Device Free Weekend

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.Copyright © 2023 by Sean DoolittleCover design by Caitlin Sacks. Cover images © Envato Elements.Cover copyright © 2023 by Hachette Book Group, Inc.Hachette Book Group supports the right to free expression and the value of copyright. The purpose of copyright is to encourage writers and artists to produce the creative works that enrich our culture.The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book without permission is a theft of the author’s intellectual property. If you would like permission to use material from the book (other than for review purposes), please contact [email protected]. Thank you for your support of the author’s rights.Grand Central PublishingHachette Book Group1290 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10104grandcentralpublishing.comtwitter.com/grandcentralpubFirst Edition: February 2023Grand Central Publishing is a division of Hachette Book Group, Inc. The Grand Central Publishing name and logo is a trademark of Hachette Book Group, Inc.The publisher is not responsible for websites (or their content) that are not owned by the publisher.The Hachette Speakers Bureau provides a wide range of authors for speaking events. To find out more, go to www.hachettespeakersbureau.com or call (866) 376-6591.Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication DataNames: Doolittle, Sean, 1971- author.Title: Device free weekend / Sean Doolittle.Description: First edition. | New York : Grand Central Publishing, 2023.Identifiers: LCCN 2022042076 | ISBN 9781538706596 (hardcover) | ISBN 9781538706633 (ebook)Subjects: LCGFT: Thrillers (Fiction) | Novels.Classification: LCC PS3604.O568 D48 2023 | DDC 813/.6—dc23/eng/20220909LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2022042076ISBNs: 9781538706596 (hardcover), 9781538706633 (ebook)E3-20220927-JV-NF-ORI Contents CoverTitle PageCopyrightDedicationThe Pleasure of Your Company Chapter 1Chapter 2Chapter 3Chapter 4Chapter 5Chapter 6Chapter 7Chapter 8Queen of the Inside Chapter 9Chapter 10Chapter 11Chapter 12Chapter 13Chapter 14Chapter 15Chapter 16Chapter 17Chapter 18Chapter 19Chapter 20Outsiders Chapter 21Chapter 22Chapter 23Chapter 24Chapter 25Chapter 26Chapter 27Chapter 28Chapter 29Chapter 30Chapter 31Chapter 32Chapter 33Chapter 34Chapter 35Green for Go Chapter 36Chapter 37Chapter 38Chapter 39Chapter 40Chapter 41Chapter 42Chapter 43Chapter 44L8R EpilogueAcknowledgmentsDiscover MoreAbout the AuthorPrevious Works by Sean Doolittle For David Hale SmithChampion and Friend Explore book giveaways, sneak peeks, deals, and more.Tap here to learn more. CHAPTER 1IT HADN’T OCCURRED to Stephen Rollins that buying an island was something that anybody, even your old college roommate, could go out and do.Beau and Lainie said sure, why not? It’s just real estate. There were websites. Will and Perry claimed to know a couple who’d bought their own ghost town, and those people weren’t even all that wealthy. Not Ryan Cloverhill wealthy, certainly. Not cover-of-Time-magazine people, just regular ones.If he was honest, Stephen supposed he’d never quite fully grasped, even after all these years, that Ryan was cover-of-Time, own-your-own-island people. This was the same Ryan Cloverhill who’d mistakenly filled their apartment dishwasher with regular Dawn and flooded the kitchenette with suds.But that was a long time ago. Ryan Cloverhill—their Ryan Cloverhill—golfed with presidents now.And he’d invited them all for Labor Day weekend: Beau and Lainie, known internally as Blainey; Will and Perry, known as Will and Perry; Emma, of course.And Stephen, who’d spent the last month gravitating between opposing poles of delight and terror. He loved them all, his oldest and dearest friends. But when had they last spent any real time together in person, in the same place, all seven of them? A decade ago?Closer to two.Would they survive?“It’s a fair question,” Will said on the phone. “But worth the risk.”Perry agreed: “Get your ass on that plane, Rollie. The pleasure of your company is cordially required.”Blainey—predictably—seemed fixated on the numbers. “What did Will and Perry get?”“A four and a five,” Stephen told them. “I don’t remember who got which.”“Huh,” Beau said. “We got three and six.”“I got three,” Lainie joked from the other line. “You got six.”They’d been referring to their invitations, delivered earlier that week by private courier: heavy linen cardstock, clean Neutraface lettering, the geometric four-leaf insignia Ryan Cloverhill now used as a personal colophon. On the back of Stephen’s, in a splash of glitz that didn’t quite fit the minimalist design: a large numeral 2 stamped in silver foil.“I’m sure it’s not a personal ranking,” Stephen told them.Beau laughed. “Easy for you to say, number two.”“Anyway,” Lainie said, “I guess we know who number one is.”Emma, of course.Stephen never did manage to connect with her, somehow.At least not until Denver International, a dozen weeks later, when they found themselves hopping the same connecting flight to Seattle. It was Friday morning, thirty minutes before takeoff. Stephen had completed the list of tasks required to leave his entire life and business in Chicago behind for four days, which consisted primarily of setting out extra food and water for the cat and locking the door to his apartment. The big weekend had arrived.He saw Emma before she saw him. Stephen waited until she came within earshot, then said, “Of all the boarding gates in all the airports.”Emma Grant looked up, locking immediately on the sound of his voice. She’d been in hustle mode, joining the queue a touch on the late side, fighting with the zipper of her carry-on with coffee in one hand, her phone in the other.The sudden wattage of her smile hit Stephen with enough force to make his heart stutter; she laughed and headed straight for him, arms outstretched. It looked almost as though she were offering him coffee and an iPhone. “Do you really see yourself as the Humphrey Bogart of this airport?”“Good point.” He stepped out of line to meet her, buzzing with adrenaline. He wasn’t prepared yet. “Ryan probably owns it already.”“Come here,” she said, and they were hugging tightly, awkwardly, all shoulder bags and elbows and handheld accessories. She smelled like Cinnabon and felt just like Emma; Stephen’s head swam a little as she planted a fat kiss on his cheek. “It’s so good to see your face. You asshole.”“You, too, Em. Please don’t spill that on me.”“I should dump it on your head. Let me look at you.”“Then let me hold something.”She handed