Michael climbed back down the stairs, where he found a man and woman talking in whispers under an archway. When they saw him, they quit talking and offered a half-hearted wave. He nodded, "Do either of you know how I can get down to the beach?"
The woman pointed without saying a word. He followed her point through the archway and found a door on the far wall that led outside. There was a small dirt path that followed the edge of the house. When he passed the house entirely, he turned back to look at the mansion. As he turned, a small group of workers scattered from a rear window. He tried to decipher what he'd just seen. For a moment, he worried they'd figured out his secret. Still, if they had figured him out, they would undoubtedly pamper him exceptionally well over the next few days so he'd write an excellent review.
He made his way up to the palm trees and climbed onto the hammock. The scene was quiet, the only noise coming naturally from a light breeze rustling the earth around him. He opened his notebook and began to scribble. At first, he wrote about his first impressions; beautiful scenery, unfriendly people. He wrote down everything he could about the room and about the woman that had greeted him at the door. He made a note that she hadn't even introduced himself. He wrote how he was displeased the resort had taken his phone.
He pushed himself a bit higher in the hammock an sat up. Could they legally take his phone? Kat would undoubtedly give him an earful when he got back. He contemplated going inside and demanding his phone from the lady but knew he would never actually do it.
He flipped to the middle of his notebook and wrote the heading: Katiella, pros, and cons. He felt a bit guilty making a list of cons about his fiancé, but he'd promised Mimsy he'd at least think this through thoroughly. He started with the pros.
- Been together since high school
- Close with her family
- Goes to the gym
- Has a job
He sat for a moment, trying to come up with more concrete pros, not just stating what she did. The task became challenging, so he moved to the cons.
- Self-oriented, but in the right way
- The staff at school can't stand her
- Doesn't get along with Mimsy
- Doesn't get along with most people outside of her family
- Whenever we're together, she never listens to...
He stopped writing because the cons began to flow a bit too quickly.
It's always easier to see faults. Most of what I liked about her is the intangibles.
He didn't strain himself too hard trying to think of what these intangibles might be, but instead crumpled up the paper and shoved it in his pocket. Mimsy just didn't get it.
His thoughts were interrupted by the loud ringing in his pocket, signaling ten minutes until dinner. He shut off the alarm, shoved it back in his pocket, and jogged back to the estate. He quickly changed into a navy polo and slacks. Didn't want to try too hard, but still wanted to look like he belonged. He slipped on a pair of brown wingtips and made his way back to the lobby.
An elderly woman was waiting for him at the bottom of the staircase. He recognized her as one of the individuals he had seen staring at him from the rear window. Her smile was gentle as she curtsied, holding out the sides of her long black dress.
"Mr. Sinclair, I'm so glad you made it here safely. My name's Linda Cook. I hope you enjoy your dinner tonight." She took Michael by the wrist and walked beside him, guiding him through a door. The door opened to a larger room that had shelves of wine stacked around the perimeter.
They walked across the wooded room to two large oak doors in the back corner. "Please sit wherever you like. Mr. Morton will be joining you shortly. Make yourself at home."
Michael pushed open the swinging doors and stepped into the large dining room. A long marble table stretched down the middle of the room with tall red chairs lined up the sides. Cabinets outlined the bottom of the room with vines dangling off the tops.
"Don't listen to Linda, she's full of it." A voice came from the far side of the table. Michael looked and saw a man slouched at the head chair. He had circular glasses that rested high on his tiny nose. His cheeks were rosy, his hair was dirty-blonde and flipped up in the front. He looked like a grown-up child. "She's always making up stuff. What'd she tell you? And sit down, you're making me feel weird."
Michael pulled out the seat opposite of the man-child's.
"You're sitting all the way over there? Now we're going to have to shout at each other—No, I'm kidding sit back down, come on, be normal."
Michael sat back down, uncomfortably. "She said that Mr. Mortin's going to be joining us?"
"Ahh, come on, Linda! Spoiling everything!" He shouted. "Linda's the worst. She seems innocent. But after a week of being here, I'm ready to put her on my list.—I'm joking—kind of."
The door swung open, and Linda walked in with a large tray.
She balanced the tray with one hand as she sat a glass in front of Michael and poured a glass of red wine. "Made in Napa Valley," she smiled kindly.
"I hope you're hungry," Linda sat a large plate in front of Michael. In the center of the dish was a fat New York Steak seated in a small puddle of its own juice. A baked potato was split and stacked with sour cream, bacon slices, and cheese. Linda placed a small loaf to the side of his plate and laid out a tray of butter.
Michael took a few sips of wine before picking up his steak knife.
"Linda, how do you feel knowing you ruined the night?" Stuart asked.
Linda lay down an identical plate in front of the man. "Stuart, I'm sorry, I thought he already knew."
Stuart let out an exaggerated sigh, "Does sorry change anything? Please just go." Linda turned and walked to leave the room with her head hanging low. "Oh, and tonight cut my pie slice as a triangle—I didn't even know square was an option!" The door swung closed.
There were a few minutes of silence as the two men chowed and drank. The meat was as tender as Michael had ever eaten. He wiped his mouth with a napkin. "So, the owner's going to come eat with us?" Michael broke the silence.
"That's a strange way of putting it, but yeah," Stuart replied. Stuart stared at Michael for a few moments contemplating whether he should speak. He laid down his fork and knife. "Ok, so how do you do it?" He finally blurted.
"What do you mean?"
"Oh come on, the secrets out. You're here. Subleasing, snuck out early morning?"
"I have no idea what you're talking about," Michael continued to cut into his steak.
"Ok fine, I get it; you wouldn't be so good if you had a habit of exposing your secrets. But do you at least recognize me?"
Michael looked up from his food. There was nothing familiar about Stuart. "I've never seen you before in my life."
Stuart nodded his head and smiled in self-appreciation. "Well, I've been following you for three months." Michael nearly choked on his steak. "I mean, I didn't see anything the entire time I watched you, so I guess you're better than me, but give me a little credit."
Michael sat down his knife and fork. He looked across the table at Stuart, who was smiling wide.
Stuart continued, "Does that little blonde girl that bosses you around have something to do with it?"
Michael stood quickly from his seat. This startled Stuart causing him to slap his glass off the table spilling wine all over the white carpet. "Oh, let me get that," Stuart knelt below the table as if to clean the spill, then quickly jumped to his feet with a gun clenched in his right hand. "You're not going to get me! We're on the same side!" He shouted.
Michael raised both hands straight in the air. Everything was happening too quickly. Stuart's eyes were moving wildly around the room, keeping the gun pointed straight at Michael.
"Why were you following me?" Michael shouted at Stuart.
"You didn't think they were going to check out the product?" Stuart shouted back. "We're on the same team!"
Michael began to lower his hands, but Stuart shook the gun at him, "Put them back up!"
"Why do you know who Kat is!" Michael yelled again. His hands were shaking as his shoulders began to ache.
Stuart's hand was shaking. Beads of sweat dripped down his forehead. "Christine!" He yelled, "Christine!!" His face was a crimson red.
The door slowly opened and the lady that had taken Michael's phone walked in. She had a roll of tape in her right hand.
"Christine, he's going to kill me!" The gun was shaking in Stuart's hand.
She casually walked over to him.
"He's going to kill me. Why am I even here?" Stuart asked.
She reached and took the gun from Stuart's hand. "Tie him up," her voice was relaxed as she handed him the tape.
"No, I'm not going near him." Stuart shook his head. "Nope, not today."
"He's not the guy," Christine said calmly.
"What?" Stuart's eyes snapped off Michael for the first time since he'd pulled the gun.
"He's not the guy. He's not supposed to be here." She replied.
"Well, who is he?" Stuart asked.
"A gym teacher. Tie him up."
"He's a gym teacher?" Stuart's face was still red and sweaty. "A gym teacher?" He let out an exaggerated hoot. "You're a gym teacher?"
"What is going on?" Michael's voice was frantic.
"Tie him up," Christine said sternly to Stuart.
Michael tried to plead as Stuart approached him, "Please, I don't know what this is, I won't say anything, please."
"Don't talk, just sit down," Christine said. Her hand was steady as she kept the gun pointed at Michael.
Stuart wrapped Michael's arms and legs to the chair. Stuart ripped a longer strand and wrapped it across Michael’s mouth and around the entire chair.
"Why didn't you tell me?" Stuart asked.
"Linda told me not to." Christine smiled as Stuart glared.
"What are we supposed to do?" Stuart asked.
"His wine and food both had something extra in it, he'll be out in a few minutes. We're just waiting on orders." Christine answered.
"Are we going to...you know?" Stuart glanced at Michael.
"That'd be my guess," Christine answered. They walked out of the room.
Michael squirmed in his seat but found the binding too strong. His mind was racing fast. His eyes darted across the room, looking for anything to free himself with. He didn't have time to think through what had just happened, he had to focus on freeing himself from the tightly wrapped tape.
Michael looked down at the chair. His right leg was bound a little looser than the rest of his limbs. Maybe he could kick out the bottom leg. He lifted his leg and slammed his heel into the chair, but it didn't budge. He did it again and again; his kicks became weaker. The room was starting to fade. He tried to think of something else, but he began to feel as though his thoughts were outside of his head. They felt distant. The room itself seemed to be expanding further and further away. He couldn't remember where he was or who he was. He felt his eyelids become heavy as they slowly drifted shut.
I'll take a short nap, and I'll have the energy to finish whatever I was doing.
Without realizing what was happening, Michael Robinson's world went black.