Day of the Dead

But in Mexico? How did things work here? Would it be worth it to try?

‘Right now I’m scheduled to leave on Sunday,’ she said.

‘Of course, of course. We could make an arrangement for you to stay here in the future, if you’d like to return. Or if you decide you’d like to stay a little longer, we can do that as well.’

‘Thank you,’ Michelle said. ‘I’ll think about it.’

Even with what had happened, it was tempting. Spending time on the beach, drinking margaritas on the hotel’s dime, sounded better than her current life in Los Angeles. Living in her sister’s spare room. Listening to Maggie’s fights with her boyfriend, to her son Ben’s tantrums. It was why she’d come on this vacation in the first place, to get away from all that for a few days.

A giggle rose in her throat as she walked up the stairs from the reception area to her tower. Maybe she just wouldn’t leave. See how long the hotel’s free room was good for. They hadn’t really said.

I’ll live off room service and peanuts from the minibar, she thought. Let my hair go gray, my thighs get fat, get a couple of cats and a Chihuahua. Fill the room with purchases from the beach vendors: loud serapes, wooden dolphin statuettes, flying Batman parachute toys, piled in stacks, all smelling vaguely of cat piss. Take her Chihuahua on walks down the Malecón. Maybe one of the cats, too.

She felt, for the first time in months, light. Unencumbered. Free.

The feeling wouldn’t last long, probably, but why not enjoy it?

Maybe I’ll take some pictures, she thought.

Get out the good camera. Wander around. See what caught her eye. She hadn’t done that in ages, hadn’t done it here at all, not even a few snapshots with her point-and-shoot, and she was a pretty decent photographer – or had been, once.

She decided to change out of the sundress and into some shorts and a tanktop. Better for taking photos, in case she needed to climb or crouch.

The hotel people hadn’t arranged things the way she would, naturally, and she had to hunt inside the wardrobe to figure out where they’d put her clothes.

Underwear on one shelf. Blouses and skirts neatly hung. Sandals lined in a row.

Including one pair that didn’t belong. A pair of Tevas, too big to fit her feet.

Hanging on the closet pole, a faded batik shirt.

Daniel’s clothes.

She found the swim trunks on the shelf with her bathing suit and sarong.

Holding up the trunks, she felt a surge of irritation. How could they have forgotten his clothes? What was she supposed to do with them?

Maybe she’d give them to the beach vendors, to one of the Indian kids peddling garish magnets made in China.

It’s not right for me to feel this way, she thought. She should care – shouldn’t she? – about what had happened to him. Maybe he’d just needed stitches, maybe he was resting at home right now, or even back on the beach looking for some other tourist to fuck, but what if he’d been badly hurt? A skull fracture, bleeding in the brain, something like that.

But ever since Tom had died, she didn’t seem to feel the things she was supposed to feel.

And maybe it wasn’t so strange, not wanting to see Daniel, after what had happened. What did she know about him, really? Just that he was attractive, and after she’d taken him to her room, they’d been attacked.

It could have been a lot worse.

She shuddered thinking about it.

Just some clothes that he wasn’t going to miss. Not her problem.

There was a sudden burst of music. She flinched, almost flinging Daniel’s trunks in the air. What was that? Not the stereo from the beach bar, it was definitely inside the room. A rock song, something familiar. She finally recognized it as ‘Pretty Fly,’ by the Offspring. Coming from inside her tote bag.

It was her iPhone. I’ve never used that ringtone, she thought. She grabbed it from her bag, hit ANSWER.

‘Hey, Danny?’ A male voice.

‘No,’ she said. ‘Who’s this?’

‘Oh. Sorry. Wrong number.’ The call ended.

She stared at the phone. The wallpaper on the screen was wrong – an ocean wave rather than the rows of mountains she used. A moment later it rang again. NED G came up as the caller. Same ringtone.

‘Hey,’ the same male voice said. ‘This is Danny’s phone, right?’

CHAPTER THREE

She hadn’t thought it was Daniel’s phone. It looked exactly like her phone. It was a black iPhone, for chrissakes; they all looked pretty much alike.

‘Who’s this?’ she asked again.

‘It’s Ned. So is Danny around?’

‘No. He isn’t.’

‘Oh.’ A nervous chuckle. ‘Well, sorry to bug you. But, um … is this Danny’s number? Maybe my phone’s screwed up somehow.’

She stared at the iPhone. ‘I don’t know,’ she said. She didn’t know what else to say.

‘Okay,’ the voice said. ‘But you know him, right?’

She hit DISCONNECT before she could even think it through.

When she slid the bar to unlock the phone, ENTER PASSCODE appeared on the screen. She didn’t use a passcode.

She had Daniel’s phone. So where was hers?

She tossed his phone on the bed. Used the hotel phone to make an international call and dialed her own number, waited for the ringtone she used for unidentified callers, the default marimba.

Nothing.

The call went directly to voicemail, and then she remembered that she’d turned it off to avoid roaming charges. To avoid calls from her attorney. From the creditor who’d somehow found the number.

‘Oh, fuck,’ she said.

‘Leave a message,’ her own voice said.

Beep. She hung up.