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“I don’t know, Detective,” Doug says mockingly. “I wasn’t monitoring for a curfew. Probably around midnight.”
Neil nods. “Yeah, same. I had to get up early to help Cass with the divers.”
The rest of them keep talking, but I’m barely listening. I’m starting to understand the enormity of what this means. The lapses in my memory from that night, the questions I can’t answer.
What exactlywasI doing when Lucy died?
15
BROOKE
I make sure I’m gone from the dive shop before Frederic gets back. The last thing I need now is one of his brutal tongue lashings. It’s only once I’m outside, breathing the night air, that I realize how claustrophobic it felt in there, so many bodies in such a tight room, compounded by the lies pressing in on us from every direction.
I overstepped, I know that. I was too forceful with the Permanents, too eager. I forgot any efforts at trying to fit in with them, fully distracted by getting to the bottom of Lucy’s story.
But I’m not an idiot. I could see through everyone’s apparent alibis for the Full Moon Party as soon as they opened their mouths. I watched their fidgeting hands, the flick of their eyes as they tried to recount the night of the party. Everyone just happened to be separated, with no one to back up their story.
And then there’s Cass. I could tell how she blanked when I asked what time she got home that night. I’m sure she thinks that Logan’s cover for her was artful, but the scrunch of his eyebrow when he said they left together couldn’t have been a more obvious tell.
Once I’m in the safety of my room with the door shut firmly behind me, I take a deep breath, savoring the quiet.
Slowly, I reach into my back pocket, as if whatever’s in there might bite me. I consider wrapping my hand in a towel to prevent fingerprints, but it’s too late for that.
Instead, I wrap my fingers around the object and pull it out.
Daniel’s phone.
The scream erupted out of me when I realized I was standing over Daniel’s body in the alley. But as I heard the footsteps rushing toward me down the beach road, I had a moment of clarity. I had seen where Daniel had kept his phone when I was following him: in the front pocket of his jeans; he occasionally took it out to check the screen as he walked. So I reached into his front pocket, trying not to cringe as my hand brushed against his cold jeans. As soon as my fingertips made contact with the hard plastic, I felt a wave of relief. For whatever reason, whoever killed Daniel hadn’t taken his phone. I yanked it out, stuffing the phone into my own pocket, just as I heard the footsteps of eager onlookers round the corner.
Because if Daniel didn’t kill Lucy, then maybe he knew who did.
There’s something there, I know it.
And one thing’s for sure. I’ll never know the truth if I leave the investigation up to Frederic and the corrupt Koh Sang police he keeps in his pocket.
I look at Daniel’s phone now. I pause for a moment, trying to appreciate the solemnity of holding a dead man’s phone in my hands before pressing the side button and bringing the screen to life.
“Shit,” I mutter as a notification appears asking me for a passcode. I should have expected it, of course, but I barely knew this guy. How am I supposed to know what the passcode to his phone is?
The most logical place to start is with his birthday, but I don’t even know that. I remember the article Cass sent me yesterday. Maybe they mentioned it in there? But a quick skim through it reveals nothing helpful.
And then I recall an Instagram post I’d seen the other day about tech security for influencers. “Choose a secure passcode for your phone,” it’d advised. “Something unique only to you.” The post had gone on to say that 1-2-3-4 was the most commonly used—and hacked—passcode for phones.
It’s a long shot, I know, but I type in those four digits slowly, careful to avoid hitting an errant key.
Daniel’s home screen flashes on the phone, a chaotic mix of apps.
“Oh, Daniel,” I whisper with a mix of relief and surprise.
I click the icon for his text messaging app and start scrolling. Names fly by on the screen—Sofia, Mum, Rod, Hamn—and I pause briefly to read the first few bits of each conversation. Everything is mundane: British-sounding slang to Rod and Hamn, a longer text to Mum, apologizing and telling her he’s safe and not to worry, and a much sexier message to Sofia, which I click out of as quickly as possible.
Back on the home screen, I search through the sea of apps on his screen for the green WhatsApp icon until I finally locate it.
The first message at the top of the screen is from an unknown number, identified only by a generic gray icon. The time stamp shows that the most recent message was delivered at 6:24 p.m. I hold my breath as the message chain loads, expecting a lengthy conversation or at least a few back-and-forth messages.
But there’s only one.
I know who you are. Meet me at 7:50 or my next message is to the UK Parole Board.
