“My people? I’m Canadian, these are not my people. Or do you mean because I’m white? I don’t know these kinds of white people.” My pulse pounds so aggressively I feel it in my throat. “Besides, who gets murdered at a three-hundred-thousand-dollar wedding?”
“Stan said closer to five hundred thousand. And I meant because of the hockey, weirdo,” she adds as we put on fake smiles for Sam while he helps us into the golf cart. “They’re your people.”
“Not my people,” I answer back quickly, certain my stare confirms all her suspicions. There’s a small fear that she’s right; five hundred thousand or not, we’re about to die. Is that why Stan wanted to move my apartment? So he could hide my things and make it seem as though I never existed?
Oh God.
On the verge of a slight panic attack, I’m saved when Sam distracts us, soothing my nerves. “Well, ladies, you must be excited. This is a lovely spot for a wedding. We have heaps of them every year but this must be the most extravagant we’ve seen.”
“Yes,” we agree at the same time with those weird telephone voices that scream how nervous we are.
“You friends of the bride or groom?”
“Sort of both,” I lie.
We are friends with neither.
Matt Brimley is an elite rich dude who for some unknown reason played hockey his whole life. And Sami Ford is the ultimate “it girl,” a fashion and lifestyle icon everyone wants to be or emulate as closely as possible. This is the wedding of the year and decade, and we should be grateful to be here. Just to breathe the same air as these people.
“Have you worked here long, Sam?” I ask, changing the subject and doing the thing I do where I say his name so I don’t forget it.
“About five years. It’s a retirement gig for me.” He chuckles. “I was a police officer for thirty years in Nashville, and when I retired I thought I might do some fishing and play a little golf, so we moved to the country. But I got bored. And I know what happens when men my age get bored—they die.” He drives the golf cart around the tennis courts and onto a small path in the forest. “A friend told me about this place and voila, here I am.”
“I imagine they must let you use the facilities and whatnot,” Sukii adds.
“Indeed, and we eat for free. Which, let me tell you, in all my sixty years on this planet, I have never had food like here.” He whistles. “You girls are in for a treat.” He drives into a thick wooded area and up a small path to a quaint cabin. It’s beautiful and modern as well but has that charming little cottage feel. “Here’s your cabin, Miss Snowdon.” He steps out of the cart and picks up my bags.
“I can get those,” I say, liking Sam now. He reminds me of my dad.
“Nonsense.” He waves me off and carries them to the adorable front door with the cute porch. It matches the cabins next door, though they’re laid out differently to trick the eye into not seeing similarities.
My cabin is a modern craftsman style with huge windows and a rustic chic decor. The front porch has sofas and blankets and screams comfort. I imagine a cup of Sukii’s weird British coffee she imports and listening to the rain.
He opens the door and beams. “Enjoy your stay.”
“Thanks, Sam.”
I hand him some cash and step inside, glancing back at Sukii. I’m still a bit frightened of being alone here. Separating us seems like what they’d do in this type of scenario. And the way the week’s been going, dying in a horror movie would fit.
Sukii looks scared too until Sam drives on the small path to the cottage across from me.
“We’re neighbors!” she shouts.
I grin wide, letting myself relax a bit about the whole thing. “I’ll unpack and come over.”
“Bring wine,” she says with a laugh and hurries into her cottage.
“If I may offer advice, forget the wine. Head over to the Dagwood and get a charcuterie and a stout,” Sam offers as he climbs back onto the golf cart. “You won’t regret it.”
I wave at him. “Thanks, Sam!”
Once I’m back inside, I close the door and lean against it, taking it all in.
The horror vibe dies as I realize the room is gorgeous. It’s luxurious while being delicately played down to help the rich people feel like they’re camping. We have definitely been brought here to ensure there are no mess-ups and not to die in some weird hunt-the-poor-people game in the woods. It’s too nice.
On one side of the room there’s a king-sized bed with a bag on it.
The bag is Louis Vuitton, a large multicolor weekender with cream handles. It has to be worth twenty-five hundred dollars. I rush to it, unzipping with trembling fingers to discover treasures inside.
There are mini bags, also Louis Vuitton, five with the days of the week written on them. I open today’s, Wednesday’s, and stare at the contents.
There’s sunscreen, matching Gucci sunglasses and flip-flops, a cute scarf from Hermes with English sightseeing destinations in the design, a beach towel, bath salts with lavender pieces, and a bottle opener.
My fingers reach for the next day but I resist. I’ll open them one day at a time.
Carefully, I put the bag on the small dresser and turn, jumping on the bed and bouncing with my butt to test the firmness of the mattress. “Oh my God!” I lie back and decide the pillow top is otherworldly.
I close my eyes and let the images of the last two days flash through my mind like painful fireworks.
Ben.
Aslin.
The mud puddle.
Randall the phone dude.
Gutting my apartment in a mad frenzy.
Stan’s offer.
Meeting Sukii in the limo when it picked me up before driving us to LaGuardia.
Arriving here.
I take a deep breath and try to calm my frazzled mind, reminding myself
