I round the outside of the mansion until I’m out of view. Thankfully, my gown is looser tonight, so I’m able to slide my back down the side of the house. Rest for a minute. The adobe wall feels cool against my head. I knock my head, gently. One, two, three. I close my eyes, try to focus instead on the breeze that rustles the leaves of the forest instead of the hum from the party.
I want a drink, badly. That longing is always there, but it gets louder when I’m upset—like an old friend whispering in my ear: I can make you feel better. Don’t you remember? Just have one. One won’t kill you. You can stop after that. But I can’t stop. After a sip, I want five drinks, ten, twenty. Once the booze reaches my head, I disappear, and a different person sets up shop. That person drinks into oblivion, yells at friends, makes a mess.
When I got sober, one of my college friends—a semi-friend, a barely friend—asked me, “Why can’t you just have, like, one drink? Just practice moderation.”
“Wow, Nancy,” I responded. “I’ve never thought of that before. Thanks for the great advice.”
She smiled then, like she had discovered something revolutionary.
Idiot.
I dig my nails into my thighs, but I can’t break the skin—my nails are chewed down too much. I don’t know who I think I am. I’m not a detective. I don’t solve crimes. I’ve been at this retreat for over twenty-four hours, and all I know is that Christina claims Reese didn’t make a connection here.
Leaves crunch, and I turn my head toward the sound. Nick rounds the corner. Awesome, I think. Just what I need.
“Sorry.” Nick stops when he sees me. “I didn’t know anyone was back here. You mind if I have a smoke?”
“Go ahead,” I respond. What else am I going to say? No? I’d look like an asshole.
He slides down the wall. His shoulder brushes mine, and I catch the familiar scent of Old Spice. Another commonality with my ex-boyfriend. He pulls out a packet of cigarettes and a lighter from the inside of his jacket.
“You want one?”
I really shouldn’t. It’s a gross habit—something I gave up when I quit booze. But the cigarette, the need for a release, calls to me.
“Sure,” I say.
He hands me a cigarette. I hold it like one might hold a bomb. As soon as Nick lights it, I inhale the familiar taste of tobacco, let the smoke fill my lungs. The nicotine hits almost instantaneously, and I feel lighter. The dopamine dances in my brain, and I laugh.
“What?” Nick grins as he exhales a large puff of smoke.
“I haven’t had a cigarette since I was in college. Forgot what it felt like.”
“You want to wash it down?” He offers me his glass.
Yes, I think. But no. I can’t. “No, this is good.” I wave the whiskey away.
Nick shrugs and throws back the rest of his drink.
“So what are you hiding from?” he asks when he’s finished.
“Oh, I don’t know. Just needed a breather, I guess.”
“You know it’s only day two, right?”
Damn. He’s right. My eyes widen. “Yeah.” I take a long drag of my cigarette. “So how was your date today?”
“It was okay.” He shrugs. “I’ve already been on a date with Trixie, so I knew it wouldn’t lead anywhere.”
“Trixie.” I chuckle. I can’t take it seriously. “That name is for horses.”
He laughs too, and we feed off of each other. Soon we’re both howling—the type of laughter that can only come from an artificial high. Then something clicks, and I fall silent.
“Wait. What do you mean you’ve already been on a date with her? Today was the first one-on-one date.”
“Well, this is our second go of the retreat. Teddy’s too. And Rapunzel’s. I can’t remember her actual name, but the girl with the braid. Something flowery.” He snaps his fingers. “Rhea. I knew it started with an R.”
I can’t believe what I’m hearing. “W-When did you come before?”
“The month before. I took a break between sessions.”
So he would have been here with Reese. My eyes feel like they’re about to pop out of my head. My arm drops, and the lit end of the cigarette burns my thigh.
“You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” Nick says.
“Sorry.” I snap out of it. “It’s just my friend was here then too. She’s missing now, and the last anyone heard from her was at this retreat.”
Nick’s eyes pop open.
“Missing? I’m sorry to hear that. What was her name?”
“Reese Marigold. Red hair. Also pretty flowery. Do you remember her?” I search his eyes, praying he recalls something. An emotion crosses his face—something I can’t quite put my finger on.
“Yeah,” he says after a long inhale of his cigarette. “Yeah, I remember her.”
“Did she connect with anyone in particular?”
He nods, exhales the smoke.
“Guy named Lamb Martin.”
Lamb Martin. I repeat the name in my head. Lamb Martin. Lamb Martin. I knew Christina was lying, I knew it.
“Do you remember where he’s from? Anything about him?”
“Actually, yeah. Watercolor, Florida. I remember because he was a painter, and I thought that was a fitting hometown name for an artist.”
I notice the use of the past tense. Was that accidental, or a slip? My mind pulsates with the new information. I need to find Lamb Martin.
“Do you remember if she seemed happy? Did anything happen that could have upset her?”
Nick averts his eyes. Stubs out his cigarette.
“No. She seemed happy to me.”
18
Ann
I hardly sleep that night. Every time my eyelids droop, the thought of Lamb Martin creeps into mind, and bam—my eyes flip back open like a roller shade. I couldn’t call Ned until the morning due to basic human decency, so all I can do is wait. And wait. And wait. I try every sleeping position imaginable, but they are all equally uncomfortable.
Now it’s 4:00 a.m., and if I lie in bed a moment longer, I may burst into flames. Before ferreting out my phone, I shove the chest of drawers in front of the door again, just to be safe. My arms are already sore from yesterday.
Ned answers on the first ring. “Well howdy, Ann,” he chirps. “You’re up early. How are ya?”
“Good, good.” I’m not in the mood for pleasantries, but I inquire about him out of habit.
“Excellent. Cindy gave me an early Christmas gift. It’s a pilot watch, and it is so awesome.”
I suppress a groan. The stories about his wife and his obsession with planes drag on the longest. Ned speaks often and openly about his love of aviation. Instead of storing his car in his garage, he uses the space for an antique plane, which he flies at least once a month. He also proudly displays a robust collection of memorabilia on his desk—mostly miniature models of famous aircraft carriers. If you ask about any of the collectibles, you’re in for a twenty-minute story.
“I’ve been playing with it all day,” he continues. “It has all types of cool data: current GPS ground speed, GPS track, distance from waypoints and airports, estimated time en route, bearing, and glide ratio. Oh, and get this: I can build a flight plan and easily upload it to my watch. It’s so cool.”
“That’s awesome, Ned. I can’t wait to see it. In other good news, I found some more info on Reese.” The segue isn’t my smoothest, but I can’t contain myself any longer.
“That’s great. What is it?”
“Well, apparently, she got close to a guy named Lamb Martin. That’s L-A-M-B, like the animal. He’s from Watercolor, Florida, and he’s a painter. Would you be able to track him down, see if he’d be willing to talk to me? He’s between thirty and thirty-five, around six-one. When he was here, he had blond, shoulder-length hair, but that could have changed, obviously.”
“Sure thing, Ann. I’ll do it between meetings today. If I have trouble locating him, can I get Pat involved?”
“Yeah, of course.�
��
“Speaking of the PI, you know the financial documents I mentioned? About the island purchase and the retreat? Well, Pat was able to dig up some less-public records, and we noticed there’s a guarantor for both Last Chance and Phaux Island. Someone by the name of Beverly Wellington. I’m assuming she’s related to Christina because they share the same last name. A mother, maybe?”
“Christina mentioned a younger sister.” The name Beverly rings a bell, but I can’t consciously connect it to anything. “I’ll see if I can coax the name out of her.”
“That’d be helpful, because Pat and I can’t find anything on this Beverly woman. There’s even less information about her than there is about Christina. With Christina, there are at least records from the past few years. But with Beverly? Zilch. It may be an alias.”
“Well, that means she’s hiding something, right? So at least we’re on the right track.”
“That’s what I was thinking too.”
After my call with Ned, I shower. I tidy my room. I surf the web on my phone, although it’s difficult without connecting to the Wi-Fi. Through a cursory search, I confirm that Hawaii is a one-party consent state, which means that any recording is fair game if one person agrees to it. So, I guess if this is a show, then any discussion I have with Christina, or any employee at Last Chance, is legally allowed to be recorded and distributed. Which means I need to be even more careful about what I say.
The realization frays at my already shot nerves.
When my watch reads 6:03 a.m., I decide to head downstairs for breakfast. I need food before my one-on-one date, anyway. Christina prefers we don’t eat on dates, as it’s “distracting,” so our meals are relegated to eccentric times: 6:00 a.m., 10:00 a.m., 3:00 p.m., 11:00 p.m. I should have asked Ned about eating on reality shows. Perhaps they don’t eat on dates because it messes with the audio. I can’t believe I’m still entertaining the theory, but the more I’m here, the more it lines up. The makeup. The dresses. The “discussions” with Christina. But I still can’t figure out where they keep the cameras, or why they’d go to all this trouble to keep it a secret. I’d bet there are plenty of people who’d kill to be on a show like this.
The kitchen is quiet, with the exception of the cook, who is in the middle of a culinary concert: drumming pots and pans, sizzling eggs on the stovetop, flipping pancakes. He takes an intermission when I arrive.
“You want four espresso shots?” he says with arched eyebrows. “Four?”
“Yes, four shots.” I reply.
“You know that’s the equivalent of two and a half cups of coffee, right?”
“In that case, make it five.”
I know exactly how much caffeine is in an espresso shot, but his patronizing tone bothers me. Save the judgment, motherfucker. This is my only vice. With the exception of the solitary cigarette last night, which was a one-time thing. But I smile innocently, like some dewy-eyed schoolgirl, keeping my cover.
After I receive my lifeline of caffeine, I force myself to stop reviewing the details of Reese’s disappearance—a fun habit I’ve picked up that prevents me from sleeping—and mentally prepare for my one-on-one date with Guitar Guy. I pray he doesn’t bring a musical instrument. He’s brought his guitar to both cocktail parties now and strummed a second-rate tune each time. I don’t think my sleep-deprived headache can handle another one. I wish Christina would have let us choose our second one-on-one dates; I would have selected Nick as my first choice now that I know he was with Reese in her last month. I have so many more questions for him. Who else did she go on a date with? Was anyone else interested in her? Could she have been stalked by another participant? Did anyone appear suspicious? What did she do on her last day? I can’t ask these questions all at once, not without giving away my ulterior motive in coming here, so I have to space out my interrogation. Nick could be involved in Reese’s disappearance, for all I know.
Someone grabs my shoulders. I grip the hot espresso, ready to toss it behind me.
“Boo,” Nick whispers in my ear. My shoulders relax, and I lower my mug. Speak of the devil.
“Hey.” Despite myself, and despite my initial reaction, I smile. An ear-to-ear smile. I need to pull myself together.
He straddles the stool beside me. He can barely contain his excitement.
“You couldn’t sleep either, huh?”
“No. I can’t say it was my best night’s sleep.”
“Well.” Nick eyes my espresso. “Load up on caffeine. Gotta be ready for our big date.”
I tilt my head. Our date? As in, just you and me?
“I asked Christina for a favor,” he explains. “You and I are gonna get a better view of this island today. You and Guy will get together another time.”
“Wha—how?”
“I’ll explain later.” He stands up and tugs on my hair, which is still drying from my shower. “I recommend a hair tie for today’s adventure.”
My mouth is still gaping when he leaves.
19
Reese
The talk with Christina was weird. (Truthfully, all our talks were.)
“Let’s go to a talking room,” she said after Lamb left my room. I didn’t understand why we couldn’t just chat in my room, or why there were specific rooms designated just for talking. After the scene I caused downstairs, though, I didn’t have the right to protest or ask questions.
“So,” Christina said once we were situated. She folded her hands in her lap. “Let’s talk about what just happened.”
“Christina, I’m so sorry. That was so inappropriate. I understand if I need to leave.”
I shut my eyes, ready for the details of my expulsion. But Christina did something unusual—she grinned. Just for a second. It was gone as soon as I could register it.
“That won’t be necessary. These things happen. Emotions run high on this retreat. I just want to work through your feelings now, to make sure we get to the root of the issue.”
“It was a total mistake. I thought he was someone else.”
“Perhaps. But that couldn’t be all there is to it. The reaction was too primal. Too violent for just that.”
I drew in a deep breath.
“Lamb was talking to another woman tonight. They shared an intimate moment—a kiss—just shortly before you attacked Nick.”
What? Was that true? No, she must have been mistaken. I shook off the image and refocused.
“No, no. It had nothing to do with Lamb. I thought that guy—”
“Nick,” Christina interrupted.
“Nick. I thought Nick was a friend’s ex-boyfriend. He was a jerk to her, and I hadn’t seen him since . . . well, since he was a jerk.”
She tilted her head and studied me. “This is a safe space, Reese. You can be honest with me.”
“I am being honest.”
“Reese, come on.” Christina grinned again. “It was a passionate kiss, and it was right in front of you. You must be disappointed.”
Did that actually happen? How did I not see it? I had to talk to Lamb.
“Somehow I missed that. Honestly. But if Lamb kissed another woman tonight, yeah, it would hurt.”
This seemed to please her. “You like him. You have a connection.”
“I thought so. Maybe . . .” I threw my hands up. “I don’t know. Maybe I was wrong.”
“Well, let’s talk about that. Your connection, and what makes it special.”
We went around in circles like this for the next thirty minutes. She would get me to swoon over my relationship with Lamb, bring up this out-of-the-blue kiss with Trixie, make me question my intuition, and recount my attack on Nick. The more agitated I became, the more she encouraged me. It was like she wanted me to lose it again. I didn’t understand it.
Not at the time.
20
Ann
I can’t stop bouncing my knee as I wait for Nick on the stoop outside the mansion. I check the time, bite my nails. Magda slapped my wrist three times while she put on my fa
ce this morning.
“Stop it,” she said. “You vill ruin fingers.”
I finally folded my hands under my armpits, which Magda detested equally as much.
“Vhat’s wrong vith you?” she snapped. “Now you vill smell.”
I’m not excited for the date. Not exactly, not really. More anxious. Yes, that’s the right word: anxious. I wish Reese were here to calm me down—like she did for my first date after I got sober. I had been clean for about fifteen months at that point, and it was my first year in law school. Another first-year asked me to dinner between classes, and I was caught so off guard—so sleep deprived and mentally exhausted from reading case after case after case—that I said yes. I wasn’t ready to get back on the horse, but Reese was thrilled. Of course she was.
“I think this is just wonderful.” She sighed as I paced my ramshackle studio apartment, the only place I could afford on my scholarship. “You’re never going to be one hundred percent ready, so you might as well rip the Band-Aid off now before you get too timid over the idea.”
“But what do I say when he asks if I want a drink?” I stuttered, barely taking a breath. “I can’t just say I’m an alcoholic. That’s so morbid and depressing and weird to say to someone you just met. And if I say, ‘I’m not drinking tonight,’ then he might think I’m not interested, that I’m being rude. Maybe I could say I’m on antibiotics. . . . Yeah. Yeah. That could work. But then what if he thinks I have some sort of gross rash? Or an STD?” I was tearing up my ratty rug I was pacing so much.
“I got it.” She snapped her fingers. “Just say you’re pregnant.”
“Reese, I’m serious.”
My phone went off then—a text from the date. He was taking me to a new winery in town, so I needed to get excited. I flopped face-first onto my bed.
“He’s taking me to a winery,” I said, my voice muffled by a pillow. “This is terrible.”
“Come on,” Reese brushed my hair with her fingers. “You’re blowing this way out of proportion. Give me your phone.”
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