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At first, I stand there, stock-still, unable to look away from it. The name triggers a chorus of—mostly unwelcome—memories. I feel like I’m falling, and I have to reach my hand out to the side of the house to keep me upright.
Slowly, I put down everything and pick up the envelope using both shaking hands. An eternity passes as I unstick the label.
I know what it must be before I open it, but still my breath catches as I unfold the sheet of computer paper.
Another newspaper article.
It’s the headline that first grabs my attention.
The Hudson Massacre Killer: Who Is She Really?
I don’t bother reading the text filling the lines beneath it. Instead, my eyes skirt down to the bottom of the page, where another personalized note lies waiting in that red-inked handwriting I’ve come to know so well, as dark as blood.
This is all your fault, Meghan. And everyone is going to know the truth, soon.
17
BROOKE
It’s early, barely seven, and the beach is quiet. All the guests are probably still in their rooms, sleeping off their hangovers from last night. The beach road looked empty when I passed, caution tape still looped around it near the alley where I found Daniel.
I look out now at the turquoise water stretching to eternity. Its beauty seems almost obscene considering everything that’s happened in the last two days. I think of the grayness from that hospital a few years ago, the color that still haunts me. I play distractedly with my bracelets, an amalgamation of vivid hues that intentionally could not be more different from that stale grayness, now forming an armor around my wrists, protecting me from those memories. Some of them are intricate, jade beads lining up against rose-colored metals and silver bangles that I picked up for cheap at a Bosnian market that are just shy of tarnishing. Others are much more simple, some nothing more than a loop of string, like the one given to me by a young Romanian girl. I’d stumbled on her in a busy Bucharest street, crying over a spilled ice-creamcone. After I bought her another one, she looped the bracelet from her own wrist onto mine and threw her arms around me in my thanks. Now, my finger clutches that bracelet specifically, as if its touch could somehow transport me back to that moment and away from all this.
My mind has been racing all night, ever since I saw the end of Daniel’s video. I watched it over and over for hours, training my eyes on that final scene to make sure I was right, to confirm the face I thought I was seeing. I watched it until there was absolutely no question.
It was Doug.
The possibilities began to snowball as soon as I saw it. After he led Lucy away from the dance floor, maybe he came on to her. Maybe she fought back, and he got angry. Or maybe he lured her away with the intent to kill her. Or maybe it was all more innocent than that and he just hooked up with her.
But whatever happened, Doug knows more than he’s letting on.
I’m not surprised that Doug’s involved. Even with Logan’s coldness, Doug is the Permanent I’ve been most turned off by. He’s always creeped me out, the way he hits on every female guest without fail and regales everyone else with his successes at getting them into bed. I should have trusted my instincts.
I’ll admit I spiraled a bit, the rage in my stomach growing stronger with each view of the video. So I went for a short walk early this morning to clear my head, to remember why I came to the island in the first place.
“How’s your coffee?” The question drags me from my thoughts.
“It’s good. How’s your sugar and cream?”
Neil looks at me from across the table in mock outrage andgestures to the Thai iced coffee in front of him. “This is a Thai delicacy, I will have you know. I’m simply appreciating the culture.”
I laugh and then immediately stop, remembering what’s brought us here.
I texted him as I walked. I told myself it was to get his perspective on Doug, to figure out what he’s really capable of. Neil’s been on the island longer than Doug; he even lives with him. But as I typed out the text inviting Neil to coffee, it wasn’t Doug I was thinking about. It was the heat of Neil’s leg against mine at Frangipani, the light touch of his kiss on my cheek amid the chaos on Pho Tau beach two days ago.
I cringed at the realization, my thoughts of Neil soaking through the armor I’d built over the years. But as he smiles at me now from across the table of the Monkey Bungalow, one of the open-air cafés lining the sand of Pho Tau beach, I feel it again. That sense of possibility. The desire to feel his body against mine. My gaze, as always, is drawn to those freckled lips.
I force away these intrusive thoughts with the one question I know will put an end to my giddiness.
“Have you heard any more news about Daniel’s murder? Do the police have any idea who did it?” I ask. Although given what I know of the Koh Sang police, I can already predict the answer.
Neil shakes his head slowly, confirming my suspicion.
“Listen, I’m sorry you had to witness…” He trails off, his face suddenly serious. “Well, everything that’s happened. I don’t want you to think this is normal. That guests just…die out here.”
I sit quietly, considering how to respond, but Neil jumps in again.
“Sorry, that was insensitive. I guess I’m just a bit nervous,” he says, fiddling with his straw.
