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Still, I force myself to check. I scroll past the litany of insults and pickup lines that I’ve grown accustomed to and breathe a huge sigh of relief when I reach the end. It’s short lived, though, as my phone flashes with another message notification just as I finish the task.
I scroll back up to the one new message request and click on it.
A small icon identifies the sender, a woman with eyes so dark they’re almost black against her ivory skin and straight brown hair. The name next to the photo is limited to one word.Alice.
Her name scratches at my brain. Since Instagram labeled the message as a “request,” that means I don’t follow her, and I don’t otherwise recall interacting with her on this app before.
With a growing sense of dread, I click on the message, which is only a photo, no text. As I enlarge it, my phone screen fills with a group seated at a long table, a familiar-looking sunset looming behind them.
I recognize the setting immediately. The Sunset Restaurant, perched atop the summit of one of the highest mountains on Koh Sang. And as I look more closely, I begin to make out the people. This woman, Alice apparently, toward the end of the table, Greta next to her, her arm draped over Alice’s shoulders. And then it comes to me.Alice. Cass mentioned an Alice. Greta’s ex. The one who left the island right before I got here.
I continue scanning the photo she’s sent, dragging my eyes along both sides of the table. Cass sits on the other side of Greta, her lips pressed together, gaze diverted away from the camera. Neil, Doug, and Logan sit across from them, seemingly mid-laugh.
But why would Alice send this to me, a stranger? With no explanation, just a photo of a good memory from her time on the island? Maybe she’s jealous? She could feel that I’m encroaching on her territory since I’ve been posting photos on Instagram with the Permanents.
Before I can process this theory, my phone flashes with another message from Alice. I click on it greedily, seeing a second image, this time accompanied by a short sentence. I freeze as soon as I see the words.
Her death was not an accident.
My heart stops as I process the message. I take a deep breath before clicking on the new image she’s sent.
It’s two women. The one on the right is in her early twenties, standing on what I recognize as Pho Tau beach, the water lapping at her toes. Her hair is pulled back off her face, but brown curls fall over her shoulders. She’s tall and thin and beautiful. A dimple dots her cheek as she smiles directly at the camera, a dive mask perched on her forehead. I recognize her instantly from the posts I’ve seenon various websites and travel blogs. They only ever used her first name, but it’s enough to identify her now. Jacinta, the woman who fell from Khrum Yai.
I look at the person she’s standing next to. A blond woman with a scuba mask over her face and the snorkel still in her mouth. But I know who it is. I can see the brown eyes through the mask, opened wide, as if the photo had caught her by surprise.
Cass.
I think back to our hike on Khrum Yai the other day, the questions I peppered her with about Jacinta. And her noncommittal answers.I never met her.
Another lie.
Cass knew Jacinta. Well enough to be in a photo—albeit reluctantly—with her, and she lied about it. Just like she lied about where she was the night Lucy died. Just like she’s lied about everything.
I turn the words from Alice’s message over and over in my mind. Jacinta’s death wasn’t an accident. It’s what I’ve suspected ever since I first heard of Jacinta, but now that suspicion is solidifying, turning hard and rough.
I dash off a quick message to Alice, asking why she’s sending me these messages, what exactly it is that she knows, hoping to catch her while she’s still online. And indeed, within seconds, my message is underlined by a gray “read” confirmation. I wait several moments for her to respond or at least to see a notification that she’s begun typing. But nothing more appears.
When I click over to her profile, it’s marked as private. Hastily, I click the request to follow her, eager to see if there’s any more information I can glean from past photos she’s posted. I check our message chain again, but Alice still hasn’t responded.
Impatient, I grab Daniel’s phone from where I’ve kept it on the side of my desk, turn it on, and bring it back to the bed. Once the phone comes to life, I’m startled by the notification alerting me that only 2 percent of his battery remains. His phone is a Samsung, which means my iPhone charger won’t work with it, and there’s no one I could ask for one without arousing suspicion. But it needs to last long enough for me to check this one last thing.
I spent hours last night going through Daniel’s phone, meticulously checking his apps and messages and missed calls. But other than the video and the WhatsApp message from the anonymous sender telling Daniel to meet them in Kumvit, the phone was largely unhelpful. So I’d given up on it. But back then, I was looking for evidence that nailed Doug as the killer. Now I have another motive.
I start back at the top of Daniel’s photo gallery with the most recent photos, paying closer attention to the backgrounds, combing through everything with fresh eyes. He took a handful after the video that caught Lucy and Doug together. I scroll carefully through the first few blurry shots, but nothing new sticks out. Then I’m on the series featuring Daniel and the redheaded girl. I flip through them quickly until I reach the third in the set. In that one, Daniel’s looking straight at the camera, but the girl’s head is bent down as if she’s doubled over with laughter, revealing overgrown brown roots of hair. Behind her, a flash of something in the background catches my eye.
I zoom in with my fingers, stretching the image as far as it will go, until it confirms what I suspected. Blond hair, the same color as Cass’s. She’s turned away from the camera, facing out to the water, so that I can’t see her face, but it’s clear she’s talking to someone. I shift my fingers to move the screen, bringing into focus the person next to her. The fine, curly hair. The petite frame.
My fingers clench around the phone, just in time for the screen to turn black.
The phone is dead, but I’m sure of what I saw. Cass was talking to Lucy after Doug led her off the dance floor. Despite Cass’s lies, this photo proves she was with Lucy that night. And she—not Doug—could have been the last person to see Lucy alive.
The anger floods back, hot and furious. A searing rage, deep in my gut.
“That lying bitch,” I mutter, my teeth clenched.
I should have trusted my instincts from the get-go. I knew from the moment I heard about Lucy’s body that Cass was behind this. Self-hatred seeps in as I think how stupid I was, letting her convince me that she wanted to help find out why Lucy really came here, breaking into her room with me, looking into her on social media. And I ate it all up. Despite knowing better.
My thoughts from earlier are gone. Even with these growing feelings for Neil, I can’t let it go. My reason for coming here. The story I was planning to write even before Lucy’s and Daniel’s murders.
