“Jesus H. Christ, Marcy, what the fuck are you doing? I’ve only got forty-five minutes for lunch. What the hell part of ‘at the beginning of the shopping area’ didn’t you understand?”

I glance down the promenade. We’re only four storefronts from the beginning.

“I’m sorry, Jay. I’m really sorry.”

I’m not sure how it’s possible, but she seems even smaller.

“It’s just that I bumped into friends from Texas.”

“Hey,” he says, barely looking at Jamie and me. He grabs her arm. “Let’s go.”

“We were hoping you could join us for dinner,” I blurt. “You and Marcy with my husband and me.”

He blinks at me. “We got plans.”

“That’s a shame. I just figured with you in tech sales we could maybe mix business with pleasure.”

His eyes narrow. “You here for the trade show?”

“No, but my husband owns the hotel. He has a lot of business interests. And I do a lot of app work myself.” I extend my hand, though I’m loath to touch him. “Nikki Stark,” I say. “My husband is Damien Stark.”

As I had hoped, the name works on Jay like a magic potion. He practically has dollar signs in his eyes.

“Oh, yeah. We’d love it, wouldn’t we, Marce?”

“Sure,” she says dutifully.

“That’s great,” I say. “Marcy’s coming with me and Jamie to the spa at three, so we’ll work out the time and place then.”

Marcy’s eyes go wide, and Jay doesn’t look too happy. “Spa?”

“She mentioned you’re working the trade show today,” Jamie says. “We don’t want her to be stuck all alone. It’ll be fun. A girls’ pampering session before y’all do the wedding thing. Congratulations, by the way.”

“Thanks.” He glances at Marcy. She smiles at him. Fortunately, she looks neither confused nor freaked out. “We should go to lunch,” he says.

“Three o’clock,” I say again. “At the reception counter for the spa. It’s on the second floor, the other side of the atrium from the restaurant.”

“Okay,” Marcy says softly. She shifts her purse so that she is holding it against her chest. “I’ll be there,” she adds, and I understand what she hasn’t said out loud—that she’s coming because she feels like she owes me.

Which means that if I want to keep her listening to me after she arrives, I need to figure out pretty quickly what I want to say.

As soon as they’ve disappeared down the walkway, Jamie turns to me. “What the fuck?”

“She stole a vase,” I say, then I tell her the whole sordid story. “You saw the bruises?”

Jamie frowns, her expression turning dark. “I saw. Guy’s a prick.” She drags her fingers through her hair. “I always really liked Marcy. What should we do?”

“Talk to her,” I say. I draw a deep breath. “Talk, and hope she tells us the truth. Then maybe we can help her.”

“You think she’s actually going to show up at three?”

“I hope so,” I say. “Because if not, we’ll have to cancel our appointment to track her down. And I really want a massage and a manicure.”

—

Despite the fact that I totally do want a manicure, I decide to ditch the mani-pedi experience in favor of Mission Marcy.

Jamie and I both want to get Marcy talking, and I just don’t expect that to happen if we’re in front of three strangers working on our hands and feet.

Instead, we opt for massages to loosen us up, and then plan to spend the next two hours in the relaxation room before moving on to the salon for pre-dinner blowouts and makeup.

“I’ve never had a massage before,” Marcy admits after stage one of our spa adventure is complete. “That was really awesome. The thing with the rocks was kind of weird, though.”

“I thought so the first time I had one, too,” I admit.

Since Marcy was resorting to stealing vases, I figured spas weren’t a common feature in her daily life and decided to splurge and get all of us ninety-minute Starfire signature massages, which incorporate hot stones. I think they’re awesome—the stones heat up your back and make you that much looser—but being layered in rocks can be a rather odd experience.

Now we are all three wonderfully relaxed and kicked back in the steam room in the spa’s women’s changing room.

My plan is to steam for a while, then go relax with a glass of wine and some gossip. And more wine, if necessary.

“So how did you and Jay meet?” I ask.

“It was very sweet,” she says, and for the first time she actually sounds as if she liked the guy once. “We met in a coffee bar and I’d lost my wallet. He bought me a latte, then helped me get home. Turned out my wallet was in my purse the whole time.”

She lifts a shoulder. “That’s why he thinks I’m so scattered all the time. First impressions.” She rubs her hands over her face and then up, pushing her steam-slicked hair back. “Anyway, he did the full-court seduction press. Flowers. Sweet texts. Little presents. It was so nice. I felt really special. Like I was in a fairy tale.”

“What changed?” I ask the question softly, and Marcy just keeps on talking. She doesn’t even blink.

“I don’t know. It was subtle. Slow. First he just wanted to stay in and not go out with friends. And I thought that was because we were all cozy and new. And then he didn’t want me to go out even if he was busy. He said my friends were catty and gossiped too much. But they don’t, really. We just talk, you know, the way you do. And then he got mad when I burned a roast. And after that—”

She cuts herself off as if suddenly realizing what she is saying. What she is admitting to me.

“After that he started to hit you?” I ask. My voice is as gentle as if I were dealing with a scared puppy.

Marcy nods. “I—I’m getting really hot in here.”

I hate losing the momentum of the conversation, but I also figure that’s code for I’m overwhelmed.

So we step out of the steam into the cool area of the changing room, then wrap ourselves in the big fluffy spa robes and head into the relaxation area.

I get us each a glass of wine, both because I want one and because I know that after a massage and a steam, it will go straight to Marcy’s head, thus inducing more talking.

We find a corner with three lounge chairs set up in a triangle with a table in the middle, and since the table is topped with a big bowl of fruit, it seems like the perfect place to relax. We lay back, sip our wine, and after a few moments I try coming at it from a different direction. “You wanted the vase so you could pawn it?”

“Yes.” Marcy’s voice is a squeak.

“So you could run?”

This time she only nods.

“Because he hits you.”

And this time, she just looks at her hands.

“It’s nothing to be ashamed of,” Jamie says. “He’s the asshole.”

“I think he knows I want to leave. I think that’s why he wants to get married.”

“You should go to the police,” Jamie says. “He can’t hurt you like this and get away with it.”

Marcy tenses up so immediately it looks painful. “No. He just gets mad. And I get better. And I’m not making excuses, really. But it’s not like there’s any proof. No doctors. I didn’t tell anyone. Nothing.”

“What about a counselor? You should talk to someone.”

She shakes her head. “I should, I know. But I’m not ready.”

I glance at Jamie, who nods almost imperceptibly.

“Do you still want to run?”

Marcy nods her head. “Yes. So much. I want to go home.”

“Then run now. I’ll give you some cash—no, don’t argue. I want to,” I say when she starts to protest. “And I can arrange a car to take you wherever you want to go. So tell me, Marcy, where do you want to go? Where would you be safe?”

“I want to go home,” she says. “I want to go to Texas.”

“Done.” I smile at her.

“Just like that?”

“Just like that.” I stand up. “But we shouldn’t wait around. Let’s get you out of here before he gets out of the trade show. Is there anything in your room you have to have?”

She shakes her head. “No. I’ve got my purse.”