My MIL added: “Let’s see who comes for you now.”
He had no idea what my emergency code could set in motion.
Panic spiked as I tore through my luggage.
My phone was missing.
And the concealed waterproof pouch?
Gone.
My passport was gone.
I sprinted barefoot to the lobby.
The receptionist looked at me with guarded, professional caution. “Mr. Vance completed checkout procedures at 4:50 a.m., ma’am. He departed with his mother and daughter. The shuttle took them to the airport.”
A hollow, desperate laugh escaped me.
My entire existence—banking apps, dual-factor authentication, flight itineraries—was trapped inside a phone currently flying over the Pacific Ocean.
Back in the suite, housekeeping handed me a second note found on the floor.
It was in my mother-in-law Evelyn’s bold, aggressive handwriting.
She knew intimately that I was an orphan with no family to rely on.
Her note read: “Let’s see who comes for you now.”
