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It’s Doug, his matted hair messier than usual, dark bags packed under his eyes.
“Oh good, you’re here,” he says, rushed. “Frederic just got in and he has news. Team meeting in ten.”
He exits the shop as swiftly as he entered, a ball of nervous energy, saying that he’s going to help Frederic get settled into his office. As soon as he’s gone, I reach for my backpack, rummaging around until my fingers find the beat-up box of Xanax I made sure to bring with me today. Checking the door to make sure no one is outside, I pop out a pill, swallowing it in one swift motion.
The guilt returns, quick and fierce. But I know what this meeting will entail: Frederic ordering me to recount everything that happened yesterday from start to finish. And the thought of having to relive finding Lucy’s body, on top of everything else, is too muchto handle. I feel the pill’s effects working long before it’s actually possible. An avalanche of calm creeping through my veins, destroying the anxiety that has built up over the last two days.
As I shove the blister pack into the box, it catches on something. Logan’s ring. When I woke up this morning, I transferred it from my shorts pocket to the box, somewhere I knew he would never look. I intend to stick to the plan I came up with last night. I’ll give it back to him in a few days, telling him I found it on the beach.
I hear a sudden noise outside. As I look up, a shadow seems to pass over the window that faces out toward the beach. It’s gone in a flash, a streak of black, but I instantly think of the hooded person who Brooke and I saw leaving Lucy’s hotel room. Of whoever’s been following me, whoever left me that threatening note.
I’m out of my seat in a second, throwing open the door. I stifle a shout, recoiling with surprise as a body fills the doorframe.
11
BROOKE
Saliva gathers thick in my mouth as I throw open the door to the dive shop. I gulp in breaths, but the heavy humidity does little to ease my nausea.
I want to scream, to yell in frustration, but I don’t of course. I realized a long time ago that nothing good ever comes of that. A woman’s anger makes it easy to paint her as crazy. I know from experience.
Instead, I force myself to swallow and walk back to my room in a haze, the reality of what I just discovered overwhelming.
A girl was just found dead at the bottom of the ocean, a girl who had come to me for help—twice. Once via social media and, when that failed, again in person. I think of her parents somewhere back in New Zealand, who have absolutely no idea that their baby girl is gone forever.
I breathe a sigh of relief when I shut the door of my rented hotel room. The room itself is fine. Simple but certainly an improvement over Lucy’s. White walls, a queen-size bed with a mattress thatbarely moves beneath my body, a nondescript desk, and a large, beige-colored floor. I try not to think of how much it reminds me of the other place they put me in years ago, the one devoid of color.
After a minute, I force myself to pull out my phone and look again at the accounts Lucy Dupin followed on Instagram—the Dive Shop, Greta, Logan, all names I recognize—until I see one I know better than the others. The one I saw minutes ago in the dive shop. Marked with a photo, hair tied up in a ballerina bun, lips pursed in a barely there smile, and a European mountain range in the background.
Lucy Dupin followedme.
I’ve gained so many followers since I’ve gotten to Koh Sang. The picturesque backdrops and—more importantly—the bikini pictures have rocketed up my Instagram engagement. I haven’t bothered to track the messages they send me or the comments they’re leaving on my page.
I navigate over to my message inbox. I get hundreds of direct messages from followers who I either don’t—or refuse to—follow back. I scroll through them, starting with the most recent, images of sleazy men and budding influencers flying past, until I see her handle: @LucyDupin1. I open the message I saw for the first time in the dive shop. It’s dated exactly a week ago, a few days before she checked into the resort. It’s short, only a few words, but each one sinks me like a stone.
Hi. Can you help me? Please?
It’s so innocent. So childlike. If I had spent even another moment inside after I saw it, I would have exploded. I needed to breathe fresh air, to process this new piece of information.
What did Lucy need my help with so badly that she’d approachedme for it twice? Did it have something to do with the woman who fell from Khrum Yai? And more importantly, would Lucy still be alive if I’d given her the help she needed?
The last question crushes me.
A thought breaks through the surging wave of guilt. Maybe she’d tried another way to get in touch with me when I didn’t respond to her direct message. Maybe she commented on one of my posts.
I navigate to my meticulously curated profile, stopping on my most recent post—a photo from my hike with Cass. I told her I wanted to see the view from Khrum Yai, the tallest mountain on the island. But really, I had another reason.
I wanted to see how far off the beaten path Jacinta, the poor woman who fell from the mountain only a few weeks ago, would have had to go to fall. It was closer than any reasonable person would go toward the edge—especially given the magnificent view that could be seen from steps away—unless they wanted to jump, or unless they were pushed.
I asked Cass what she thought about it, and her expression grew serious. “It was a horrible accident. That poor girl.” I pressed her.
“Did you know her?” But she just shook her head. “I never met her,” she said, “but losing a hotel guest hit us all hard.”
I look now at the photo I had Cass take of me on that summit. My arm is cocked on my hip, the colors edited so that it’s impossible to tell where the sky ends and the ocean begins. Fifteen thousand likes. A ridiculous number. A quick search shows me that Lucy is one of them. Despite the lack of ventilation in my small room, the sight of her name sends a shiver through me. I posted that the day of the Full Moon Party. The day Lucy died.
I start scrolling below the post, looking to see whether Lucy lefta comment. When I come up empty, I continue down my profile page, searching the comments of my other recent posts. I stop at a post from last week of me lounging in a bikini at the resort’s infinity pool, my cleavage pouring out of my top. That one scored a record number of comments.
I flick at my screen so that they whirl past in quick succession.
