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As I move closer, though, I see that it’s certainly not trash.
It’s a person.
The person isn’t dressed in scuba gear. No fins or vest or even a mask. They’re floating upright, as if standing with their feet glued to the ocean floor, coral arching above them, the backdrop for an eerie portrait. Strands of hair float delicately above their head in the current like human seaweed.
This isn’t right, I realize, panic seeping in through my wetsuit, fear bubbling under my skin.
Behind me, I hear a flurry of noise. By the time I turn, Daniel’s kicking straight upward, his respirator trailing uselessly behind him. I move to grab him, to stop him from rushing to the surface and popping his eardrums—or worse. But for the first time beneath the water, my body feels weighted, anchored in place.
I look over at the others. Tamar’s eyes are panicked, glued on the body behind me, the bubbles emerging from her respirator more and more rapidly. As for Ariel, that anxiety from after class yesterday seems to have returned, his body stiff, his gray eyes impenetrable behind his mask. His words from yesterday come back to me, inauspicious and unwelcomed.
It is not safe here.
I force myself to turn and shift closer to the body. And the face comes into focus. Lips separated slightly as if they were preparing to speak. And those eyes, open wide, as if in a scream. The blue has not yet faded, but tendrils of red close in from the sides.
Instantly, all motion around me stops. My underwater reprieve morphs into my worst nightmare.
Robin.
I can’t move my eyes from her. I stare at that face I know so well, ultimately landing on her forehead, now marred by one red horizontal scratch. I move my sight lower, to her neck, and spot ghostly blue marks on either side. I continue downward, to her waist, where I note the string of fabric from her T-shirt snagged around a piece of the reef. And then to her foot, wedged into a crack in the rocklike coral, preventing her from rising to the surface. She’s stationed there, motionless in the water aside from the current rippling her clothing.
Amid the pulsing dread, my mind takes a moment to refocus. This isn’t Robin. It’s Lucy.
Before I can fully register this conclusion, something sparkles in my peripheral vision, bright enough to distract me from the horror cresting like a wave above me. Following the light with my eyes, I spot a small piece of metal half-buried in the sand several feet away from the body, glinting off the surface light. I inch even closer, the blood pounding in my ears like waves against my skull, and reach my hand down, pulling the object free from the sand.
I look down at what I’m holding. And with that realization, the wave of panic crashes down, enveloping me. A flurry of bubbles escapes from my respirator as a blurred choking sound reaches my ears. A scream, I realize. My scream, muffled by the weight of the water.
And I finally let the panic pull me under.
6
BROOKE
“Kap khun ka, Sengphet,” I say as he deposits the steaming coffee on the table in front of me. He bends forward, hands clasped in his signature sign of gratitude.
“You are welcome,” he says slowly. “You need. Last night big party. Coffee will make you feel better.” He pauses between each word, punctuating them with his endearing smile.
I smile back, something that comes naturally whenever I talk with Sengphet. As I do, I notice the dark circles beneath his eyes. Looks like even he had a late night—or an early morning. I can only imagine what time Frederic makes his staff get up to repair the resort after a party like the one last night.
The Tiki Palms is still deserted, despite it being nearly nine o’clock. It feels as though a collective hangover has settled over the island.
I check the engagement on my Instagram post from earlier this morning, which I timed perfectly for when my American followers would be getting off work and relaxing for the evening. I noticea new comment from @TravelBarbie, another travel influencer whose following makes mine look paltry in comparison.Looks incredible!she’d commented beneath one of last night’s photos.
Wish you were here!I type in response.
I don’t, of course. @TravelBarbie is just as heinous as her handle suggests. Platinum blond, with every part of her enhanced—either surgically or through pounds of makeup—she’s the type of influencer who will peddle anything from tampons to detox teas, the kind I never wanted to be. When our paths overlapped in Budapest during my early days of building @BrookeaTrip, I asked her to take a selfie with me. It resulted in me being forced to listen to her lecture about how valuable her “image” was and how people didn’t want to go on social media to be ranted at about the world (as I apparently did) but to remember its beauty (as she was apparently so adept at leading them to do). But through more patience than I knew I was capable of exercising, I managed to convince her, and she posted the picture on her account that night. It did the trick. I woke up the next morning to no less than four hundred new followers. I push away the memory and read through a handful of other comments before taking a sip from the mug Sengphet delivered.
“Shit!” The word comes out louder than intended as the hot coffee burns my tongue, a blister forming almost instantly. The shock only adds to the pain growing behind my eyes. Contrary to Neil’s promise at Frangipani, my hangover smears my scattered memories of the Full Moon Party in a film of regret. I survey the stretch of beach spread out in front of me, now empty of bodies and the trash they left behind. I think about Sengphet and the other resort staff members, walking along the sand just as the sun peeked above the horizon this morning. I picture them, bleary eyed andexhausted, trash bags billowing in the dawn breeze as they meticulously picked up every piece of detritus that had been casually discarded during the night so that no guest has to see the precious beach in any state less than total perfection.
The silence is almost jarring after last night. I can still feel the pulsing bass of the speakers, lodged like a painful rhythm in my back molars.
Suddenly, the still morning is broken by a muffled yell. I scan the beach again but see nothing. I turn to Sengphet, but he looks just as confused as I must. The sound comes again, this time accompanied by a familiar voice.
“We need to get you in. Now!” It’s Cass.
And then I see them, a group of two bobbing on the water, about twenty meters from the beach. I watch Cass, mask flipped on to her forehead and loaded down with scuba gear, dragging the person next to her toward the beach.
Something is clearly wrong.
