her way and she could see the white of his beard. It wasn’t him.
She entered the lodge even though Bruce had explained to her that the pool and spa area was just past the lodge and into the woods a little way. But she had decided that it was worth a shot to see if she could get some information on her stalker. It bothered her that he knew who she was but she had no idea even what his real name was. Once inside the lodge—there was the distinctive smell of something fresh-baked coming from the dining area—she glanced around, looking for anything resembling a front desk. She was about to head in the direction of the dining room when one of the employees—it was the woman, actually, who had seated her and Bruce at their table the night before—fast-walked across the hall toward her.
“Hi, Mrs. Lamb, what can I help you with?” she said.
“I actually have a … What’s your name?”
“It’s Mellie.”
“Thanks, Mellie. I was wondering if you could help me out. I saw someone last night that I know, but I can’t remember his name.”
“Do you know what bunk he’s staying in?” Mellie said.
“I don’t. Sorry. I can describe him to you.”
“Sure.”
Abigail thought for a moment, and then said, “He has a brown beard and blue eyes, and last night he was wearing either very dark blue jeans or black jeans, and a roll-neck sweater.”
Mellie smiled, then said, “Scott Baumgart.”
“Oh,” Abigail said, and there must have been a look of surprise on her face.
“Is that not him?” Mellie said.
“No, that sounds right. Scott.”
“He got in late last night.”
“Thanks, Mellie.”
“Not a problem, Mrs. Lamb.”
“You can call me Abigail,” she said. She hadn’t officially taken Bruce’s last name yet, although she knew he’d like her to do it. Still, it felt strange to be referred to as a Mrs., let alone a Mrs. Lamb.
“Not a problem, Abigail. Anything else?”
“I was planning on going for a swim.”
“Lucky you. You know how to get there?”
“I think so. Back outside, and towards the woods.”
“I can show you the secret passageway, if you’d like,” Mellie said.
Abigail agreed and followed Mellie behind the bar and into a part of the lodge that felt as though it was for employees only. There were stacks of chairs and boxes of wine, and there was actual fluorescent lighting in tracks along the ceiling. They went down some cement stairs, Mellie walking fast in her khakis and white shirt, and Abigail briefly wondered if it was a good thing or a bad thing for Mellie to be stuck on this island with so many male employees. They were in a dimly lit hallway that suddenly veered to the right, and then they were in an even dimmer tunnel, carved from rock, with a much lower ceiling that curved like an archway.
“Wow,” Abigail said.
Mellie turned back, smiling. “This is a secret, so don’t tell anyone I brought you down here.”
At the end of the tunnel, at least fifty yards, Abigail began to smell chlorine, and the air changed, becoming warmer, more humid. There were double glass doors, and the two women pushed through into another hallway, this one carved from stone as well, but more luxurious, with soft lighting and a higher ceiling.
Mellie pointed to the left and said, “There’s a changing room just down a little ways. Everything’s in there.”
“Thank you, Mellie,” Abigail said, and made her way down the hall, then pushed through another glass door marked with a stenciled w. Inside, it felt less like a changing room and more like a spa. The walls were stone and all the furnishings were made from blond wood. She found a closet where she could hang her clothes and took off everything but her bathing suit. She was, not surprisingly, the only one in the changing area, and for a moment she longed to be at a different type of resort, one that was full of women and children. It was too quiet in here, almost creepy, and she kept thinking about her stalker. There was no way that Scott Baumgart was his real name, and she wondered how he’d managed it. Had he paid in cash? Or had he used his real name to register, but then asked the staff to call him something else? She supposed it was possible that he really was a Scott, but what were the chances? She’d come up with the fake name of Scottie on the night they’d slept together. Hadn’t