Page 61 of Our Last Resort
The impact loosens the coyote’s grip around my shoe. I free my foot, push against the ground, and hoist myself up. Clutching the phone in my right hand, I sprint away.
At the top of the trail, the group comes into view. I slip the phone into the side pocket of my running shorts, put my sock back on, and catch up with the others.
“What happened to you?” Gabriel asks.
I look down: my outfit is covered in dust; my right elbow is bleeding.
“I fell,” I tell him. “It looks worse than it feels.”
I nudge my chin forward.
“What’s going on here?”
People are standing in a circle. Ethan is at the center, backpack at his feet, a vague air of panic on his face. Two of the three influencers have their hands on their hips; the third is yelling at theSVUactor.
“Why don’t you tell us whereyouwere, you creep?”
Fabio gasps.
“I’m not sure how it started,” Gabriel whispers in my ear, “but this guy”—he nudges his chin toward theSVUactor—“got into it with those three”—the influencers. “About alibis and stuff.”
“Ah.”
“She”—he tilts his head in the direction of the influencer presently yelling at the actor—“was saying she overheard Harris talking about the investigation. Something about how Sabrina died after three in the morning.”
“Okay.”
“One thing led to another,” Gabriel continues. “I think theLaw and Orderguy started talking about direct evidence versus circumstantial? And then she”—our influencer in chief, again—“asked him if he knew all that from his little show. He didnotlike that.”
“I’m sure.”
TheSVUguy gestures at the sky.
“I was on a call with my agent!”
“In the middle of the night?” the influencer sneers.
“Madison,” one of her two friends says, but Madison doesn’t seem to hear her.
“He’s a Hollywood agent!” theSVUguy squeaks, waving his hands around wildly. “You have no idea how these things work!”
TheSVUguy is holding up a finger, telling Madison to wait, wait, reaching inside of his pocket, hopefully for his phone.
“Look at my call log,” he spits out.
I can’t see his screen from here, but Madison leans forward, squints, then leans back with a resigned smirk.
“I hope that makes you feel really good,” she says. “I hope that makes you feel like a big man.”
The actor drops his head in exasperation.
“Why me?” he asks. “Why not anyone else?”
Madison considers the rest of the hikers, apparently waiting for us to proffer our own alibis.
Jesus.
No way am I telling Madison that I left my suite that night. That I was one of the last people to see Sabrina Brenner alive.
