The lamp beside the bed cast a soft yellow light across the hotel room, but Georgia wasn’t resting. Her phone was pressed to her ear again, but all she got was the same result, no answer.
“Come on, May… pick up,” she whispered.
She sat on the edge of the bed, one hand gripping her phone, the other tapping against her knee. The call went to voicemail. Again.
She ended the call and stared at her screen, frowning. She had already called May five times.
“Maybe she’s just busy,” Georgia muttered to herself, brushing a loose curl behind her ear. “Maybe she left her phone in the office.”
But even as she said it, something in her chest felt heavy. She couldn’t explain it, not exactly. Maybe it was leftover fear from earlier, from the drugged wine, from everything that could have gone horribly
