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The voice is unfamiliar, and I whirl around, inhaling sharply when I see who it is. The girl from this morning, the one who looked like she was coming to talk with me at the restaurant. The one who I later saw in Cass’s dive group. She’s standing a short way from my door, almost as though she’s been waiting for me.
“Uh, hi,” I say, quickly recovering from my surprise and plastering on the fake smile I save for my @BrookeaTrip pages.
“Brooke, right?” she asks. She’s skinny enough that she looks like she could blow over in a strong wind, and her eyes carry thatsame wide, hungry look they had earlier. But her voice is stronger than I expected; there’s a quiet strength to her.
I nod expectantly, now certain that she must be an eager Instagram follower, preferring to ask for a selfie when I’m alone. Less chance of rejection that way. But her next question catches me by surprise, causing my smile to slip.
“You’ve only been here for two weeks, right?” she asks.
“Yeah, I guess,” I say cautiously. “About two weeks.” I think back to what I’ve posted on my accounts. I remember sharing a TikTok when I first arrived, documenting the tuk-tuk ride from the ferry station to the resort. Still, it seems a bit strange that this girl would remember exactly how long I’ve been here.
The girl nods. “So you weren’t here when that woman fell from Khrum Yai, then?”
I blink, surprised. The question is so far out of the realm of what I was expecting this girl to ask, this person I’d pegged for an overeager fan who just wanted to gush over my social media profiles.
Of course, I’d heard about it. The woman fell from Khrum Yai, the tallest mountain on the island, a few days before I arrived. She was twenty-one years old, like me. The few articles I’d seen posted online about it—all of which I’d found from setting up a Google alert on news of Koh Sang—said that this woman, Jacinta, had gone for a morning solo hike on Khrum Yai and fallen to her death. The articles withheld her last name for privacy reasons, but they did include a picture. Curly, chestnut-colored hair framed her round, smiling face. Her nose was dotted with freckles, and her lack of makeup made her look several years younger than she was.
The Koh Sang police claimed Jacinta’s death was an accident. She walked too close to the edge of the cliff. Something may havestartled her, or maybe she just lost her footing. Either way, she tumbled to the rocky crevices below, her body left to rest there, broken.
Since I’d arrived, hushed stories of the woman’s death had run like an undercurrent through the resort. I’d hear staff members gossiping quietly in rushed Thai, the topic of which would have remained unknown had it not been for their sharp pauses as they struggled to pronounce the English syllables of Jacinta’s name.
But how does this girl know what happened? It wasn’t like the woman’s death made international news. Has she been researching the island as closely as I have? If so, why?
“No,” I say carefully, after a moment. “I didn’t know her. Why do you ask?”
She inhales deeply, as if she’s thinking about exactly what to say. “I know this is a lot, and I know you don’t know me, but I don’t think her death was an accident. I think there’s more to—”
Whatever other words she tries to say are quickly drowned out by a voice from behind us.
“Lucy!”
We turn in unison to see a large guy, his chest bare and his face already smeared with neon-green paint, lumbering toward us, several others flanking him on both sides.
“We’re going to Tiki Palms before the party kicks off,” he continues as he gets closer, clearly oblivious—or possibly indifferent—to our ongoing conversation. “Come with!”
The girl—Lucy, apparently—opens her mouth as if to protest, but she’s quickly stopped.
“Nope,” the guy says, “I won’t hear it. You’re on holiday. You need to party, and I am appointing myself as your party facilitator.”He changes his voice to mock formality, as if he’s impersonating a policeman. “Ma’am, you’re coming with us.”
He looks over, as if noticing me for the first time, and gives me a smile that I’m sure he intends as flirtatious but that instead makes him appear uncomfortably constipated. “Oh, hello. You’re more than welcome to join as well.”
“Can’t. Sorry,” I say, feeling anything but.
“Well, you know where we’ll be if you change your mind,” he says with a wink. And before I know it, he’s walking toward the path, his arm wrapped around Lucy, leaving me there with all the questions I didn’t have a chance to ask.
What did Lucy want, exactly? What does she know about the girl who fell from Khrum Yai? And how? And why me? Out of all the people on the island, why seekmeout to try to share whatever information she had?
I watch as the group heads toward the restaurant and briefly consider whether to follow, but a quick glance at my watch tells me I’m already late. I’m about to head to my motorbike when Lucy glances over her shoulder, her eyes searching for me. They lock on mine with the same intensity as before, as if she’s considering something. She lets them linger for a moment before she turns back, leaving me staring after her.
By the time I pull up to the party, the sun has just finished setting, leaving residual streaks of purple that bisect the night sky. I park among a dense cluster of palm trees that line the far side of the hill. Even though Frangipani isn’t too far from a residential street, it feels like we’re entirely secluded out here. The winding road onwhich the bar sits pushes up against a portion of the island that remains uninhabited jungle, and we’re at least a mile from the bustle of Kumvit and Pho Tau beach. Trees form a dense canopy above, absorbing the sounds and draping the area in a blanket of quiet.
As I cut the engine of my motorbike, the murmur of excited voices floats over from the bar, which is little more than a chain-link fence enclosing a small area of waste ground. A hand-painted sign on a piece of wood tied to the fence identifies it as “Frangipani Bar” in green block letters over a novice portrayal of the island’s most common flower. White fairy lights throw a magical glow over the wooden stage in the far corner and a grouping of picnic tables arranged in no sensible order. Strung up among the lights is a large white banner, emblazoned withCONGRATULATIONS CASS + LOGAN. In the front and center of the area sits a palapa with a thatched roof. The light from within reflects off a line of liquor bottles, and a peal of laughter erupts from the barstools surrounding it.
From my vantage point, I’m largely hidden by the darkness, so I park my bike and take a minute to watch the group. Cass and Logan are standing behind the bar, his arm wrapped around her meek frame. Doug and Greta sit on adjacent barstools opposite them, Greta’s ice-blond hair shimmering in the lights, her head tilted back in a full-bodied laugh. I feel a quick flood of relief when I see Neil standing beside them, leaning nonchalantly against the counter, wearing his usual goofy smile.
But this time, I can’t attribute the flutter in my stomach to the sight of him. Normally, I wouldn’t care about arriving at a party by myself, but there’s something about this group, how strangely close they all seem. I’ve been dancing around their perimeter ever since I arrived. I seem to have won over Cass and Neil, but the rest seemsomewhat aloof, as if they’re not willing to welcome any newcomer who isn’t committed to staying on the island permanently. I’ve seen how the other backpackers look at them too, like they’re an exclusive club that they can only hope to join.
I shake off the nerves and straighten my back, reminding myself that I have every right to be here, desperately ignoring the voice in the back of my mind, branding me as an outsider.
