the mail. In first class, the flight attendants treat the travelers like royalty, stowing their precious carry-on satchel in a large locker. They watch the bag until the door clicks closed.
âWill they print the story? With no verification?â Garret pulls his collar away from his neck. He has turned bright red after two days in the Mexican sun and now is beginning to peel and itch.
âYour pictures are verification,â she explains. â National Geographic did a special on the Bimini Road, supposedly built by Atlanteans. They sent scuba divers down to examine the finds.â
âThey had Jacques Cousteau. Who do we have?â
âOur word against the worldâs. And some dynamite photographs.â
The stewardess offers pillows. Amaryllis takes two, one for the small of her back, the other for her head. She tries to avoid Garretâs wild stare. She closes her eyes and finds no relief. Garret is willing her to speak. When she opens her eyes again, his blue irises are only inches from her face. An artery in his neck is thumping, shooting big bursts of blood into his brain. His eyelid twitches.
She thinks heâs going to ask about Gabriel, and a silent cry escapes from her body. I hope heâs all right. I hope he contacts me. She wonders if Garret is going to interrogate her about the gem. Sheâs afraid heâs going to pound the armrest, demanding to know why this assignment went so horribly wrong. She steels herself for the moment he asks why the crystal didnât speak to the cop. Amaryllis can answer none of those questions. She canât even answer her own. She swallows and her throat constricts, dry as burnt toast.
âAmy,â Garret shivers ever so slightly as his eyes bore into her. He is so nervous, he is almost buzzing. âIf the truth is gone, is it still the truth?â
She presses her palms together, watching her fingertips as she splays the digits. Starfish. Sea creatures. Mermaids.
âDepends on who is looking.â
Garret collapses back into his seat. âIâm still looking.â
âSo am I.â
CHAPTER TWO: UNDEREXPOSURE
Outside the editorâs office, she wonders if it was so wise to drop all the luggage at home and bolt for the office. Her poor apartment looks pathetic with its wilted plants and dust on the countertops. Not that it matters. The décor screams U-Haul chic, with half her possessions still in the boxes she packed for her move two years ago. The furniture could kindly be called chain-store cheap or some co-workerâs cast-offs. The refrigerator holds milk, eggs and a box of baking soda. Thereâs a box of granola on the shelf and a coffeemaker on the counter. And thatâs about the extent of her domestic design.
Itâs not chic, but sheâs been in her fourth apartment in the six years sheâs lived in Los Angeles, and nothing ever will fit. Thatâs because L.A. doesnât feel like anything more than a way station on her career path. No wonder she spends all her time at the office. The newspaper is the only place that feels like home.
But even the office is thorny at the moment. She senses eyes boring into the back of her head, so Amaryllis turns and fidgets with her shoe, trying to avoid the gaze of Sonia, the editorâs secretary. Sonia considers all visitors to the secret den of Noel Wright III to be assaults by undeserving interlopers, even a favored reporter like Amaryllis. Sonia is not fooled for one second by Amaryllisâ shoe gazing. Her eyes are pinned on the reporterâs face.
Amaryllis is determined not to crack. She has an appointment and some guard-dog receptionist isnât going to make her back down. The staring continues. As Soniaâs gaze strengthens in force, Amaryllis rocks back and forth on her three-inch heels, eyes on the closed door. She considers the photos and sound recordings she left at the apartment and wonders if thereâs time to run back