite how much she ate and drank?
I head to the treadmills, holding my phone up beside each one, pretending to check a series of texts. My heart is beating fast.
What if I’m the last one here? What will happen to me? Will I be electrocuted? Will someone smash in my head with a twenty-five-pound plate?
None of the treadmills trigger the game phone. I walk around the perimeter of the club, growing increasingly frustrated.
I corner one of the towel girls, almost pushing her up against the wall.
“Listen,” I say. “Have the treadmills always been right where they are now?”
“Yes, ma’am,” she says, as she puts a hand up to steady the stack of white towels in her arms. “I think so. They’ve been right against that wall ever since we moved them up here from downstairs.”
“From the basement?” I ask.
“Yes, ma’am. That was before my time. All the treadmills used to be down in the basement and all the showers used to be on the third floor, but we switched everything up after the hurricane.”
“After the flooding,” I say, as if I have been coming here for years.
“Yes, ma’am,” she says, looking relieved to have appeased me. “They say nothing ever changes here, but I guess sometimes things do get shifted around.”
The basement. Fine.
As I walk down the short, sharp stairwell to the lower floor, I have all sorts of fantasies for how I might be exterminated in the basement of this gym. I might be drowned, or attacked by a plague of rats, or walled up in some dark corner—asphyxiated—my bones left to molder and dissolve in the humid walls.
I take a deep breath and grip my game phone so hard that my knuckles turn white. Either I am the last Nylo here, or I am not. There’s nothing I can do about it.
I walk around the perimeter, holding my phone up like a metal detector. The space is relatively empty. There are showers and lockers, but not many women taking advantage of them. I try to be discreet so that nobody will think I’m snapping inappropriate pictures.
I walk all the way along one wall, then another, then a third. On the fourth wall my phone starts to vibrate and then it plays the Nylo Corporation theme song. My whole body clenches up in a paroxysm of fear and stomach acid, like a reverse orgasm.
I look down, afraid of what I’ll find. And then I heave a huge sigh of relief.
I am in the third spot, behind Gabriella, who came in first, and Alistair.
I cannot believe my luck. It is almost 6 p.m. How did I beat Bernard?
Even though I should feel safe, I still wait a moment for something terrible to happen. To be scalded by boiling water pouring from an exploded pipe. To be shot at point-blank range by a sulking towel assistant. But nothing happens. I walk back up the stairs to the first floor, salute the blond girl at the front desk, and then go outside, my brain abuzz with the madness of this crazy game.
What does
