Beneath the Marigolds

by Emily C. Whitson

  Beneath the Marigolds

  Emily C. Whitson

  Contents

  Part I

  Prologue

  1. Ann

  2. Ann

  Part II

  3. Reese

  4. Ann

  5. Ann

  6. Ann

  7. Reese

  8. Ann

  9. Ann

  10. Reese

  11. Ann

  12. Reese

  13. Ann

  14. Ann

  15. Reese

  16. Ann

  17. Ann

  18. Ann

  19. Reese

  20. Ann

  21. Ann

  22. Reese

  23. Ann

  24. Ann

  25. Reese

  26. Ann

  27. Reese

  28. Ann

  29. Ann

  30. Ann

  31. Reese

  32. Ann

  33. Ann

  34. Reese

  35. Ann

  36. Reese

  37. Ann

  38. Ann

  39. Reese

  40. Ann

  41. Ann

  42. Ann

  43. Reese

  44. Reese

  45. Ann

  46. Reese

  47. Ann

  48. Reese

  49. Ann

  50. Reese

  Part III

  51. Ann

  52. Reese

  53. Ann

  54. Reese

  55. Ann

  56. Ann

  57. Reese

  58. Ann

  59. Ann

  60. Reese

  61. Ann

  62. Reese

  63. Ann

  64. Reese

  Epilogue

  For Further Discussion

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Also by CamCat Books

  Dead Air

  CamCat Books

  CamCat Publishing, LLC

  Brentwood, Tennessee 37027

  camcatpublishing.com

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  © 2021 by Emily Whitson

  All rights reserved. Printed in the United States of America. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. For information, address CamCat Publishing, 101 Creekside Crossing, Suite 280, Brentwood, TN 37027.

  Hardcover ISBN 9780744304206

  Paperback ISBN 9780744304213

  Large-Print Paperback ISBN 9780744304220

  eBook ISBN 9780744304237

  Audiobook ISBN 9780744304268

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2021939006

  Cover and book design by Maryann Appel

  5 3 1 2 4

  For all the Marigolds in my life. Thank you, today and every day.

  PART

  1

  Prologue

  I knew too much. On that island, on that godforsaken singles’ retreat.

  I knew too much.

  I ruminated on that thought, chewing it carefully, repeatedly, while Magda, the makeup artist, transformed me into a life-size nightmarish porcelain doll. Ghastly white face, penciled-in eyebrows, blood-red lips. I’d look beautiful from a distance, she had told me, leaving the other part of the sentence unspoken: up close, it’s frightening. She tsked as she dabbed my damp forehead for the fourth time, her Russian accent thickening with frustration.

  “Vhy you sveating so much?”

  I worried my voice would come out haggard, so I shrugged, a little too forcefully. Magda shook her head, her pink bob sashaying in the grand all-white bathroom as she muttered something foreign under her breath. My gaze danced across the various makeup brushes on the vanity until it landed on one in particular. I shifted my weight in the silk-cushioned chair, toyed with my watch.

  “Magda, what do you want out of this retreat?”

  No response.

  Did she not hear me, or did she choose not to respond? In the silence, I was able to hear Christina’s high-heeled feet outside the bathroom.

  Click, clack. Click, clack.

  When I first met the host of the singles’ retreat, I was in awe of her presence, her unflappable poise. Shoulders back, she walked with a purpose, one foot in front of another, and though she was a couple inches shorter than I was, she seemed larger than life. Her icy eyes, colored only the faintest shade of blue, seemed to hold the secrets of the world—secrets she intended to keep. But I had stumbled upon them just a few short hours before, and I was now afraid her gait represented something more sinister: the march of an executioner.

  Click, clack. Click, clack.

  Her stride matched the even tick of my watch, and a drop of sweat trickled down my back. Was I being ridiculous? Surely Christina wouldn’t hurt me. She had been reasonable with me earlier, hadn’t she?

  “One meenute,” Magda shouted at the retreat’s host. She doused my fire-red curls in hairspray one last time before asking me if I was ready to go.

  “I just need to use the bathroom.” I wheezed through shallow breaths. “I’ll be right out.”

  Magda exaggerated her sigh before shuffling out of the white-marble immurement, closing the doors behind her with a huff. My last remnants of safety and rational thinking left with her.

  I shoved the vanity chair underneath the door handle. I grabbed the makeup brush with the flattest head and hurried to the bathroom. I gingerly closed the lid of the toilet and slipped off my heels before tip-toeing on top so I could face the window. After removing the beading, I inserted the head of the makeup brush between the frame and glass. The brush’s handle cracked under the pressure, but it was enough to lever the glass out of its mounting. I placed the glass on the floor as gently as I’ve ever handled any object, trying not to make even the slightest sound, before hoisting myself up and through the window. I jumped into the black night, only partially illuminated by the full moon and the artificial lights of the mansion. I allowed my eyes to adjust.

  And then I ran.

  The loose branches of the island forest whipped at my cheeks, my limbs, my mouth. The soles of my feet split open from fallen twigs and other debris, but the adrenaline kept the pain at bay. I tripped over something unseen, and my hands broke my fall. Just a few cuts, and a little blood. I couldn’t see it, but I could feel it.

  I jumped up, forcing myself to keep moving. The near darkness was blinding, so I held my bloody hands up, trying to block my face. The farther I ran, the more similar the trunks of the trees became. How long had I been running? I gauged about a mile. I slowed down to gather my bearings. Behind me, the lights of the mansion brightened the sky, but they were only the size of my palm from that distance.

  I heard the hum of a moving car come and go. I must have been near the road. I was about to start moving again when I heard the snap of twigs. Footsteps. I stopped breathing. I swiveled to my left and right, but nothing. I exhaled. It was just my imagination. I continued away from the lights. Away from the retreat.

  And then someone stepped toward me: Christina. Her face was partially obscured by darkness, but her pale eyes stood out like fireflies.

  “It doesn’t have to be like this,” she said. Her expression remained a mystery in the darkness.

  I turned around, but one of her handlers was blocking that path. Christina took another step forward, and I jerked away, tripping over the gnarled roots of the forest in the process. My head broke the fall this time, and my ears rang from the pain.

  Her handler reached for my le
ft hand, and for a moment, I thought he was going to help me stand. Instead, he twisted my ring finger into an unnatural position. As my bone cracked, my screams reverberated through the woods.

  It was showtime.

  1

  Ann

  I’m an attorney. A corporate attorney, to be precise—not the kind most often portrayed in books and movies. I don’t go to court, and I don’t deal with murderers. I close deals—mergers and acquisitions, mostly—behind my desk in the quiet of my office. In layman’s terms: I help people buy and sell companies. It’s not quite as dramatic as the life of a trial attorney, but it’s safe, it pays well, and now that I’m a partner, I can dedicate some of my time to matters closer to my heart. But like a trial attorney—and all good attorneys, really—I spend my day combing through facts.

  As such, here are the facts: Reese Marigold has been missing for thirty-one days.

  She had been scheduled to arrive in Nashville after a four-week stay at an exclusive singles’ retreat. Flight records indicate she boarded her plane as scheduled, and several witnesses recall seeing a woman on the flight who matched Reese’s description: midthirties, red hair, about five-four. She was hard to miss: she had donned a bubblegum-pink jumpsuit, keeping the hood up and sunglasses on throughout the flight. I remember seeing this eccentric outfit as I waited for Reese at the airport, but I knew from the body language and gait it wasn’t Reese. The police think I could have been mistaken, though, so they asked a few witnesses about this rose-clad woman. Apparently she was as quiet as she was eye-catching, ignoring anyone who spoke to her.

  “Again,” I huffed in the interview room at the police station, “that’s not Reese. Reese can talk to a wall. She’s a social butterfly.” I threw my hands up in exasperation, but no one in the room seemed to care.

  Once the flight landed in Nashville, video footage from airport security shows “Reese” disembarking the plane, collecting her single bag, and heading for ground transportation. She did not make any other stops before getting into the backseat of a beat-up 1992 Ford Festiva. The car was tagless and had tinted windows, so it was impossible to track. A tip led the police to the car three days later near the Riverfront Park, burned to a crisp, ashes littering the ground like confetti. Only the charred remains of a suitcase were inside. Forensic technicians believe the car was wiped clean before it exploded, although it was difficult to know for certain. Reese’s wallet and cell phone were found about thirty feet away, concealed in the overgrown grass.

  Her cell-phone history didn’t reveal much. There was a missed call from an ex-boyfriend, Luca Ferrari, made two weeks before the retreat started. Reese’s relationship with Luca had ended seven years prior, but since Reese was granted an order of protection after Luca attacked her, he was automatically suspect.

  To my relief and disappointment, Luca has a rock-solid alibi. He also lives two thousand miles away in Los Angeles—has for six years now. Police interviewed several other men who had relationships with Reese, but each was occupied during the crucial window of opportunity.

  There was one noteworthy text. For the entire duration of the singles’ retreat, Reese sent only one message, which was to an unknown number on the last day of her stay. Her radio silence wasn’t considered unusual, as the retreat forbids the use of media in an attempt to force participants to focus on “the journey.” The message read: I need to get away. Pick me up at the Nashville airport tomorrow at noon.

  The police contacted the phone carrier of the unregistered phone number, but it was determined to be a burner phone. There were no outgoing calls or messages, no history of any kind, except for the single incoming text from Reese. The burner was discovered with her mobile and wallet in the park.

  I found all of this disconcerting, especially her silence toward me. The police didn’t share my concern, though, as perhaps she was upset that I hadn’t attended the retreat with her. She had, after all, been urging me to go. She had even filled out an application for me, earning me a spot on the island along with her. We could get engaged at the same time, she had pleaded. For Reese’s sake, I pretended to consider. Of course, I didn’t go; that wasn’t my thing. So Reese went alone. A hopeless romantic, she was always on a mission to find her next man, her miracle, and her latest obsession was this singles’ retreat.

  So if things didn’t go as planned, if she didn’t find love, perhaps she was taking out her frustration on me, police supposed. I told them that was ridiculous. In the ten years I’ve known Reese, I can count on my two hands the number of times I’ve seen Reese angry. Afraid, yes. Sad, definitely. But petty? Absolutely not. She would never let my worry fester like this over something like not going on a trip with her.

  No, something had to have happened on that island. Something terrible.

  Right from the start, I knew the retreat seemed too good to be true. Isolated on its own private island, about a ten-minute plane ride from Honolulu, Last Chance was established with the sole intention of helping people find true love. A soulmate. Give me a break. I begged the police to investigate, but because the island is outside their jurisdiction, there is only so much they can do without more probable cause.

  And besides, they said, Reese wanted to disappear, according to her last text message. She told an employee at the retreat that an associate of hers helped people get out of town. And according to her mom, she ran away countless times in her youth. Before she joined Nashville’s most prestigious dance company, she had trouble with drugs and alcohol. Never mind that she had a turbulent childhood, or that she’s been sober for twelve years. Never mind that she’s helped me, and many others, find solace through Alcoholics Anonymous. Never mind that she was my sponsor in AA for ten years, my closest friend, the only real family I’ve had since my parents passed. To the police, Reese was flighty—shady.

  A drunk.

  So the investigation dwindled. Life moved on. But not for me. For the past thirty-one days, I have been swimming in the facts of Reese’s disappearance. My mind has been laser-focused on her last movements—primarily on the retreat. I haven’t eaten, haven’t slept. Twice I’ve awoken to the sound of an ambulance, after passing out from unbearable chest pain, and twice I’ve been told I had suffered severe panic attacks.

  I only began to breathe semi-normally after I sent in my deposit to Last Chance.

  I know something happened on that retreat, and I have every intention of finding out what.

  2

  Ann

  Thirty-three minutes. That’s how much time I have before I need to be at the airport. I pace back and forth outside my house as I wait for my friend Honey. The winter wind snakes through the carcasses of trees that line my quiet neighborhood like soldiers. My pulse quickens, too much, so I try to focus on a particular object.

  Tick, tick, tick.

  My eyes land on my new watch. A Rolex. I normally wouldn’t buy something so extravagant, but I had just been promoted, and it reminded me of my mom. She had a similar style: a five-piece link metal bracelet, with three yellow-gold links flanked by a larger stainless-steel link on each side. It wasn’t a real Rolex—our family couldn’t afford that—but as far as knockoffs go, it was pretty good. She wore this watch on the day she and my father died, otherwise I would have worn hers. But like everything else in the car, the watch was destroyed, blown to bits, never to be recovered. I haven’t been sleeping much lately, but when I do, I dream of my mother, rocking back and forth in the chair she loved so much. Just before I wake, she peers down at her left wrist and tells me I’m running out of time.

  A car honks, three staccato bleats in quick succession, and I see Honey parked at the curb. She raises her hand in greeting, her five-carat-diamond engagement ring sparkling in contrast to the dull concrete of the winter road. Even with a toddler at home, she is meticulously made-up, not a hair out of place.

  “I’m here,” she shouts.

  I settle into her brand-new Range Rover and inspect my oldest friend. As her name implies, everything abo
ut Honey is golden. Honey-blonde curls and honey-colored skin. Even her voice has a warm, mellifluous touch. Honey isn’t her given name, but when she was about the age of three, her family decided the nickname was a better fit.

  A lot of women don’t like Honey. With her magazine-cover face, her family’s money, and a propensity to take what she wants, no holds barred, she can be intimidating. None of this stuff ever bothered me, though. She can’t help how she looks, she can’t choose her family, and I admire the go-getter attitude. I’ll admit, sometimes I do need a breather. Like when she got engaged. That was a nightmare; we didn’t talk for almost a year after that. But as with any old friend, you return to each other because of the comfort of shared history. Honey could be an asshole, but she was my asshole. Her parents died around the same time as mine, and with her older sister out of the picture, we were both in desperate need of some family—even if it was artificial.