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But as I do, something farther down catches my attention. There’s a bundle lying against one of the bins, next to a puddle of water. A leaking garbage bag left by someone who couldn’t be bothered to throw it away properly, maybe? I rack my brain, but I can’t remember it being there earlier. And something about the bundle, the length of it, draws me in. Before I can fully understand why, I’m walking toward it.
I hold my breath, blocking out the sweetly sour stench of garbage that I was too distracted to notice earlier. As I walk farther, the shadows grow darker, the streetlights from the main road doing little to illuminate this alley. No restaurants, no bars. Just abandoned trash and a rarely used shortcut.
But even without the lights, as my eyes adjust and I come closer, I can tell I was wrong about the puddle of water. It’s not clear but a dark matte color. I peer at it as I get closer. It’s so dark, it’s almostblack. And there’s a new smell now, something metallic in the undertones of the rubbish.
I draw close enough so that I’m inches away. And as the realization starts to click, I shift my gaze to the object splayed out next to the puddle. The thing I mistook for a bag of rubbish is clearly anything but.
“Hello?” I ask quietly, the street swallowing the fear of my word and shouting it back to me in echoes.
As if my body is moving of its own volition, my knees bend so that I’m crouched next to the object. I rest my fingers on it, pushing slightly. I pull away, the tips of my fingers damp and sticky.
As I do, the bundle slides, no longer supported by the bin, and topples onto its side. My breath catches in my throat with the shock of what I had suspected but hoped wasn’t true.
This is a body.
As my eyes begin to adjust to take in its features, I observe the bright red line carved into the person’s neck, droplets of blood clinging to it, seeking to join those that have already formed the puddle on the ground. I force my eyes upward, to the pink scar on his cheek, to the wide, near-black eyes that stare out into nothing, to the shaved head.
The familiar features of the man I spoke with on the beach yesterday, the man I followed no less than an hour ago through this same street.
Daniel.
14
CASS
A sound, barely audible, slides through the night just after the meeting ends as I head toward the Tiki Palms, fighting the current of staff members leaving the restaurant to head back to their posts.
Instantly, everything seems to speed up, as if someone’s turned the world to fast-forward. I hear one woman yell, “That was a scream!” Guests and staff whip by in a blur, everyone apparently rerouted toward the source of the noise, eager to be the first to discover what’s happened. People press around me, and I’m swept up in the wave until I feel the rough grip of fingers on my arm.
“Cass, come with me,” I hear Logan say, his mouth close to my ear.
I follow blindly, hearing Doug’s faraway voice rise above the din.
“Everyone, please stay calm,” he yells into the crowd, his tone authoritative. “Guests, we need you all to return to your rooms. Staff, please go back to your assigned posts.”
Logan leads me in the opposite direction of the rush. It’s only once we’re inside that I realize where we are. The dive shop.
Despite the sticky heat of the night, my skin is cold, the hairs on my arms raised on end. Logan manages to find a blanket from the recesses of the shop and drapes it over my shoulders before joining me on the bench.
The door opens and Neil enters, followed by Greta, their faces stony.
“What’s happened?” Logan demands.
“I don’t know,” Greta responds, her voice faraway.
“It looks like something happened in one of the alleys off the beach road. Someone’s hurt out there. I couldn’t get close enough to tell who,” Neil explains.
The door opens again. This time, it’s Brooke and Doug, his arm holding her elbow. The unlikely pairing makes me pause until I notice her wide eyes, her mussed ponytail.
Logan and I abruptly stand, and Doug guides Brooke to sit down on the bench.
“It’s Daniel,” she says. “I found him in one of the alleys off the beach road. Someone slit his throat. He bled out. He’s—he’s dead.”
“But…he can’t be,” I insist. It takes me a moment to realize I’ve spoken out loud, and I blush as I feel the room’s eyes turn toward me. “I mean, he killed her. Lucy.”
Neil, Greta, and Logan all exchange glances.
“Cass, Lucy’s death was an accident.” Logan speaks to me as if I’m a child who’s misunderstood, and my frustration simmers.
