“Then I don’t,” Emily joked. She gave Jordan a playful shove. “But they never say that. Even if you’re going to have a bad day, they say it’ll be challenging. Or a learning experience.”
“And you really buy all that stuff?” Jordan asked.
“I do,” Emily had said.
Jordan had touched the tip of her nose. “I love finding out things about you.”
Now, Emily checked the clock on her cell phone: 9:53. As most of the kids on the dance floor were forming a long conga line, she drifted toward the fortune-teller’s table. The woman had long, scraggly, gray-streaked brown hair, a mole on her nose, and oblong-shaped glasses with purple lenses. She eyed Emily calmly and steadily, like she was drinking Emily in slowly, all the way to the last sip.
Finally, she smiled, grabbed Emily’s hand, and kneaded her palm. “You have smooth fingers, which means you’re artistic,” she started out. “Your thumb is strong, which means you’re logical. And you’re in good shape and able to overcome obstacles, aren’t you?”
Duh, Emily thought. That was an understatement.
The woman went on to say that Emily would have a love affair but never marry and that she’d live a long, happy life. Emily kept waiting for some sort of reference to Jordan, but the woman didn’t mention her. After about five minutes of kneading, she patted Emily’s hand. “There you go. Go forth and be happy.”
Emily cocked her head. “So . . . you don’t have anything else to tell me?”
The woman frowned. “No, that’s all.” She pulled out a rubber stamp from under the table, pressed it on an ink pad, and stamped Emily’s hand. “It marks that you’ve been here already. I don’t do repeats.”
Emily stood, unable to hide the disappointment on her face. This challenge suddenly felt like the I Spy books she used to look at in the school library. She would drive herself crazy trying to find the hidden snowman or tiny lamb charm or pink apostrophe in the cluttered photos, feeling unobservant and unintelligent when she failed. Or maybe Jordan just didn’t know her that well. Maybe Emily didn’t know Jordan that well.
She trudged over to Iris, who was marching in the conga line. Iris let Emily cut in, then looked at her strangely. “What’s on your hand?”
Emily peered at the stamp the fortune-teller had given her. “No repeats,” she mumbled. But when the strobe light flashed on it, she noticed the stamp was a large black circle with the initials JR in the center. She stopped short. Could that stand for Jordan Richards?
She broke out of the conga line, held her hand directly under a recessed light by the buffet, and squinted hard. The mark looked like a stamp on an envelope. Around the initials was the word Bonaire. Could that be some kind of clue as to where Jordan was? Was Bonaire a post office? A town?
Emily darted out of the ballroom and into the hall, where the light was much brighter, and fished out her old cell phone. The clock at the top said ten PM exactly. Luckily, the WiFi signal in the hotel was strong, so when she typed BONAIRE into the browser, quite a few results immediately popped up. Bonaire was a little island in the Caribbean. Emily clicked on a Chamber of Commerce page. According to the site, Bonaire was a popular spot for snorkeling. The site showed a slideshow of images: tropical fish, people playing in a turquoise ocean. Then, a photo of an old-timey movie theater flashed on the screen. On the marquee, instead of the coming attractions, were the words I MISS YOU, EMILY.
Emily’s heart almost stopped. She stared, unblinking, at the website, worried she was seeing things. But then the image appeared on the slideshow again. I MISS YOU, EMILY. She gasped. “I miss you, too, Jordan,” she whispered.
She watched it scroll through six more times. Then, at 10:01, it disappeared. Emily felt dizzy. It was the most romantic thing anyone had ever done for her. If only she could book a flight to the Caribbean tonight and find Jordan. But she was sure Jordan was much too smart for that. Even if she had been in Bonaire, she was most likely long gone by now.
“There you are, Miss Fields!”
A cold, slender hand landed on her bare shoulder. Emily jumped and looked up. Agent Fuji’s smile was unfriendly. Her conservative gray suit looked out of place among all the tulle and silk. “Have you been avoiding me?”
Emily’s mouth immediately felt dry. “Um . . .”
“I wanted to give you a chance to explain something,” Fuji cut in. “Maybe we could talk right now.”
Emily’s mouth fell open. Explain . . . what?
Without waiting for Emily’s consent, Fuji guided Emily to the end of the hall, where it was quieter. “I received an anonymous tip that you are harboring priceless art in your house,” she said sternly. She leaned closer. “Do I need to get a search warrant, Miss Fields?”
Harboring priceless art? “There’s no art at my house!” Emily blurted out.
Fuji raised an eyebrow. “Is it in someone else’s house you know? I was told one of you girls had something we should know about. If it’s not you, who is it?”
The music pounded in Emily’s ears. She’d spoken before thinking. A had told . . . but A hadn’t told everything. It was a brilliant scheme: She was relying on Emily to spill the rest.
She looked at Fuji again. “I-I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Oh really?” Fuji placed her hands on her hips. “Are you sure about that?”
Emily shook her head faintly, trying her hardest to stand her ground. After a moment, Fuji pulled at the strap of her briefcase and spun on her heel. “You better not be lying,” she warned.