Chicago, Illinois

The Set of Stranger’s Retreat

There were no comps the first few days after the team switch up, probably because the director and his crew were more interested in the tension the switch had brought to the house. Gunner and Zola were completely ostracized, left out of every discussion, every meal, every simple moment in the house. Whenever Zola walked into the bathroom, whoever happened to be in there would walk out. Whenever she went outside, everyone would go inside. When she went inside, everyone would go outside. She only had Gunner to talk to, and while that was nice, the tension was beginning to wear her down.

Some of her clothes were ruined when Brian packed it for her, leaving her with only a few t-shirts and a couple pairs of shorts, not much else. Durango told her there wasn’t much he could do about it without proving that she was getting special treatment from the crew. But she didn’t mind. Most of what Brian had ruined were the sexy clothes Felicity had provided. She preferred the frumpier stuff, anyway.

The first comp was a digging challenge. The teams had to use a shovel to dig up pieces of a 3D puzzle, clean the pieces, determine which ones were required to finish the puzzle and which weren’t, and then put it all together. It sounded simple when it was described to them, but it didn’t look that way as they were led to the area where it would all take place. For the first time, they weren’t on the studio lot. They were in the middle of a barren soybean field, the ground still hard as cement after the frozen winter’s wrath.

It was going to be difficult.

Zola sat on the tailgate of one of the production’s trucks, watching everyone mill around. There was a lot of setup required, and it was quickly turning chilly as the early afternoon became late afternoon. Gunner came to sit beside her, hitting her lightly with his shoulder.

“Your boyfriend is here.”

She looked across the field to the area he was indicating. Durango was helping lay cable for the equipment, stealing the occasional glance in her direction as he worked. She inclined her head, and he looked away, his gaze falling on the stack of equipment that was laying on the ground behind another of the trucks. Zola had been watching the pile but hadn’t seen anyone go near it. Not yet, anyway.

“He’s not my boyfriend. I explained all that.”

“I know. But I have to tease you.”

She tilted her head, resting it on his shoulder briefly. “There are no cameras on right now.”

“True. Maybe I should move on, go flirt with someone else.”

He started to climb off the truck, but she grabbed his arm and held him in place. “Don’t go!”

He laughed. “Where would I go. Everyone around here hates me!”

“Oh, I see how it is. I get you by default.”

“Exactly.” He leaned over and kissed the tip of her nose. “You don’t mind, do you?”

“Nope.”

“This thing looks rough,” he said, growing serious. “You think we’re up to it?”

“As long as your ankle holds out.”

He looked down at the walking boot the doctors had put on him the day before, wiggling his toes. “I think it’ll be better than the crutches.”

“Maybe I should do the digging.”

“And I should just hand in my man card right now . . . Let a girl do the digging? Are you kidding?”

“Don’t be a chauvinist.”

“I’m a man. I can’t help myself.”

She just shook her head before sliding her arms around his upper arm and resting her head on his shoulder. The other contestants were sitting in the shuttle, probably scheming against the two of them. They’d all decided that they had no choice but to work together now even though the game was no longer up to the viewers. Now that there were only three teams, the rules shifted. Now the comps gave each team a certain number of points: first place got five points, second got three, and last got one. At the end of the week, the team with the least amount of points went home, making the comps the only thing that mattered now. If the other two teams could figure out a way to push Zola and Gunner into last place for the majority of the comps, they had a chance of sending them home. But if all the comps were like this one, the chances of that were pretty slim.

Gunner was the strongest man in the house even with his injured ankle. And Zola’s military history made her a pretty strong competitor. She had no doubt they could win this competition based on the points system.

If it was a real game and she was a real contestant.

She was almost hoping she and Durango wouldn’t figure out who the saboteur was. She dreaded the moment she had to admit to Gunner that she wasn’t who he thought she was. Besides, she was having a good time despite all the backstabbing and distrust. And she liked Gunner.

“We can do this.”

“I know,” she said, her eyes moving back to the pile of equipment. She thought she saw something. Did she just see what she thought she saw? She sat up a little, but whatever it was she’d seen was gone. She shook her head, decided she was paranoid and rested her temple back against Gunner’s shoulder.

The director called them together, went over the rules of the comp again, and then sent them to the safety team to get ready. This game didn’t require a lot of safety equipment. The shovels were the most dangerous things, so they were required to wear steel-toed work boots. And gloves. They always had to wear gloves, and thank goodness for that or else Gunner’s hands would have been torn to shreds when he grabbed the rope to save himself from falling during the last comp.

The teams lined up at one of three freshly dug graves and began at the sound of a bell. When editing, they would add Susan’s voice wishing them luck, but she hadn’t wanted to come out in the middle of nowhere for this day of filming, and no one could blame her. It was a nice spring day, but the wind had a definite chill to it.

Gunner began digging, using his good foot as much as he could. She watched his walking boot fill with dirt, but it didn’t seem to bother him. He only grimaced a few times, and that was when he forgot about his injury and tried to use his injured foot to put weight on the shovel. When he finally hit the spot where the puzzle pieces were hidden, Zola rushed over to begin digging them out. Everyone had to use the same large tub of water, a modified trough used for farm animals. Zola dove in between Jessica and Lesley, scrubbing the pieces as quickly as she could. She handed them back to Gunner, only vaguely aware of him rushing over to the base and putting the 3D puzzle together, maneuvering every piece before determining which ones were relevant and which weren’t.

It was a tedious game. Zola concentrated so hard that her focus was completely on the puzzle pieces themselves. She didn’t see the blood dripping until the end of the game as she stood beside Gunner, handing him pieces and coaxing him on. Only one of them could work on the puzzle at a time, and they’d decided ahead of time that Gunner was the best choice. His mind was quick. He could look at a shape and know exactly where it went within seconds. She had to think about it a little harder. And it was working in their favor. They were several minutes ahead of the other two teams.

The blood was thin and diluted, dripping from under the sleeve of her jacket. She ignored it as she waited for Gunner to finish, assuming it was a scratch from the sharp debris that had been stuck to the puzzle pieces. But as she and Gunner rushed to push their button to see if they were correct in their puzzle’s design, a wave of lightheadedness rushed over her.

She never felt lightheaded.

Still, she ignored the injury, holding her arm behind her back as they watched, victorious, as the other teams finished. When she grew dizzy simply standing there, she leaned against Gunner. He put his arm around her, thinking she was only being affectionate. It wasn’t until the last team, Josh and Lesley, finished that she fell to her knees.

Gunner knelt beside her, his hands on her shoulders.

“Zola?”

That’s when she pulled back the sleeve of her dark jacket and revealed the deep gash in her arm. Gunner paled and turned, calling for a medic in a voice that was near panic.

Durango came running over, a white towel in his hand. Her first thought was that he should have brought a different color. This towel would be ruined. He pressed it to the wound, turning his head to search for the paramedics who were usually close whenever they had a comp. Zola recalled seeing Felicity and Cillian rushing over along with most of the production crew. The rest of the housemates were there, too. It was like déjà vu, transporting her back to the day Gunner was hurt.

“We need to call an ambulance,” Durango announced.

“No, the medics are here,” Cillian said.

Zola looked up at him, noting that his jacket was bright red. Was it irony?

Gunner wanted to stay with her when they loaded her into one of the trucks—was it the same one they’d sat on the tailgate of—to get her to the local hospital. Durango took him aside and said something that eased the concern on Gunner’s face. And then they were moving, the bumps and jerks of the vehicle jarring her arm and making the pain she hadn’t felt until the flare.

“When did you get cut?” Durango asked.

She shook her head. “I don’t know. I was so into the game that I didn’t notice.”

“When did you first see the blood?”

She shook her head again. “A little before we finished the puzzle.”

“You didn’t feel anything?”

“I didn’t realize it was that bad until I pulled my sleeve up. I thought it was just a scratch from the twigs and things that were on the puzzle pieces.”

“It had to have been one of the other contestants.”

“I don’t know. I didn’t see . . .” She tried to think, but she honestly couldn’t remember. Her hands and arms were soaking wet from the water, and the cold wind made them freeze right away. She was numb from her fingertips to her elbows. “I don’t know.”

“It almost had to have been Lesley or Jessica. They’re the only ones who got close enough to hurt you.”

“Or Gunner.”

She hated to say it, but it was a possibility.

They arrived at the hospital, and she was immediately taken to an exam room. Her wound was cleaned and sewn, taking twenty-five stitches to close. The doctor wanted to admit her and administer IV antibiotics, but she refused. She needed to get back to the house.

“I think we should take you out,” Durango announced. “It’s getting too dangerous.”

“I’ve been in more dangerous situations,” she scoffed.

“You could have bled out. If they’d cut you just an inch lower—”

“But they didn’t. If they had, I might have noticed sooner.”

“I can’t put you in that kind of danger, Zola. We can finish the case from the outside.”

“If you take me out, there won’t be a case anymore. The show will have to end by default.”

His eyes narrowed, but she could see that he knew she was right.

The door opened, and the executive producers walked in. Cillian’s red coat set off alarm bells in Zola’s head, and it took her a minute to figure out why. When it did, her heart sank.

She had a good idea who’d cut her. And why.

“Do we have any idea who did this?” Felicity demanded. “Was it Brian? Or Gunner?”

Durango threw up his arms. “It could have been any of them.”

Felicity’s face tightened as she stared at Zola. “You didn’t see who cut you?”

“No. But I have an idea who it was.”

“Who?”

“I need . . .” She hesitated, her eyes moving to Durango. She needed him to understand that she needed to figure this out on her own.

“We need to put her back in the house and let her do her job,” he said, reluctance very clear in his voice.

“And if someone dies?” Cillian asked. “It’ll ruin us!”

“No one’s going to die. And, if I’m right, the person doing this will have no reason to continue very soon.”

Cillian tilted his head. “You think the culprit is a contestant?”

“I do.”

He glanced at Felicity. She shrugged. “We had our suspicions.”

“That certainly narrows the suspect list,” he agreed. “But do you really think you can get evidence? We can’t just go around making accusations.”

“I don’t think that’ll be a problem.”

The two producers exchanged glances, then Felicity nodded. “Do what you have to do to make this stop. But, promise me, you won’t allow anyone else to get hurt.”

“I won’t.”

They were on the way back to the house a few minutes after that, everyone silent and lost in their own thoughts.

“Promise me you’ll be careful,” Durango said quietly as he walked Zola through the back gate of the house’s backyard.

“I promise.”

He touched her arm, stopped her from going inside. “You know who it is, don’t you?”

She nodded. “If I’m right, this person will do everything to make it look like someone else was responsible. It was a risky move, a little too obvious. And, like Cillian said, it’s now a very narrow suspect list.”

He moved closer to her, close enough that she could see the individual hairs of his thick, long eyelashes. “If you get to the point where you think you need help, look at one of the cameras and say, ‘rainbows.’ Understand?”

“Understood.”

He touched her cheek lightly. “Okay. Good luck.”

Zola walked toward the back porch, feeling much better after the IV they’d given her filled with fluids, and the pain medication that dulled the ache in her arm. She was pretty sure it was the tight bandage that was bothering her the most now, not the cut that was stitched up underneath. And the exhaustion that always came after a competition.

The entire house was out on the porch, curled up in chairs, under blankets, whispering to each other. Gunner spotted her first. He came off his chair so quickly that it tipped over and made a commotion as it hit the ground. When he reached her, he brushed a piece of hair out of her face as he stared into her eyes. The others barked questions at her, but he slipped his arm around her and guided her into the house, ignoring those who’d treated them so badly since the team switch.

“You’re okay?” he asked the moment they were behind the locked door of their bedroom.

“I’m okay.”

He touched her arm, running his fingers slowly over the bandage, a storm of emotions rushing over his face. She wondered if it reminded him of his sister, of the day she committed suicide. It had made her think of her mother even though her chosen method of death was hanging. Didn’t everyone think of sliced wrists when they thought of suicide?

“How did it happen?”

He asked the question in a low, quiet voice. He’d clearly been thinking about it for a while. She wondered if he had suspects in mind.

“They’ve already grilled me, Gunner,” she said. “I’d rather just lay down and get some sleep.”

He nodded. “Of course.”

He led the way to his bed, not even considering allowing her to lie on her own. They stretched out side by side on the queen-sized bed, his arms snaking around her waist as he pulled her back against his chest. It was a long time before he fell asleep. She never really did.

It was a little before dawn when she slipped out of bed, her thoughts on the bathroom first. She needed to brush her teeth desperately. But then she knew that she had to find it before anyone else did. And she knew exactly where to look.

Everyone kept their toiletries in one of the two bathrooms. There were little lockers that had been set up for that purpose, but there were no locks, no way to protect a person’s things. It was just an organizational practice that everyone had followed, apparently since the beginning of the game. Zola’s things were in the small locker beside Gunner’s, the locker where Lesley had once kept her things. She ran her hand over the door to his locker, sending up a little prayer that she would find . . . But she wasn’t sure what she wanted to find. If it was there, it meant he hadn’t done it. If it wasn’t . . . It could mean almost anything. That he did it and hid it in someone else’s things, or that he hadn’t done it, but the real culprit hadn’t been smart enough to set him up.

She didn’t know what she wanted. She just knew she wanted to believe he wasn’t the one who’d slashed her arm.

Zola opened the locker and stared at Gunner’s toiletry kit for a long time. It was a classic bag, one of those men in old television shows carry around. She pulled it toward her and popped it open, her eyes closed for a long moment. When she opened them, a gasp slipped from between her lips.

It was there, right on top. A box cutter with the blade still exposed, her blood dried on the tip.

That had to mean he didn’t do it. It had to mean that he was innocent.

Or he hadn’t yet had time to get rid of it.

She wanted to believe the former because she couldn’t believe the latter. Not if she wanted to keep her sanity in this place.