“I don’t know. It’s not like I check on their position every day; it’s a random thing I do from time to time. When I’m thinking about John for whatever reason, I have a peek at where he is…”

“So, last week they were together again.”

“Mm-hm, lunchtime again, but in Santa Monica this time, which is as far as it gets from both their offices.”

I shift positions; this floor is really hard to sit on. “And I guess there was no call from Summer this time?”

“No, exactly.” Lana pulls her hair away from her cheeks and up in a messy bun. Tendrils trail down, framing her face. She’s cute. “And when I texted Summer to ask how she was doing, she told me she’d been stuck in the office all day.”

“A lie.”

“Yeah. That night I asked John about his day and he, too, lied. Said he had a business meeting in Malibu. No mention of a pit-stop in Santa Monica. As you said, I tried to come up with an alternative, logical explanation. The app isn’t super precise. They could’ve been in the same neighborhood without being together. But even so, why lie?”

“Only one reason I can think of.”

“Right.” Lana stares back down at her phone, unlocks the screen, grimaces, and locks it. “After that day, I turned into a real stalker. I’ve been obsessed with the app ever since. And today, bingo, I caught them in the same place again. So I hopped on the first bus and followed them here.”

“And you’re sure they’re in the hotel?”

“Both their cars are in the parking lot.”

“They could’ve gone somewhere else.”

“I called reception and asked to speak to John. They connected me to his room.” Lana grimaces. “He didn’t even bother with a fake name. Anyway, I pretended to be the concierge checking in to see if everything was okay. I could hear Summer’s voice in the background, asking who was on the phone. They’re here together, probably having sex right as we speak, and… oh… oh, gosh…” Lana starts hyperventilating. “There’s no air in here…”

She needs something to breathe into. I only find sanitary paper bags on the racks, which isn’t the best, but… she’s having a panic attack. They’ll have to do.

“Here.” I open one and give it to her. “Put this over your mouth.”

Lana follows my instructions and, after a few deep inhales, she starts to calm down. Or, at least, she stops hyperventilating, which I’m taking as a good sign.

“Sorry,” she apologizes.

“Don’t be. I don’t know what I’d do if our roles were reversed.”

Probably would’ve already knocked down the damn room door and started throwing punches. At least her way doesn’t end in an assault charge.

“Can we… Can we talk about something else?” Lana asks.