{"product_id":"getaway-isbn-9781616950712","title":"Getaway","description":"\u003cb\u003eFrom the author of \u003ci\u003eNew York Times\u003c\/i\u003e bestselling \u003ci\u003eRock Paper Tiger\u003c\/i\u003e comes the most electrifying thriller of the summer. \u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMichelle Mason tells herself she’s on vacation. A brief stay in the Mexican resort town of Puerto Vallarta. It’s a chance to figure out her next move after the unexpected death of her financier husband, who’s left behind a scandal and a pile of debt.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWhen a good-looking man named Daniel approaches her on the beach, she decides: Why not? But the date doesn’t go as either of them planned. An assault on Daniel in her hotel room, switched cell phones, and an encounter with a “friend” of Daniel’s named Gary gets Michelle enmeshed in a covert operation involving drug runners, goons, and venture capitalists. Michelle quickly finds that running is not an option. If she’s not careful, she’ll and up buried in the town dump, with the rest of the trash. Now she needs to fight smart if she wants to survive her vacation\u003cp\u003e\u003cu\u003e\u003cb\u003ePraise for \u003ci\u003eGetaway\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/u\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u003ci\u003e\"Getaway \u003c\/i\u003edraws you in with the immediate force of its sensuous atmosphere, its living and breathing characters, its riveting plot—and most of all, with its sheer believability. Did you ever get drunk on a holiday and do one or two things the guidebooks say you shouldn’t? Well, this is what it could have led to.\"\u003cbr\u003e—\u003cb\u003eLene Kaaberbøl \u0026amp; Agnete Friis, \u003ci\u003eNew York Times \u003c\/i\u003ebestselling authors of \u003ci\u003eThe Boy in the Suitcase\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Brackmann strikes exactly the right mood in this frantic look at an ordinary woman who can't seem to claw her way out of the mess in which she's managed to land.\"\u003cbr\u003e—\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003eKirkus Reviews \u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Brackmann follows up her debut, \u003ci\u003eRock Paper Tiger\u003c\/i\u003e, an Amazon Best Book of 2010, with a sinister tale of a vacation gone bad . . . Puerto Vallarta provides a lush backdrop for Brackmann's richly drawn ex-pat world, which is as eccentric as it is dangerous.\" \u003cbr\u003e—\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003ePublishers Weekly\u003c\/i\u003e \u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“The ending fulfills several strands of the book without totally wrapping up others. It almost suggests the ending of the Tony Scott film, veering off into a half-fairy tale, half metafictional other world: \u003ci\u003eGetaway\u003c\/i\u003e's ending is more believable than that of \u003ci\u003eTrue Romance\u003c\/i\u003e, but it's open-ended and contains elements of wish-fulfillment in the same sort of way . . . Altogether, \u003ci\u003eGetaway\u003c\/i\u003e, due from Soho Press in May, is an interesting and entertaining update on the damsel-in-distress story (from the damsel's point of view) as well as the Ambler-esque spy thriller.” \u003cbr\u003e—\u003cb\u003eInternational Noir Fiction\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003cu\u003e\u003cb\u003ePraise for Lisa Brackmann\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/u\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Lisa Brackmann’s novel gets off to a fast start and never lets up . . . Be prepared for a wild ride.”\u003cbr\u003e—\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003eThe New York Times Book Review\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"[Brackmann] investigates the very nature of crime. She  explores who really profits from it. And she does all this in a kick-a**  thriller that’s nearly impossible to put down.\" \u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eThe Arizona Daily Sun\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Timely and hip . . . Brackmann can write.”\u003cbr\u003e—\u003ci\u003e\u003cb\u003eBoston Globe\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“A pulse-racer.”\u003cbr\u003e—\u003ci\u003e\u003cb\u003eEntertainment Weekly\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/p\u003eLisa Brackmann is the critically acclaimed author of the Ellie McEnroe novels (\u003ci\u003eRock Paper Tiger\u003c\/i\u003e, \u003ci\u003eHour of the Rat\u003c\/i\u003e, \u003ci\u003eDragon Day\u003c\/i\u003e) and the thrillers \u003ci\u003eGetaway\u003c\/i\u003e and \u003ci\u003eGo-Between\u003c\/i\u003e. Her work has also appeared in \u003ci\u003eThe Wall Street Journal\u003c\/i\u003e, \u003ci\u003eTravel+Leisure\u003c\/i\u003e and CNET. She lives in San Diego with a couple of cats, far too many books and a bass ukulele.Chapter One\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMichelle dropped the sarong she’d started to tie around her waist\u003cbr\u003eonto her lounge chair. Nobody cared what her thighs looked like.\u003cbr\u003eSand burned the soles of her feet as she walked down to the\u003cbr\u003ewater. Look at these people, she thought. Foreigners, mostly. Like\u003cbr\u003eher. Older, a lot of them. Sagging, leathered skin, the ones who’d\u003cbr\u003ebeen here awhile. Pale tourists, big-bellied, pink-faced, glowing\u003cbr\u003ewith sunburn. A family of locals—Mexicans anyway, who knew\u003cbr\u003eif they were really from here? Dark, short, and blocky, eating\u003cbr\u003eshrimp on a stick from the grill down the beach, giant bottles of Coke tucked in a Styrofoam cooler. Out of shape. Lumpy. Flabby. Aging.\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003cbr\u003eNobody cares.\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAnd her thighs weren’t bad, anyway.\u003cbr\u003eShe stood at the water’s edge, watching the rainbow parasail\u003cbr\u003efrom the real-estate company lift a middle-aged woman into the\u003cbr\u003esoft blue sky, the motorboat gunning its engine and heading out\u003cbr\u003einto the bay, avoiding the banana boat undulating up and down\u003cbr\u003eas it hauled a load of college kids south toward Los Arcos. She\u003cbr\u003ewatched them gripping the yellow tube with their knees, shrieking\u003cbr\u003ewith laughter, several clutching beers, tanned and young and\u003cbr\u003ehealthy.\u003cbr\u003eThey’d drink until they puked, screw each other till they\u003cbr\u003epassed out, go home and post about their awesome vacation on\u003cbr\u003etheir Facebook pages.\u003cbr\u003eShe waded into the water until it was up to her hips. Warm as\u003cbr\u003ea bath, but the surf was pounding. She stood there trying to resist\u003cbr\u003ethe pull as the receding waves sucked the sand out from under\u003cbr\u003eher feet.\u003cbr\u003eAfter a while she’d had enough and went back to her lounger\u003cbr\u003ebeneath the \u003ci\u003epalapa\u003c\/i\u003e.\u003cbr\u003eShe tried to read her book. It was about a woman whose marriage\u003cbr\u003ehad broken up, and she’d learned to bake bread. Bread and\u003cbr\u003emuffins. After about thirty pages, Michelle was willing to bet that\u003cbr\u003ethe heroine would end up with the overly educated woodworker\u003cbr\u003eand not the stressed-out options trader.\u003cbr\u003e“Ma’am? Can I get you something? Something to drink?”\u003cbr\u003eThe hotel waiter, dressed in a white guayabera and smudged\u003cbr\u003ewhite pants, stood above her, round, sweating tray in hand.\u003cbr\u003eNutbrown, gray-haired, creases marking his face like wrinkles in\u003cbr\u003ea crumpled shirt.\u003cbr\u003eShe thought about it. “A margarita, please.”\u003cbr\u003eWhy not? She didn’t need to be sober to follow this plot.\u003cbr\u003eThey’d already paid for the vacation. It still seemed like an\u003cbr\u003eextravagance. She and Tom were going to go together. A getaway.\u003cbr\u003eA celebration, he’d said.\u003cbr\u003eShe wondered what it was that he’d wanted to celebrate.\u003cbr\u003eShe must have fallen asleep for a while. That was sort of the point\u003cbr\u003ewith these vacations. You partied at night. Got up earlier than\u003cbr\u003eyou’d like. Grabbed your \u003ci\u003epalapa\u003c\/i\u003e while the sun was still low\u003cbr\u003ebehind the eastern mountains, spread out your towel on your\u003cbr\u003eblue canvas chair, put on your sunblock, found your place in your\u003cbr\u003enovel. First cocktail at lunch, to wash down the greasy quesadillas\u003cbr\u003ebrought out to you on a paper plate. Try to ignore the vendors\u003cbr\u003eselling jewelry, blankets, offering to braid your hair, massage\u003cbr\u003eyour feet. At some point you’d close your eyes, tired as they were\u003cbr\u003efrom reading in the shaded sunlight, irritated from the sunscreen\u003cbr\u003esweated into them.\u003cbr\u003eWhen she opened her eyes, it was late afternoon. She’d been\u003cbr\u003edreaming, about something. About being too hot. About . . . what\u003cbr\u003ewas it about? About somebody breathing in her ear. Leaning over,\u003cbr\u003etouching her shoulder. A man, but not Tom. \u003ci\u003eDidn’t you forget?\u003c\/i\u003e he’d\u003cbr\u003easked. \u003ci\u003eDidn’t you forget?\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003eA few clouds had come in, but it was still hot, and the sun glared\u003cbr\u003ein her eyes. She blinked a few times. Then something blotted out\u003cbr\u003ethe light.\u003cbr\u003eA parasail, between the beach and the sun.\u003cbr\u003eIt took a moment for her eyes to adjust. The parasail was its\u003cbr\u003eown small eclipse, dark against the sun. Now she could see it—the\u003cbr\u003ebloodred parachute, white letters glowing.\u003cbr\u003etourism kills! they spelled. In English.\u003cbr\u003eMichelle blinked again and stood.\u003cbr\u003eAn atypical crowd had gathered on the beach. Elegantly dressed\u003cbr\u003emen and women—a wedding party, she thought at first. Waiters\u003cbr\u003erushed to fill shot glasses with tequila. Photographers ringed the\u003cbr\u003egroup, pointing their cameras at the parasail, which was heading\u003cbr\u003eback from the bay.\u003cbr\u003eNow she could see the person in the harness. Even at this distance,\u003cbr\u003ehe appeared huge, roughly as spherical as a balloon. As he\u003cbr\u003edescended, she saw that he wore a three-piece brown tweed suit\u003cbr\u003eand a red plaid tie.\u003cbr\u003eShe wished she had her camera. But it was locked up in the\u003cbr\u003ehotel’s safe—too valuable to risk leaving on the beach while she\u003cbr\u003enapped or waded.\u003cbr\u003eThe parasail crew—tattooed, in surfwear T-shirts and baggy\u003cbr\u003etrunks—kicked up sand as they staggered under the parasail rider’s\u003cbr\u003eweight, trying to guide him to his landing, and for a moment\u003cbr\u003eMichelle thought they would all collapse in a heap. But at the last\u003cbr\u003esecond a third man dressed in a crisp linen suit stepped forward,\u003cbr\u003ebracing his hands against the fat man’s chest, pedaling backward\u003cbr\u003euntil at last the body in motion came to rest.\u003cbr\u003eThe people in the crowd cheered and raised their glasses in a\u003cbr\u003etoast.\u003cbr\u003e“That was different.”\u003cbr\u003eMichelle turned.\u003cbr\u003eThe man next to her smiled.\u003cbr\u003e“Yes,” she said. “What was it, exactly?”\u003cbr\u003e“Arts festival. It’s running all this week.”\u003cbr\u003eHe was an American, or sounded like one. About her age.\u003cbr\u003eTanned so dark that the creases around his eyes fanned out like\u003cbr\u003etiger stripes.\u003cbr\u003e“Should be interesting,” he said, “if you like that kind of stuff.”\u003cbr\u003eHe wore a pair of baggy swim trunks and a faded batik shirt.\u003cbr\u003eGray flecked his hair and the stubble of his beard, but he was\u003cbr\u003erangy trim. A fit fortyish.\u003cbr\u003e“Do you?” she asked.\u003cbr\u003e“It’s kind of fun,” he said with a shrug. “I mean, art, you hang it\u003cbr\u003eon a wall or put it on a pedestal. I’m not sure what this is.”\u003cbr\u003e“Performance,” Michelle murmured.\u003cbr\u003eBy now a procession had formed around the fat man: the welldressed\u003cbr\u003ecrowd, the photographers, and a group of young musicians\u003cbr\u003ewearing matching T-shirts, singing “Paperback Writer” in perfect\u003cbr\u003eharmony. Together they set off down the beach, north toward the\u003cbr\u003epier, laughing, drinking tequila. A brown dog followed in their wake.\u003cbr\u003e“I was going to get a drink,” the man said. “Would you like to\u003cbr\u003ejoin me?”\u003cbr\u003eHis name was Daniel. “I live here part-time,” he explained. “Got a\u003cbr\u003econdo in Amapas.”\u003cbr\u003e“Are you retired?” she asked.\u003cbr\u003eHe drew back, mock offended. “Wow. I hope I don’t look old\u003cbr\u003eenough to be retired.”\u003cbr\u003e“Not at all,” she said. “But you never know what people’s situations\u003cbr\u003eare.”\u003cbr\u003e“Well, I’m not loaded either,” he said with a grin. “I’m a pilot.\u003cbr\u003eThe work is sort of freelance. So I have some flexibility about\u003cbr\u003ewhere I spend my time.”\u003cbr\u003eThey sat at a table under a \u003ci\u003epalapa\u003c\/i\u003e, on the sand. The sun wouldn’t\u003cbr\u003eset for another few hours; the restaurant staff had just begun to\u003cbr\u003ebring tables out to the beach for dinner. Michelle expected that\u003cbr\u003ethe restaurant would not be full, even with the arts festival.\u003cbr\u003eMemorial Day weekend was the last gasp of tourist season in\u003cbr\u003ePuerto Vallarta, and it was still pretty quiet. Too hot this time of\u003cbr\u003eyear. The crowds came earlier, for Easter and spring break, and\u003cbr\u003elater in the fall, after the rains.\u003cbr\u003e“A pilot. For an airline?”\u003cbr\u003e“No. Private company. We fly Gulfstreams and Citations\u003cbr\u003emostly. Rentals.”\u003cbr\u003eHe scooped up guacamole with a chip, spooned salsa on top\u003cbr\u003eof that. “You know, businessmen who can’t afford their own but\u003cbr\u003ewant to impress a client. Rich guys who want to get to a golf\u003cbr\u003ecourse or a football game in a hurry. That kind of thing.”\u003cbr\u003eShe nodded and sipped her margarita. They made good ones\u003cbr\u003ehere. Not too sweet. You could taste the lime. “Sounds fun,” she\u003cbr\u003esaid.\u003cbr\u003eHe smiled. “Works for me.”\u003cbr\u003eThe sun had moved behind a bank of clouds, illuminating them\u003cbr\u003elike a bright bulb in a shaded lamp.\u003cbr\u003e“Check it out,” Daniel said.\u003cbr\u003eShe looked where he pointed. A pair of dolphins surfed at the\u003cbr\u003ecrest of a wave. They leaped above its crest, plunged back into the\u003cbr\u003ewater, caught the next swell, then shot up again, twisting in midair\u003cbr\u003elike a pair of dancers.\u003cbr\u003e“Better than SeaWorld.”\u003cbr\u003eShe nodded. “It’s beautiful here.”\u003cbr\u003eDaniel leaned back in his chair, took a final sip of his drink.\u003cbr\u003e“How long are you staying?”\u003cbr\u003e“I’m not sure. My flight’s on Sunday. I might change it.”\u003cbr\u003eShe wasn’t sure why she said it. She had no real intention of\u003cbr\u003echanging her flight. It was just that when she thought about what\u003cbr\u003ewas waiting for her in Los Angeles, it was easy to indulge in the\u003cbr\u003efantasy of staying a little longer. Of never going back.\u003cbr\u003e“Nothing pressing back home?”\u003cbr\u003eHe was looking at her in that way, sizing her up, what her\u003cbr\u003eintentions were, what she might be willing to do.\u003cbr\u003eShe shook her head.\u003cbr\u003e“Are \u003ci\u003eyou\u003c\/i\u003e retired?”\u003cbr\u003eShe laughed briefly. “I’m between things.”\u003cbr\u003eHe didn’t ask questions. Michelle wasn’t sure how she felt\u003cbr\u003eabout that. She wasn’t ready to talk about any of it, certainly not\u003cbr\u003eto a stranger, but on the other hand one does like to be asked.\u003cbr\u003e“This is a good place to be,” he said. “When you just want to\u003cbr\u003erelax and figure things out.”\u003cbr\u003eMaybe that wasn’t such a bad answer.\u003cbr\u003eHe was a good-looking man, she thought, with sharp cheekbones\u003cbr\u003eand a firm jaw, sky-blue eyes that stood out against his black\u003cbr\u003ehair and dark tan. The gray in his hair, the crow’s-feet around his\u003cbr\u003eeyes, made him more attractive. To her anyway.\u003cbr\u003eOtherwise he would have been too perfect.\u003cbr\u003eMen like that could have anyone.\u003cbr\u003e“Another margarita, ma’am? Sir?”\u003cbr\u003eDaniel grinned. “I’m up for it if you are.”\u003cbr\u003eShe hesitated. This was her second of the day, and she hadn’t\u003cbr\u003eeaten much.\u003cbr\u003eLosing control would be a bad idea.\u003cbr\u003e“How would you feel about dinner?” she asked.\u003cbr\u003eThey had another drink so they could watch the sunset, ate some\u003cbr\u003emore guacamole to absorb the tequila. “There’s a restaurant not\u003cbr\u003etoo far from here I like,” Daniel said.\u003cbr\u003e“I’m not really dressed.” She’d only put on a gauzy white\u003cbr\u003eblouse over her bathing-suit top, wrapped the sarong around\u003cbr\u003eher hips.\u003cbr\u003e“What you’re wearing is fine,” he said, giving her a quick,\u003cbr\u003eappreciative look. “It’s a casual place. Lots of people go there after\u003cbr\u003ethe beach.”\u003cbr\u003eThe restaurant was a few blocks away, on a street that ran up\u003cbr\u003efrom the beach and bordered a small plaza, where there were a\u003cbr\u003enumber of restaurants that catered to tourists. Farther up the\u003cbr\u003estreet were shops, mostly clothing stores and handicrafts: Huichol\u003cbr\u003ebeadwork, hand-tooled leather, embroidered blouses. Michelle\u003cbr\u003ehad walked up there the day before.\u003cbr\u003e“There’s always lines out the door,” Daniel said. “It’s one of the\u003cbr\u003eonly decent places to get Mexican food around here.”\u003cbr\u003eThey waited outside, by the open-air grill, where a woman\u003cbr\u003emade tortillas and a man tended meats.\u003cbr\u003e“Really?”\u003cbr\u003eHe shrugged. “Well, I’m sure there are some places the locals\u003cbr\u003ego to that I don’t know about. Here in Zona Romántica—you can\u003cbr\u003eget better Mexican food in Los Angeles.”\u003cbr\u003eMichelle nodded. “I’m from Los Angeles,” she mentioned.\u003cbr\u003e“Oh, yeah? I love L.A. Where do you live?”\u003cbr\u003e“Brentwood.”\u003cbr\u003eOf course, that wasn’t exactly true. The storage space with her\u003cbr\u003ethings in it was in Torrance.\u003cbr\u003eBut she’d lived in Brentwood, before.\u003cbr\u003e“Nice,” Daniel said. “Good weather, right, that close to the\u003cbr\u003eocean?”\u003cbr\u003eIt was hot inside the restaurant, even with the fans, even though the\u003cbr\u003efront was open to let in whatever breezes there were. There weren’t\u003cbr\u003eany. The air was weighted down by heat and humidity, immobile.\u003cbr\u003eDaniel recommended the tortilla soup. They both ordered\u003cbr\u003ea bowl. Had another round of margaritas. Mariachis played,\u003cbr\u003ewhether anyone wanted them to or not.\u003cbr\u003e“Hey, Danny!”\u003cbr\u003eThe man who approached their table was soft-featured, in his\u003cbr\u003ethirties, wearing Dockers and a polo shirt.\u003cbr\u003eDaniel shifted in his chair. “Ned, hey.” Something close to a\u003cbr\u003efrown creased his forehead.\u003cbr\u003e“Man, I can’t believe I ran into you here. I was just, you know,\u003cbr\u003eon my way to the restaurant, and I saw you.”\u003cbr\u003e“Yeah, well, we’re having dinner,” Daniel said.\u003cbr\u003eNed shuffled from one foot to the other, rubbed his hands\u003cbr\u003etogether. “I don’t want to interrupt. But, look, I really need to talk\u003cbr\u003eto you. When you have a chance. Are you around, or . . . ?”\u003cbr\u003e“Can you make it to the board meeting? We can talk then.”\u003cbr\u003e“I guess . . . I’ll try. . . . It’s just . . . kind of time-sensitive.” Ned\u003cbr\u003elooked around, eyes darting, still rubbing his hands. He reminded\u003cbr\u003eMichelle of the tweakers she used to know in high school. “Hey,\u003cbr\u003eyou could come by the restaurant tomorrow night. I’ll hook you\u003cbr\u003eup. We’re running some great specials. Surf and turf. Got some\u003cbr\u003egood wines in, too.” He finally focused on Michelle. “You could\u003cbr\u003ebring your friend.”\u003cbr\u003e“This is Michelle,” Daniel said. “From Los Angeles.”\u003cbr\u003e“Oh, cool.” He extended his hand to her. She took it. Sweaty,\u003cbr\u003enot surprisingly. “My place is just down the street. The Lonely\u003cbr\u003eBull.” He smiled at her for a moment and seemed to lose focus.\u003cbr\u003e“Hope you can make it.”\u003cbr\u003e“I don’t know, man,” Daniel said. “I’ve got some stuff going\u003cbr\u003eon. Look, just give me a call tomorrow, okay?”\u003cbr\u003eNed nodded like a bobblehead doll. “Okay. Great. I’ll call you.”\u003cbr\u003e“The board meeting?” Michelle asked after he’d left. “Are you\u003cbr\u003ein business together?”\u003cbr\u003eDaniel snorted. “With Ned? No.”\u003cbr\u003eBy now their carnitas had arrived, along with another round of\u003cbr\u003emargaritas.\u003cbr\u003eI’m getting pretty buzzed, she thought. She no longer cared.\u003cbr\u003e“The board meeting, it’s just a bunch of us expats who get\u003cbr\u003etogether on Fridays, at El Tiburón. We hang out, watch the\u003cbr\u003esunset.” He stared at her. “Think you’ll be around?”\u003cbr\u003e“Maybe,” she murmured. “Tiburón. Like the town in California?”\u003cbr\u003e“Maybe.” He grinned. “It’s Spanish for ‘shark.’”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e• • •\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBy the time they finished eating, it was almost eleven. Not that\u003cbr\u003elate, but after all the drinks and a day in the sun Michelle had\u003cbr\u003eto step carefully off the high curbs onto the cobblestones. That\u003cbr\u003ewas the thing here—the curbs were not a uniform height, you\u003cbr\u003ecouldn’t just assume you knew how to judge the distances.\u003cbr\u003e“Whoa!” Daniel said, catching her elbow, steadying her.\u003cbr\u003eMichelle giggled. “Glad I’m not wearing heels.”\u003cbr\u003eNow they had reached her hotel, bypassing the open-air lobby\u003cbr\u003eand entering through the arches that bordered on the wide, \u003cbr\u003ecobblestone drive.\u003cbr\u003e“Which way is your room?”\u003cbr\u003eThrough the courtyard, to the right, in the tower overlooking\u003cbr\u003ethe beach. Watch for the slick terra-cotta tiles, the sand gritting\u003cbr\u003eunderfoot. Wait for the elevator, and when it doesn’t come, climb\u003cbr\u003ethe stairs to the fourth floor.\u003cbr\u003eMichelle felt around in her sisal tote bag for her key, found\u003cbr\u003ethe hard plastic wedge stamped with the room number, the key\u003cbr\u003eattached. Her hand closed around it.\u003cbr\u003eShe turned, her back to the door.\u003cbr\u003e“Well,” she said.\u003cbr\u003e“Well.”\u003cbr\u003eHe leaned down and kissed her. She tasted salt—from the\u003cbr\u003edrinks? From the ocean? She leaned into him, let her hand rest\u003cbr\u003eabove the small of his back. He pressed against her, hard. She\u003cbr\u003ewrapped her leg around his, felt his hands on her ass, lifting her up.\u003cbr\u003e“Wait,” she said. She showed him the key.\u003cbr\u003eHe grinned. “I was hoping you’d ask me in.”\u003cbr\u003eThe room was stifling. She’d turned the air conditioner off, out\u003cbr\u003eof habit. She switched it on, and the unit rattled to life. It smelled\u003cbr\u003emusty, like the spoiled damp of an old refrigerator. Still, with the\u003cbr\u003esliding glass doors that led to the balcony left open, you could\u003cbr\u003ehear the ocean, catch a whiff of its brine.\u003cbr\u003eDaniel stood and watched her, a dark silhouette.\u003cbr\u003e“Come here,” he said.\u003cbr\u003eBy the time they’d made it to the bed, the air conditioner had\u003cbr\u003echilled the room enough that Michelle was grateful for the warm\u003cbr\u003ebreeze that blew in from the balcony.\u003cbr\u003e“You have a beautiful body,” Daniel said, running a hand lightly\u003cbr\u003eover her belly.\u003cbr\u003e“So do you.”\u003cbr\u003eThe words sounded stupid as soon as she said them. You don’t\u003cbr\u003etell men they’re beautiful.\u003cbr\u003eDaniel didn’t seem to mind. He looked pleased. “Gotta keep in\u003cbr\u003eshape for the things I enjoy.”\u003cbr\u003eHe had a nice body, he really did. Lean but not stringy.\u003cbr\u003eEnergetic. She hadn’t been with anybody like him in a long time.\u003cbr\u003eCertainly not Tom, and she’d stayed faithful to Tom.\u003cbr\u003eTom with his big belly, his barrel chest. Twelve years older than\u003cbr\u003eher and not exactly a stud.\u003cbr\u003e“Hey,” Daniel said. “Hey, what is it?”\u003cbr\u003eShe was crying, goddamn it. She rarely cried. She hated it.\u003cbr\u003e“Hey.” He smoothed the hair around her face.\u003cbr\u003eHe was looking at her now, and she could tell what he was\u003cbr\u003ethinking: Great, I’m in bed with a crazy woman.\u003cbr\u003e“Sorry,” she said. “I’m sorry. Don’t . . . It’s stupid.”\u003cbr\u003e“Listen, I mean, if you’re not into this . . .”\u003cbr\u003eHe tried but could not quite keep the irritation from his voice.\u003cbr\u003e“I am. I’m sorry. It’s just . . .” She tried to smile. “I haven’t dated\u003cbr\u003ein a while. My husband . . .”\u003cbr\u003e“So . . . you’re married?” Now the irritation seemed mixed\u003cbr\u003ewith curiosity.\u003cbr\u003eNo disapproval at least. Perhaps a calculation about whether\u003cbr\u003ethis was worth it.\u003cbr\u003e“No. Not anymore.”\u003cbr\u003e“Oh.” Daniel rolled over onto his side, propped himself up on\u003cbr\u003ehis elbow. “Yeah. It’s tough getting back into things after you split\u003cbr\u003efrom somebody you’ve been with for a long time.”\u003cbr\u003e“My husband died, actually.”\u003cbr\u003eShe enjoyed it in a way, getting the reaction, seeing the look on\u003cbr\u003ehis face, the shock, the embarrassment.\u003cbr\u003e“I’m really sorry,” he said.\u003cbr\u003eThe way he said it, so simply, made her flush with guilt.\u003cbr\u003e“No, don’t be, I really . . .” She wanted to reach out, wanting\u003cbr\u003eto touch him, to encourage him, but it felt so awkward, so phony.\u003cbr\u003e“I want to,” she finally said. “It’s just a little hard.”\u003cbr\u003eDaniel extended his hand, rested his palm on her cheek for a\u003cbr\u003emoment. “Look. We both had a lot to drink. This is all kind of\u003cbr\u003eintense. Maybe I should just go.”\u003cbr\u003eThis time she did reach out. “No. Stay. If you want.”\u003cbr\u003eThey tried again. But the energy that had gotten them into\u003cbr\u003ebed was gone now, dissipated, and after a few perfunctory thrusts\u003cbr\u003eDaniel stopped and mumbled, “I’m sorry. I’m really tired.”\u003cbr\u003e“Don’t apologize.” She tried to smile. “You’ve been great. I\u003cbr\u003ehaven’t.”\u003cbr\u003e“Don’t worry about it.”\u003cbr\u003eHis face was dark above hers, but she thought his expression\u003cbr\u003ewas kind.\u003cbr\u003eShe kissed him, slowly.\u003cbr\u003e“Mmmm. That was nice,” he said.\u003cbr\u003eAfter that they both fell asleep, not spooning but close together,\u003cbr\u003eDaniel’s hand resting on the hollow above her hip.\u003cbr\u003eSo many noises here. The familiar: unmuffled motorcycle,\u003cbr\u003esnatches of music, pounding surf. The unfamiliar: songbirds\u003cbr\u003esinging foreign tunes, parrots squawking, the\u003ci\u003e toc-toc\u003c\/i\u003e cry of geckos.\u003cbr\u003eWhat woke her?\u003cbr\u003eA muffled thud. A clatter. She blinked her eyes open. Two men,\u003cbr\u003eone entering from the balcony, the other crouched over the chair,\u003cbr\u003eDaniel’s shorts in his hand, her totebag on the floor by his feet.\u003cbr\u003e“Hey!” Daniel flung the sheet off, bolted out of bed.\u003cbr\u003eNow Michelle saw they wore kerchiefs over the lower halves of\u003cbr\u003etheir faces. The second pulled something from his pocket, something\u003cbr\u003edark that he gripped in his fist. For a moment Daniel froze\u003cbr\u003eas the man took two quick strides to him, raised the hand that\u003cbr\u003eclutched the black pistol, and smashed it against his temple.\u003cbr\u003eDaniel crumpled, as surely as if he’d been shot.\u003cbr\u003eIt happened so quickly that Michelle didn’t scream; instead she\u003cbr\u003egasped and clutched the sheet.\u003cbr\u003eThe man with the gun turned to her.\u003cbr\u003eHe was close to the bed. She could see that he wore dark\u003cbr\u003eclothes, a black T-shirt, jeans, and he took another step toward\u003cbr\u003eher. He had on a belt, woven brown and white leather; she could\u003cbr\u003esee it clearly in the light that leaked in from the balcony.\u003cbr\u003eThe buckle was a gun, and there were letters in the weave. She\u003cbr\u003esaw those as he tugged at the tongue of the belt to unbuckle it.\u003cbr\u003e“\u003ci\u003e¡Pendejo!\u003c\/i\u003e” the other man spit, gesturing toward the balcony.\u003cbr\u003eThe man with the gun stared at her a moment longer before\u003cbr\u003ehe turned and followed his companion out the sliding glass door,\u003cbr\u003einto the night.","brand":"Soho Crime","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":44886925476069,"sku":"NP9781616950712","price":16.95,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":false}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/1842\/7735\/files\/9781616950712.jpg?v=1767727973","url":"https:\/\/k12savings.com\/products\/getaway-isbn-9781616950712","provider":"K12savings","version":"1.0","type":"link"}