Chapter 4: A Number I Didn't Recognize
I stared at the message for a long time.
The kids were finally asleep, all three of them tangled together on the wide resort bed, the ceiling fan turning slowly above them.
David had gone to the hotel bar to "smooth things over" with Beatrice.
He'd been gone for nearly two hours.
I read the message again.
*It wasn't for the kids.*
I typed back: *Who is this?*
Three dots appeared.
Then: *Someone who was at the same dinner table six weeks ago.
Ask him about the conversation he had with his mother before this trip was booked.*
Then the number went silent.
I sat on the edge of the bed with the phone in my lap.
Six weeks ago.
I tried to think back.
David had taken Beatrice to dinner for her birthday.
I hadn't gone — our youngest had a fever and I'd stayed home.
David came back late, said it was fine, said his mother sent her love.
I hadn't thought about that dinner once since then.
I called David.
It rang four times and went to voicemail.
I called again.
Same result.
I put my shoes on, checked that the kids were still sleeping, and walked down to the hotel bar.
David was there.
So was Beatrice.
They were seated in a corner booth, leaning close together, voices low.
A half-empty bottle of wine sat between them.
Neither of them noticed me come in.
I stood near the entrance and watched them for a moment.
There was something about the way they were talking — the angle of their heads, the urgency in Beatrice's hands as she gestured — that didn't look like a son calming his mother down after a room dispute.
It looked like a strategy meeting.
I walked over.
Beatrice saw me first.
Her back straightened.
She reached for her wine glass.
David turned around.
"Hey — I was just about to come up."
"It's been two hours," I said.
"We were talking."
I looked at Beatrice.
She met my eyes with a pleasantness that didn't reach anywhere near genuine.
"Sit down, dear," she said.
"Have a glass."
"No thank you." I looked back at David.
"Can I talk to you for a minute?
Alone?"
Something passed between them.
Fast, almost invisible.
Beatrice gave a small nod.
David stood up.
"Sure."
We moved to a quieter corner near the window.
Outside, the ocean was dark and the lights of the resort reflected off the water in long broken lines.
"Who did you have dinner with six weeks ago?" I asked.
He frowned.
"Mom's birthday.
You know that."
"Was it just the two of you?"
"Yes." A beat too fast.
"David."
"It was just us, Claire.
Why?"
I watched his face.
He was holding it very still in the way people do when they're deciding how much to say.
"Someone sent me a message tonight," I said.
"They told me to ask you why Beatrice really came on this trip."
The stillness cracked, just slightly.
His jaw shifted.
"What?
Who?"
"I don't know.
Unknown number."
"Someone's messing with you." He shook his head.
"Probably someone who saw the post about the trip online—"
"I didn't post about this trip online."
Silence.
"David." I kept my voice steady.
"Is there something about this trip I don't know?"
He looked at me for a long moment.
Then he looked past me, toward the corner booth where his mother was watching us over the rim of her wine glass.
May you like
"Let's talk upstairs," he said.
"Not here."
