Khalid was dead. Annabel had heard him die. The idea of it made her physically sick. She’d thrown up twice—once at the airport in Geneva, once in the plane’s tiny bathroom sink. She couldn’t stop replaying their conversation in her head. His voice had been tense and labored, as though he was walking quickly while speaking to her. The sounds of the city blared in the background. Horns, wind, static, white noise. He cut in and out; she could hardly hear him. Had he been walking down a busy street in London? Was he at a train station? He said something she couldn’t understand. Muffled sounds of a scuffle. Then nothing.
Had there been a gunshot? Annabel wasn’t sure. At first she thought the thump she’d heard was the sound of the phone hitting the pavement. But it could have been a shot. Or a blunt blow to the head. It was her fault. If she hadn’t taken the laptop to him, he would still be alive.
Ten hours after her conversation with Khalid, Annabel’s plane touched down at Las Américas International Airport in the Dominican Republic. She felt faint from the heat. She’d dressed for November in New York, not a trip to the tropics. She pulled at her turtleneck as she waited for her suitcase. If the airport was air-conditioned, she couldn’t feel it. She felt her back grow damp from the humid night air.
Her bag was the last to drop onto the carousel. Annabel collected it and glanced around the terminal. She hadn’t eaten since Geneva. It was past midnight and the kiosks were closed. She walked to a vending machine and slid her credit card into it before realizing it was out of order. She sighed and stooped over the drinking fountain instead.
The rental car booth was at the far end of the terminal. The clerk behind it was chatting with a baggage handler. Annabel loitered by the drinking fountain until the baggage handler had waved good-bye and headed off in the other direction. When he was out of sight, she stepped forward and smiled at the clerk.
“¿Habla usted Inglés?” Annabel asked. She was too tired to communicate in another language. The clerk was young, maybe twenty-five at most. His hair was long and he wore earphones around his neck. The sign overhead indicated that he would be closing in ten minutes. He glanced at his watch before answering.
“Sí, señorita. What can I do for you?”
“I need to get to Isla Alma. Can you help me?”
The clerk frowned. “Isla Alma is a private island. Do you mean La Palma?”
“No. I mean Isla Alma.”
“You’ll need to go to the port in Boca Chica. It’s thirty-five kilometers from here. Is someone on the island expecting you?”
“No.”
“The only way on or off that island is by a private boat.”
“There’s no ferry? Or water taxi?”
The clerk laughed. “To Isla Alma? No, señorita.”
The despair on Marina’s face must have been apparent, because the clerk sighed. He gestured for her to lean over the counter. “Listen. My cousin, he drives a limo. He’s a good guy. He’s done with his shift. He was just waiting around for me upstairs. He can take you there if you want. So you don’t have to drive. You look tired. You shouldn’t be on the road so late.”
“I am tired.” Annabel hesitated, but only for a minute. And of all the risks she was running, getting into a car with a stranger was probably the least of them. “Okay. Thank you. That would be good.”
“He usually charges twenty-five dollars. You’re American, right?”
“Yes. That’s fine.”
“Okay. I’ll go get him now. Wait here. He’ll take you to the port in Boca Chica. After that, you’re on your own. Isla Alma, it’s not exactly a place where most people are welcome.”
“I’ll take my chances.”
The clerk shrugged. “Es tu vida.”
“May I use your phone? My cell phone is dead.”
“I’m not supposed to let anyone use the phone.”
“Please. I’ll be quick, I promise.” Marina riffled through her purse and found an American twenty-dollar bill. She placed it on the counter.
The clerk took it and shot her a look.
“It’s all I have. Unless you want euros. I’m sorry.”
He tucked the bill into his back pocket. “Be fast, okay? I’ll get my cousin.”
“Thank you.”
Annabel waited until the clerk was gone before pulling out Lorenzo’s business card. Call me if you need a friend, he had said after Matthew’s memorial service. She hoped he meant it.
The phone rang, once, twice, three times.
Please, please, please, Annabel whispered to herself. Please answer the phone. It hadn’t occurred to her that she wouldn’t be able to get to Lorenzo once she arrived in the Dominican Republic. Isla Alma was her refuge of last resort. From here, she had no other options.
“Alo?”
“Lorenzo?” Annabel’s voice shook. She looked behind her. The clerk was across the terminal, talking to two other guys. His back was to her. She turned back, hunching over the phone.
“Who is this?”
“It’s Annabel Werner. Matthew’s wife.”
“Annabel?” Lorenzo’s voice softened. “Where are you? Are you all right?”
“I’m at the airport. Las Américas. I came to see you. I was going to take a taxi to the port.”
“I’ll send my driver for you. Don’t take a taxi. Be outside the terminal in fifteen minutes.”
“Are you sure? I’m sorry. I know it’s the middle of the night and—” Across the terminal, the clerk turned around and pointed at her. The two men stared. Annabel felt a wave of uneasiness. Something about the way they were assessing her felt wrong.
“I’m glad you called. Annabel?”
“Yes?”
“Don’t talk to anyone until then. Don’t use your credit card. Just keep to yourself. Okay?”
“Okay. Thank you, Lorenzo. Thank you so much.”
“Be safe, my friend.”
Annabel hung up the phone and slipped away from the desk. By the time the clerk and his friends had returned, she was gone.