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10
CASS
There’s no sound other than my rapid heartbeat, so loud and fast that I worry the intruder can hear it.
A slight jingle sounds as the door handle decompresses.
I can’t remember if these doors lock automatically. If not, whoever is trying to get in is going to find us, hiding on the floor, covered in dirt and guilt.
The second it takes for the handle to stop stretches on for an eternity. I clench every muscle as I wait for the click to signify the intruder’s entrance.
But it doesn’t come.
The intruder seems as surprised as we are. They press down again and again, their movements becoming quicker and more forceful until they’re rattling the doorknob back and forth as hard as they can.
I don’t dare breathe out, as if doing so will provide the door with the movement it needs to swing open. I turn my head to Brooke. Her eyes are staring at mine, and I know she can see the terror plainon my face. We don’t need to say anything. It’s clear that whoever is on the other side of that door didn’t come here with good intentions.
After what feels like hours—but realistically couldn’t have been more than a few seconds—the intruder gives up. I hear an indecipherable mumble of what sounds like a four-letter word as the footsteps trail away.
We lie there, waiting for our heart rates to return to normal. I slowly start to unclench my muscles one by one, but only after a few minutes, once I’m sure the person is gone, do I begin to move.
Brooke is far ahead of me, already running the few steps toward the window before I’m off the floor.
“Don’t!” I whisper scream across the room, but she either doesn’t hear or ignores me. She’s already pulled the curtain back enough to see out.
“Come here, quick.”
I rush to her side, seeing what she does through the window. A person, walking briskly from the Terrace steps. They’re already too far away to make out any features. The only thing visible is the black hooded sweatshirt obscuring the back of their head. No one in their right mind would be wearing a sweatshirt in this weather. Other than someone who didn’t want to be seen.
I notice Brooke’s holding something in her hands, something important enough to draw her attention from the window.
“What is that?” I ask.
“I found it when we were down there, under the bed,” she explains. “It was wedged in between the bed frame and the wall. It looks like it may have dropped through the crack.”
She slides it into my hand, which I notice is visibly shaking. A small rectangle of laminated plastic. In the light sneaking throughthe crack in the curtain, I see Lucy’s face staring passively out from the front of the card. She’s quite a few years younger than she seemed when I met her, and a small smile teases her lips, one that had been noticeably absent during class the other day.
A hologram creeps across the surface of the card, painting Lucy’s face in wavering pinks that glint off the sunlight. Despite the suffocating heat in the room, I feel myself shiver as I realize what I’m looking at.
It’s an identification card. Not for Lucy Dupin of Australia. But for Lucy Taylor, the eighteen-year-old resident of Greymouth, New Zealand.
We’re both quiet as we walk away from the Terrace rooms, each apparently lost in our own thoughts. The air has grown even heavier than this morning, and along the horizon, I see a crack of lightning splice the sky. These flash storms happen once a day in the rainy season, but they usually only last for about twenty minutes.
I break the silence as we walk past the party pool, which is, thankfully, quite subdued today. Whether because of the coming rain or the news of Lucy’s death is anyone’s guess.
“Why would Lucy have been going by a fake name? And why did she have those printouts of the diving staff? And who was that person trying to get into her room?”
My questions only seem to be growing with each new piece of information. I have more, of course, questions I can’t ask out loud. Like is the person who killed Lucy the same person who’s after me? And is all this somehow connected? Could it be my fault that this girl is dead?
Brooke turns to answer, her mouth open, but before she can say anything, a crack of thunder rolls through the resort and the sky opens.
We sprint blindly down the path leading from the main road to the beach, the cold of the raindrops pounding at our backs a shocking contrast from the swollen heat of the air. Having taken this route hundreds of times over the last two years, I can easily do it with my eyes closed, and I lead Brooke back to the dive shop, where we’d left our bags before heading to Lucy’s room. Once we’re inside, I slam the door closed, and the roar of the rain diminishes to a muted rhythm against the shop’s roof. I breathe a sigh of relief when I see that we have the place to ourselves; the dive shop isn’t open on Sundays. But the memories of yesterday, the panic, the shock still hang heavy in the air, so palpable I can almost taste them.
I grab two towels from the back of the shop and hand one to Brooke, which she uses to wipe her face.
“So what do we do now?” I ask, wrapping the other towel around me. With a prick of shame, I realize how much I’ve come to simply follow Brooke’s lead. How even in the short time since she’s arrived, I’ve naturally looked to her as the leader.
But now Brooke seems lost in thought, her eyes glued to the shop door, and I feel a flash of panic at her quiet. After a moment, though, she gives an almost imperceptible shake of her head and turns to face me with a tired smile.
