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Logan rolls over, shifting his legs off the side of the bed as if making to get up.
“No, you stay,” I command. “You don’t work until the afternoon, and my alarm is about to go off anyway. It’s probably just Greta with an engagement present. You know how she is.”
I can already picture her at the door, ready to wrap me in a huge hug and shout about how difficult it was for her to keep this a secret for so long. I feel a brief tinge of pity, thinking of Greta’s recent breakup. The way Alice just up and left her and the entire life they built on this island without notice or apparent explanation. But I push it away. This morning is for celebrating. I deserve to be happy for once.
“Look at you. Already the best fiancée I could ever ask for,” Logan says.
His comment sends a warm flush to my stomach, and I gently kiss his smiling lips before grabbing clothes that lie crumpled at the side of the bed—casualties from last night. As I slip Logan’s T-shirt over my head, I pause briefly to look through the floor-to-ceiling windows that line our bedroom, giving us unbridled views of the sparkling, mountain-studded ocean.
Just like it always does, the beauty takes my breath away. We moved into this house a year ago, each of us fed up with our respective living situations—Logan crashing in an apartment in Kumvit with Neil and Doug, and me in one of the hotel rooms that Frederic rents out to resort staff at decent rates. As soon as we saw the house come on the market, we agreed we didn’t have a choice but to put in an offer. It’s one of the only buildings this far up the hill, situated right next to the Khrum Yai trailhead. But the view sealed the deal, the beauty of the island on display, as if it’s ours for the taking. And in a way, it is. Koh Sang is our home, nestled in the Gulf of Thailand,far enough away from all the other backpacking islands that it hasn’t yet been tarnished by an overflow of tourists, like neighboring Koh Phangan or Koh Samui.
Today, the sea looks placid. Good news, given that we’re still very much in the rainy season. Every day is a gamble with the weather. But the sun is already well above the water, steadily ascending in the cloudless sky.
I walk through our living room and past the adjoining kitchen. With each step, I expect the knocking at the door to come again, but Greta seems to have given up for the time being. Either that or she’s heard me moving around.
I pause when I reach the front door, smoothing my hair down, hoping it doesn’t look like I’ve just rolled out of bed—which I have. No need to rub the engaged bliss in Greta’s face more than necessary. As I open the door, I’m smiling, ready to feign mock surprise at Greta’s presence.
But there’s no one there.
I step out, the humidity instantly sticking to my skin. Could Greta have gone already, thinking that Logan and I were out? I look down the sharp hill that leads back to the rest of the island. If she’d left, I would at least spot her motorbike speeding down the hill, but the road is empty.
My forehead scrunches in confusion. I think about texting Greta as I step back into the doorway, but my foot brushes against something. It’s small enough that I managed to step over it without noticing. A plain white envelope with my name—CASS—written across it in small capital letters in a handwriting I don’t instantly recognize as Greta’s. But it must be hers.
That explains it. She must have dropped it here as she knockedon the door, eager to make a quick getaway so as not to bother us. I find myself smiling again.
I pick up the envelope and take it inside, stopping at the kitchen table to open it. It’s light enough to be a card, but knowing Greta, it’s likely something more. Maybe tickets to some new destination? She can be a bit over the top when it comes to gifts.
I rip the envelope greedily, not bothering to wait for Logan. I’m excited to surprise him with whatever this might be.
Once opened, I realize it’s nothing more than a folded sheet of computer paper. I unfold it, curious.
Immediately, I drop it on the table, my fingers buzzing as if it’s burned me. I instinctively step back, away from the unfolded paper, my heart rate accelerating, my thoughts racing. I stumble a few steps and grab at a chair.
The whole time, I keep my eyes trained on the paper, at the black-and-white photo of a girl staring up at me, wide-eyed and crazed, guilt splayed across her face. Reporters and cameramen rush at her from all sides, buffeting her in a media circus.
The photo sits in a sea of dense, black text, the sole image on the printed news page.
At the top sits a note, scrawled in red marker.
I know who you are.
Then, beneath the article and the photograph lies more handwriting.
And soon everyone else will too.
I feel bile rise in my throat as the meaning of those words settles heavily around me. Everything I’ve accomplished in these last two years—this new identity, this new fiancé, this new life—comes crashing down.
“Was it Greta?” I hear Logan call from the bedroom.
It takes me several tries to answer. Each time I open my mouth, the sound sits trapped in my airway. My vision goes black, and I’m back in that hotel room. The knife in my hand, my blood on the blade.
“No—no one there,” I finally manage, praying that Logan can’t hear the strain in my voice. “Greta must have given up waiting.”
“Good,” he says. “Then come back to bed. We’re not done celebrating.”
I walk as if in a trance, stopping in the kitchen to fold up the paper and shove it in our junk drawer beneath a pile of takeout menus, somewhere I know Logan won’t find it. I should destroy it, but part of me needs to see it again, with a clearer head. To make sense of how this could happen.
Even when it’s out of sight, those words remain emblazoned on my mind.I know who you are. And the photo of that girl is everywhere I turn.
