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Sleep comes fast, blocking out everything, including the pinprick of doubt lodged in the back of my mind.
9
BROOKE
SUNDAY
I’ve been awake for hours—most of the night, really—when I receive the text. Late-morning light filters in through the one window of my Coral Bungalow room.
Despite the Permanents’ insistence that Lucy’s death was just another accident, I don’t buy it. I think of how Cass mentioned the cut on Lucy’s forehead and the bruising on her neck. How quickly she retreated on that point when she was challenged. There was a caginess there, something she wasn’t quite saying. And then there’s my run-in with Lucy. How she seemed to be waiting outside my room to confront me about that girl who jumped from Khrum Yai. How her eyes looked when they met mine, desperate and searching.
I knew there was a story here when I came to this island. But I could never have expected this. I’ve started to feel that familiar itch that runs just under my skin, the ache in my fingers for a keyboard to type on.
I haven’t felt this since those early days in college when I joined the school paper as a freshman. I was only assigned the fluff pieces, of course—the opening of a new restaurant in the campus cafeteria, new vending machines in the sophomore dorms—but each assignment was a challenge, forcing me to weave words to bring life to these events, to show why they were worth caring about.
Back then, I had thought journalism was my future.
When I started traveling, my plan was to find freelance work with various media outlets to fund my travels throughout Eastern Europe. I longed to cover stories as they happened in real time: the border disputes, the ethnic crimes, the ongoing rivalries that outlived the end of the wars decades ago. But despite countless emails and uninvited visits to every newspaper office I could find in the former Soviet Bloc, I had no luck. No one wanted to hire a college dropout with no writing credits to her name.
That was how the @BrookeaTrip persona came about. People couldn’t care less about the stories I told of all the places I visited, but they will pay good money to advertise their products through a scantily clad woman with a sizable Instagram following and decent photography skills.
But this could be it. The story I had planned to write about this island just got a whole lot more interesting with Lucy’s death. It would have emotion, suspense, everything a good story needs. It would surely get picked up on some regional—or maybe even national—outlet. This could be my big break.
So I’ve spent most of the morning—and a considerable portion of the night—scouring social media for any idea of who Lucy was. But despite my best efforts, working with just a first name and theimage of Lucy’s blue eyes burned into my brain, I’ve come up with nothing.
When my phone chirps, I lunge across the hotel desk for it, eager for any information. It’s a message from Cass, and I feel my heart rate speed up.
The police just told Doug the results of the autopsy. They said Lucy died from drowning. No signs of foul play.
My grip tightens around the phone, and the rage rises in my throat. I force myself to swallow it down and type out my reply through tense fingers.
Can you meet me?
Ten minutes later, I’m waiting outside the dive shop, where Cass joins me.
“So the police think it was an accident?” I ask as soon as she’s opened up the shop and we’ve taken our seats at the bench that lines one wall.
Cass steps back defensively, and I force my hands to unclasp. I can’t come on so aggressively, especially after what she’s gone through. I noticed I was doing it yesterday in the dive shop as well. Stepping over the boundary of who this group wants me to be: the ditzy, fun influencer. I was too loud, too opinionated. I could feel them pulling away.
But even so, I can’t sit by as they label Lucy’s death an accident, when all signs say there’s more to the story.
“I didn’t get too much information from Doug, other than what I told you. He doesn’t think the police have done a full report yet—not that they would have shared it with us if they had, since we’re not Lucy’s family. They just called him and told him the conclusionto relay to Frederic. We have a staff meeting later when Frederic gets in. We should learn more then.”
“Did they say anything about the bruising on Lucy’s neck?”
Cass looks down, her face sheepish. “Doug said the police didn’t find any bruising. I guess it’s like what the others said yesterday. I must have jumped to conclusions.”
“Well, what about the cut on her forehead? You saw that, right?”
Her mouth is a straight line. “They think maybe she bumped her head against a rock. The current was bad on Friday night, and portions of the shore can be quite rocky.”
“Isn’t this all a bit quick?” I ask. “I mean, it’s been less than twenty-four hours since they found her.”
Cass doesn’t say anything. I shouldn’t be surprised. It’s not typical for Cass to speak her mind. Every other time I’ve heard one of the Permanents voice an idea, she’s quick to go along with it. She’s never one to rock the boat.
But even so, I know I’m right. I think back to the conversations I watched Doug having with the police officer in charge yesterday, the soft glances, the muffled exchanges. I think how eager they all were to label Lucy’s death an accident.
Frederic must have paid them off. The police were never going to determine Lucy’s death was murder because Frederic didn’t want them to.
