“We don’t know she’s dead,” Wendy says, crossing her arms.
“Okay. So what do we know? What’s the Coast Guard doing?”
“There’s a search-and-rescue team looking for her.”
“And are the men still upstairs?” I ask.
“They left so we could get some sleep. They’ll be back tomorrow to brief us.”
“We’re not, like, stopping at a port so they can investigate?”
Wendy wrinkles her nose. “Investigate what? She fell. Listen, Belle, I’m upset, too, but—”
“So, did they interview everyone about what happened, or . . . ?”
She sighs, growing impatient. “John talked to them and told them what happened. He’s the only one who speaks Italian.”
“But he wasn’t even there,” I protest. “Didn’t you want to talk to them?”
“Belle, it was an accident,” she insists. “She fell in. She’s in the water. They’ll find her or they won’t, but me talking to the Coast Guard isn’t going to do anything. Look, we’re really tired and upset. Can we talk in the morning?”
I squint at her, trying to work out where she’s coming from. “I’m sorry,” I say with as much patience as I can muster. “I’m just trying to understand what’s going on. Are you sure she just fell in? You saw it happen?”
“Yes.” Wendy eyes me carefully. “Why are you asking so many questions?”
Why are you not? I stifle a scream. “I thought I heard arguing,” I admit, watching her just as closely. “Before she fell.”
She shakes her head emphatically. “If you heard arguing, it was all of us telling her to get off the railing, that she was going to fall in, and her refusing to.”
I hold my hands up. “Okay.”
“Now I really do have to get to sleep. Good night.”
“Good night,” I say. But she’s already closed the door.
Back in my room, I stare at Amythest’s empty bed, wondering what to do. My gaze lands on a pair of earrings on the bedside table, and suddenly I have an idea. I rummage in my jewelry bag and come up with an earring, the size and shape of which allows me to jam the lock on the door so that I can’t be locked in—one of the many tricks I learned acting in the kind of second-rate horror movies where girls get locked in rooms, a tool I never expected to have to use in my real life.
I perch on the edge of the bed, my head spinning. Wendy certainly doesn’t seem like she’s secretly waiting to tell the cops that she saw Summer shove Amythest into the water.
Which means either it didn’t happen and I’m just being paranoid, or she and all of the other girls are covering for Summer.
Rhonda would cover for Summer in a heartbeat. Summer’s her daughter and also her meal ticket, so it’s a no-brainer. Brittani has a big mouth, but she also has no moral compass and, despite her shit-talking, she worships the ground her sister walks on. Also, John got her into college and she’s clearly banking on him paying for it, so she would definitely cover for her sister.
Wendy and Claire are the wild cards.
Wendy may be a flake, but I don’t think she’s a bad person. Sure, she’s out for herself, but at the end of the day, aren’t we all? And the fact that she won’t go out of her way for anyone leads me to believe that she wouldn’t cover up a murder for someone. I check myself. It’s not true that Wendy won’t go out of her way for anyone; she won’t go out of her way for me, but I have nothing to offer her. I have no jet. I have no yacht. I have no key that opens doors to the rich and famous. Summer does. Nevertheless, Wendy’s never been cold to me until today, which makes me think Summer must’ve said something to her in my absence, perhaps forced her to choose a side. And the way Wendy acted toward me just now would seem to suggest that she’s chosen her side and has every intention of covering for Summer.
Claire, on the other hand, is a good girl, a wilting flower. She goes to church and doesn’t make waves. She’s not interested in being a part of this world . . . but she’s loyal to Wendy. She does have a moral compass and I think she’d want to do the right thing, but would she have the balls to speak up if no one else did? Doubtful.
I’m slowly coming to the terrible conclusion that if I don’t come up with some kind of evidence to support my theory before I leave this boat, there will be no investigation into Amythest’s death. It will be swept under the rug the same way Eric’s was.
Oh, Amythest, why did you have to be so hardheaded?
Maybe there is something I missed on the deck where she fell, some proof of what really happened. I close my eyes and picture the scene: the shattered glass, the spilled wine, Amythest’s broken nail . . . the nail. Summer had that scratch on her shoulder. Could the shred of red nail I saw on the deck have Summer’s DNA on it? Damn it, I should have picked it up, but maybe it’s still there.
I know I’m not supposed to leave my room, but what’s the worst they can do to me if they catch me? I don’t think they’ll risk killing off two of us in one night, and I’m being sent home tomorrow morning anyway.
But first . . . First I need to contact the outside world. Let someone not on this boat know what’s going on. In case something happens to me. Oh God, I can’t think like that.
I’ll have to sneak upstairs to use the hardwired computer, which of course means my email will be read, so I can’t say too much. Just enough to cast doubt if anything were to . . .
I take a deep breath and quietly poke my head into the empty hallway. Before I have time to second-guess myself, I slip out and press open the entry to the crew quarters. To my relief, the doors to all their bedrooms are shut and no one is out. It occurs to me to wonder if they get locked in, too. Surely not? But I can’t risk checking.
I quickly move down the hall and up the stairs, all the way to the second landing, where I press my ear to the door marked UPPER DECK. I can’t hear anything. I push it open a crack. Silence.
I edge into the darkened hallway and press my body against the wall, my breath shallow. A light shines through the crack beneath the door to the bridge. I look up to see a camera directly over my head. I have to bank on the assumption that either the cameras have been disconnected to cover up tonight’s events, or at this hour no one’s watching.
The living room is lit only by the starlight through the windows and the glowing green of the EXIT signs above the doors. I tiptoe past John’s portrait and take a seat at the computer. When I click the mouse, the screen comes to life with blinding brilliance. I quickly turn the brightness down to its lowest setting and log in to my email.
I have new messages, but I don’t dare open them in case someone is watching my screen. I compose a new message at the speed of light, hyperaware that at any moment someone could walk in:
Hi Sis,
Amythest has gone overboard, probably dead. Summer says it was an accident, that she fell in. Coast guard came briefly but left after speaking to John. She was wearing my watch, and my computer and phone are gone so I’m writing from the boat computer. I was being sent home tomorrow, not sure if that will change now. In other news, I had the sea urchin tonight, and it was everything you said it would be.
X. Sis
I hit send, log out of my email, and turn off the monitor, then stumble across the shadowy living room, slipping out the side door to the narrow exterior deck. The wind hits me as I open it, and I have to use both hands to keep it from slamming shut behind me. It’s nearing four in the morning, but the skies remain dark and we’re still moving at a steady clip, the boat keeling as she moves through the water. We didn’t even stick around overnight to look for Amythest, which only makes me all the more sure of my theory about her fall. I grab the railing to steady myself and make my way toward the front of the boat, ducking as I pass the windows to Summer and John’s room.
My heart in my throat, I ascend the stairs warily, straining to hear anyone above, but all is quiet. As I emerge onto the deck, my eyes dart from shadow to shadow until I’m satisfied that I’m alone. I steal across the fre
shly scrubbed and brushed wood planks. I’m grateful that the deck lights are dimmed, but the darkness makes the task at hand more difficult. I kneel by the railing, looking for something, anything that doesn’t fit the story of the accident. The telltale signs are all cleaned up but forever imprinted on my mind: the glittering broken nail, the shards of glass, the horrifying smudge of blood. I fish Amythest’s phone from my pocket and lean out over the railing, shining the flashlight down the side of the boat. Someone has washed the blood away, but a discolored stain remains in its place.
A light goes on somewhere behind me. I freeze.
“What are you doing out here?” Summer calls out.
I switch off the flashlight on Amythest’s phone as I pull myself to standing and activate the video camera. Maybe I’ll get some usable audio. I hit record and stealthily slip the phone into my back pocket as I turn to face her.
Silhouetted in the open doorway, she watches me, her face inscrutable in the darkness. Both of us are still, the sea and sky around us an inky black void.
I release my grip on the railing, edging toward the center of the deck just as the boat pitches forward, throwing me off balance. I scramble to catch my footing, and an overlooked shard of fine glass slices into the soft flesh between my toes. I stumble to my knees.
She laughs.
Fuck. I shouldn’t be here. I’ve made a terrible mistake. I should have stayed in my room and kept my mouth shut like the others.
But I’m through keeping my mouth shut.
Backlit, she is all blond hair and diamonds and glimmering teeth, her eyes in shadow as she advances toward me.
I desperately wish I were wrong about her, that it was only an accident. But the smile that plays around her lips is not one of goodwill. She towers above me, well oiled with power and champagne, a lion considering wounded prey.
And I know I am not wrong.
I extract the bloodied glass from my foot and rise to meet her, grateful for my height. She’s cool, so close I can smell her Chanel No. 5. Adrenaline pumps through my veins.
“What did you do?” I ask.
She feigns innocence, her eyes wide. “It was an accident.”
“You can stop the lies. I know it wasn’t an accident.”
She drops the act. “You’ve always been so unsupportive,” she complains.
“You just fucking killed someone.”
“Me?” She eyes me pointedly.
“The Coast Guard has already come,” I say, reading her implication. “Everyone knows I wasn’t there.”
“Everyone is going to say whatever I tell them to say.” Her smile curdles my blood. “Including the Coast Guard. And so should you, if you know what’s good for you.”
“Or what? You’ll kill me, too? Or just set me up, the way you tried to for Eric’s death?”
She smirks. “I was wondering when you’d finally ask me about that. I knew you must’ve paid the parking ticket, but you kept your mouth shut, which at this point makes you an accessory, even if anyone could prove that it was me there in your car.”
“So you did kill him.”
She sighs as though I’m slow on the uptake. “You know I did. You told Amythest.”
The blood freezes in my veins. “What did she say to you?”
“So it’s your fault she’s dead,” she sneers. “And Eric, too.”
My heart hammers erratically in my chest. I feel like I’m going to throw up. Breathe. I can’t let her get into my head. “Why? Why frame me for Eric’s death, when you’d already set it up as a suicide?”
“Always have a backup plan.” She smiles. “And you deserved it.”
“But I was never anything but good to you,” I protest, bewildered.
“Ha!” She snorts. “I read the messages, Belle.”
“What?”
“I have your passcode, you dumb slut. You thought you were being so smart using whatever apps, but I’ve seen them all, read every witty, pretentious line.”
“We were just friends—”
“Oh, come on. You stopped having my back the minute you met him. I saw the way you guys looked at each other and talked over my head, always quoting obscure movies and showing him your stupid plants. He wouldn’t shut up about how you were sooo smart, sooo talented, and such a natural beauty. And then I found the picture in the drawer of his bedside table.”
The wind whips my hair into my face, and I gather it into a ponytail, holding it back with one hand. “What picture?”
“Of you. In his loft.”
In the rain the day he kissed me. He must have printed the picture. And kept it. Next to his bed.
I’m so stunned that I can hardly formulate words. But I can’t let this end here. “Why did you invite me on this trip if you felt that way?”
“To keep an eye on you.”
“To manipulate me, you mean. But it hasn’t turned out quite the way you thought it would, has it?”
She raises her chin in defiance. “Things are gonna turn out fine for me.”
“Really? How does all this end? How many younger, prettier girls are you going to have to murder to keep your position?”
“I don’t give a damn who he screws once we’re married.” She laughs. “I loved Eric.”
I clench my jaw. “You killed him and then cried on my shoulder over his death.”
“I was upset,” she insists. “It’s upsetting to lose a man you loved. But sometimes you have to make sacrifices to get what you want.”
The use of refrigerator-magnet philosophy to justify murder would be mind-boggling if it weren’t coming from Summer’s glossy lips. “Is that what Amythest was? Another sacrifice at the altar of your vanity?”
“That bitch deserved what she got.” She snickers. “So let me tell you how this is going to go.” She places a manicured nail on my sternum.
I bat her hand away. “Don’t touch me.”
She crosses her arms. “This conversation never happened. In the morning, you’ll apologize to everyone for being so upset. She was your roommate, after all. It’s understandable. Everything will be peachy between us. Then you’ll go home and we’ll never see each other again. And if you care about your family, or your freedom, you’ll never speak to anyone about anything that happened here, or with Eric.”
“That’s your plan? How can you be so sure that no one will find out what really happened?”
She rolls her eyes. “You still don’t understand how the world works, do you? Everything has a price, and I can afford it.”
I shake my head. “John can. Not you.”
“It’s in his best interest to protect me,” she says calmly. “He has too much to lose. And now he knows that if I go down, I’m crazy enough to take him with me.”
And with that, she spins and strides back to the open door, calling out to Vinny. He appears, and she says something to him that sends him over to grab me by the arm. I try to wrench away, but his grip is like steel as he steers me by the elbow down the exterior stairs.
“You know she pushed Amythest off the railing?” I say.
He grunts.
“She killed her.”
He shoves me inside the main deck and prods me down the staircase. “What’d I fucking tell you? You gotta learn to keep your mouth shut.” He throws me into my room. I hear a key turn in the lock, and when I turn the handle, it won’t budge. So much for the earring trick.
My legs weak, I sit on my bed. I’m sickened by the thought that Amythest’s death is partially my fault. If I hadn’t told her about Eric . . . But no. I can’t go there. I told her to protect her. Summer wants me to feel responsible; she’s framing it so I do.
I extract Amythest’s phone from my pocket and press play on the video, turning the volume all the way up. Our voices are muffled, nearly drowned out by the sea and the wind, but I can make out words here and there. And I bet the cops have voice-enhancing software that will make it clear as day.
My hand shakes as I put the phone down. I’m unnerved
by the encounter with Summer, but also exhilarated. I can’t believe it. She played right into my hands. Thank God I had Amythest’s phone. Now all I have to do is hold on to it, keep my head down, and get to a police station. That, and stay alive.
I think back to when Eric “committed suicide,” how Summer was beside herself. I never even thought to question her whereabouts until I got that parking ticket in the mail, because why would I suspect my best friend had killed her boyfriend?
In the next room, I hear Brittani and Rhonda talking in low tones. Unable to make out what they’re saying, I press my ear to the wall and catch Brittani asking for Ambien.
“It’s too late,” Rhonda hisses. “ . . . be loopy tomorrow . . . keep your big mouth shut.”
Brittani’s naturally loud voice is easier to make out than Rhonda’s. “Yeah, well, you try keeping your mouth shut next time Jeffrey Dahmer kills one of your friends right in front of you,” she says. “I always knew she’d snap one day.”
“Shhhh!” Rhonda says. “ . . . not funny . . .”
“Oh my God, Mom. Give me a little fucking credit. I’m not as dumb as you think I am.” I hear a pop, then, “Ow! What the shit? This is child abuse.”
“Shut up, Brittani. You’re the one . . . bring that tramp on this trip, so . . . all your fault.”
“Really, Mom? Really?” Brittani’s technically whispering now, but she might as well be using a megaphone. “She was my friend, and she may have been a whore, but she didn’t deserve to fucking die. So forgive me if I’m a little fucked up about it.”
“ . . . thin ice. One wrong move . . . over. Over. Jail . . . life. You understand?”
“Jesus, okay! Can you let go? Your nails are digging into me.”
“Promise me.”
“Okay, I promise! Shit!”
The clock on the bedside table reads 4:34 a.m. Amythest’s phone has 38 percent battery power, and Bernard must’ve taken our chargers because they’re both missing. I turn off the phone and store it under my pillow for safekeeping.
Eric had a picture of me in his bedside table. Does that mean what I think it does?
The Lion's Den: The 'impossible to put down' must-read gripping thriller of 2020 Page 28