Beneath the Marigolds

by Emily C. Whitson

  When we had retreated a safe distance, I exhaled. Almost safe. The instructor pointed upward, indicating it was time to ascend. We started to rise. So far, so good.

  But then Lamb’s leg caught on a piece of coral. A tear in his calf muscle. I froze as I waited for the inevitable.

  Blood escaped from his leg, diffusing into the water and creating small wispy balloons. The sharks didn’t appear bothered. For now. The instructor gave us the “okay” signal again, and we continued to rise. Despite my rapid heartbeat, I tried to maintain a normal breathing pattern. If you rise too fast, your lungs will pop, Reese. The sharks are too far away. It’ll be fine. I wondered which death I’d prefer: a ruptured lung or a shark bite.

  I promised myself that if I made it out alive, I’d never step foot into the ocean again. Just get me to the top.

  About halfway up, with a trail of blood below us, I saw a couple sharks halt their circular pattern around the ship. They swiveled in our direction and started to close the gap between us.

  Oh God, I thought. Oh God. This is it. This is how it ends for me.

  The sharks descended closer to the ocean floor, where the blood had originated. We were about three-quarters of the way to the top. Time had never seemed so stagnant. The instructor kept giving us the “okay” signal, reminding us that we couldn’t ascend too rapidly. But things were not okay. Not at all.

  The sharks reached the ocean floor directly beneath us and reengaged their circular swim pattern, mixing the blood with the rest of the ocean water. And when we were only a few feet from the top, almost an arm’s length away, the sharks started to rise.

  My hand broke the water’s surface. I checked on the sharks’ progress. They were approaching rapidly, open mouths and teeth bared. I spat out my mouthpiece. The instructor did the same. He pushed me toward the boat’s stern, where Henry was waiting.

  “Grab her,” the instructor said through gritted teeth. Henry must have picked up on our thinly veiled panic. He reached for my arms, pulling me onboard. Even after my flippers were safely inside the boat, I had the feeling something was gnawing at my feet. I ripped the flippers off. And then I focused on helping to get Lamb and the instructor out of the water.

  Henry already had hold of the instructor’s right arm. I couldn’t see Lamb’s head yet, but I had to focus on getting the instructor out. I seized his left wrist, and with a strength I didn’t know I possessed, I helped lift a two-hundred-pound man in scuba gear out of the ocean. The instructor toppled into the boat and threw off his buoyancy control device and oxygen tank.

  I shifted my attention back to the ocean. Lamb’s head was bobbing on top of the water. He dog-paddled our way, careful not to thrash too much. His eyes were as wild as the animals below us. Just as the instructor and Henry reached for his wrists, Lamb was jerked downward. Our small boat nearly toppled over from the momentum. I ran to the other side with our oxygen tanks and weights, trying to even the weight distribution. I couldn’t let the boat overturn.

  I couldn’t see what was happening with Lamb. I felt a wave of nausea, but I held it in. Not now, I thought.

  “Hang on,” the instructor shouted, his voice primal and panicked. “Lamb!”

  I heard a thud, and I felt the boat shift in my direction. I slammed against the side of the boat, my forehead ricocheting off a metal rail.

  And then everything went black.

  PART

  3

  51

  Ann

  At the cocktail party that night, I keep searching for Sally and Dermot. I check my watch. Thirty minutes since the event started, and still no sign. I shouldn’t have left Sally and Dermot on that beach. I should have stayed with them. But I thought it was just a scare.

  When the handlers finally reached Sally and me, her hands still gripping my arms as if I were a life raft, the handlers were out of breath. The sandy-haired one spoke first.

  “Sally,” he panted. “Jesus, you’re going to scare everyone on the island. Dermot is fine. He opened his eyes. He just had the wind knocked out of him.”

  All the tension I had been holding in my shoulders released. He was fine. Just a scare.

  “Really? He’s awake?” Sally stuttered, disbelieving. “Can I see him?”

  “Sure,” the handler said. “He’s asking for you. Ann, why don’t you head back to the house? We don’t want to overwhelm Dermot right after he wakes up.”

  Sally exchanged a glance with me. Do you think he’s telling the truth? Her eyes seemed to say. I shot her a soothing look back. Why would they lie about that? Why would they invite Sally down to the beach to inspect Dermot if he wasn’t awake? Then she would just scream again. Make a bigger scene.

  “Uh, okay,” Sally stammered. She appeared embarrassed. I felt for her. But I would have done the same—if I thought my date was put in danger by the retreat, I would have run from the scene too. Tried to get help.

  Before I went inside, I peered at the scene one last time, hoping to catch a glimpse of Dermot. But he was still cordoned off, blocked from view. A raindrop brushed my cheek, and the sky darkened. A storm was coming.

  I should have gone down there. I should have stayed with her.

  Because now, four hours later, Sally and Dermot are nowhere to be seen.

  Stephanie chose a particularly tight dress for me tonight, and I can barely breathe. I search for the nearest crew member. Of course, it’s the handler with the eye tattoo. I wonder if he was one of the men surrounding Dermot on the beach. I can’t remember if he was there or not.

  “Excuse me,” I say. He’s as still as granite, but I keep going. “Do you know where Sally and Dermot are?”

  “Dermot had a scare today. They’re having a night to themselves. To recuperate.”

  “So they’re not coming to the cocktail party at all tonight?”

  “No.”

  I need more. Christina told me to stop investigating, but I’m not asking about Reese. I’m asking about Sally, and she was terrified today. It would be downright inhuman if I didn’t ask after her. Ah, fuck it. Who cares if Christina gets upset—let her try to kick me off the island.

  “Where are they? I noticed they weren’t in their rooms.”

  “In a private space, away from the mansion.” He purses his lips. “Leave it alone.”

  I know the handler won’t give me more information, but he doesn’t have to. I know where they are.

  52

  Reese

  I woke feeling dizzy, disoriented. I felt the soft mattress of the bed beneath my body. I wanted to fall back asleep, but my head was throbbing. I brought my hand to my forehead and felt a knot as big as a baseball. My stomach lurched at the pain. I jumped up, which only made the room spin more. I held onto the bed until my hands went white.

  Finally, the nausea passed, and I sat gingerly on the side of the mattress, holding myself up by the bedpost. A drop of sweat trickled down the side of my face, and I wiped it with my sleeve. The texture caught me off guard. For the first time, I noticed my attire: silk pajamas. These weren’t mine.

  I studied my surroundings. It looked like my room, but off, just slightly. The dresser was a couple feet farther to the right. The armchair, which normally held my pajamas, my actual pajamas, was empty. It was also quiet. Much too quiet. At the mansion, there was always the hum of conversation, the patter of footsteps, the rush of running water. I turned around and looked out the window. The sun, a fiery red mass of light, was peeking over the horizon, casting the water in an angry shade of maroon. I couldn’t tell if it was dawn or dusk.

  The ocean.

  And then it all came crashing back: The scuba diving. The sharks. Lamb.

  Oh my God. Did he get back on the boat? I didn’t see him. Why didn’t I see him?

  I stood up quickly, too quickly, and small dots clouded my vision. I rested my hands on my knees, let the second wave of nausea pass. It wasn’t as severe as the first.

  I pressed my eyes shut. I remembered toppling into the side of the b
oat, the sharp pain in my forehead. I must have passed out after that. Surely they got Lamb while I was out. Please, God, please.

  I left my room in search of Lamb, but despite my prayers, I had a nagging feeling I wouldn’t be able to find him.

  53

  Ann

  Sally and Dermot have to be in the other house, the house next to the crops, on the opposite end of the island. That’s the only place where Christina can safely hide them, away from others. I need to go there, find them. Tonight.

  I’m devising a plan, when someone grabs me.

  I’m pulled into a bathroom. It’s Nick. The space is tiny. His pelvis is just inches from mine. I can feel the thud of his pulse, his breath on my cheek. He smells of smoke. His eyes are hooded. He’s drunk. I really, really can’t do this right now.

  “Nick, I don’t have time—”

  He clasps his hand over my mouth. He puts a finger to his.

  “What are you doing?” I mutter through his hand, pressed so firmly against my face, I start to panic.

  And then, he reaches for my breast with his free hand. Without a second thought, I knee him in the groin. When he keels over in pain, I slam his head against the wall.

  I’m about to shout at him when he puts his hands up in surrender. In his right hand are two small black objects. No bigger than a push pin. The surface of one is glassy, while the other is textured. He puts both in my palm, and I analyze them as he stands. His face is crimson, contorted. He takes a deep breath, looks like he might vomit.

  When he regains his composure, he takes the objects from my hand. Then he points to the same place on my body. Above my breast. The dress is thick, like all the dresses here are thick, so there’s nothing noticeably visible or tactile. I feel the area, searching for spots in the fabric that are solid. And then I find it. I tear at the dress with my fingernails until I can remove the small items.

  I study them under the bathroom light. When I’m sure what they are, I glance at Nick to confirm my suspicion. He nods. My skin prickles.

  It’s a microphone. And a fucking camera.

  54

  Reese

  I made it out into the hallway, relishing the cool touch of the hardwood on my bare feet. I checked each room that I passed on my way to the stairs. All doors were open, all rooms were empty. Where was everyone? Where was I? What time was it?

  I padded down the staircase, expecting to see some sort of movement when I reached the second floor, or the first floor, but there was none. Except for the faint lapping of the ocean outside, the house was silent. I wandered into the kitchen, the living room. Just like my room, there were miniscule differences in setting. Same layout, same furniture, but slight variations in arrangement. Or was I imagining it?

  “Hello?” I called.

  No response.

  Maybe everyone was outside. I staggered to the sliding glass doors, tinted red from the sunlight, and stepped outside. There was an infinity pool, and a patio, but most of the outdoor furniture was missing. Did someone move it? How long was I out? And where was everyone?

  My chest rose and fell in quicker succession as my panic bubbled.

  From inside the house, I heard a crash. A shattering of glass. Shouting.

  I hurried toward the noise.

  55

  Ann

  So Ned was right all along: Christina is filming us. This is some bizarre, twisted, ludicrous reality TV show. The signs were all there, and I just didn’t want to believe it until the evidence was dropped into the palm of my hand.

  Nick takes my trembling fist, uncurls it, and removes the camera from my palm. Then he flushes both devices down the toilet.

  “Thanks,” I whisper. I close the lid of the toilet, sit down. I imagine my face on some screen, kissing Nick, acting insane, for all the world to see, and I put my head in my hands.

  “Who else is in on it?” I ask.

  “The filming?”

  I nod.

  “Christina and the crew, obviously. And then ten of the participants. Me, Teddy, Rhea, Trixie, Dermot . . .” He lists five other participants who, in hindsight, acted suspiciously dramatic. “There always has to be one willing participant on camera—”

  “Because Hawaii is a one-party consent state when it comes to recording,” I mutter. “I know. As long as the recording doesn’t take place in a bedroom or a bathroom, and one of the participants agrees to be recorded, it’s fair game.”

  “Yeah,” Nick sighs. “Also helps make it more . . . you know . . . entertaining.”

  “Awesome,” I say. I still can’t look at him. This whole situation is a disaster.

  He pulls my hands from my face, gets on his knees, and makes me look him in the eye.

  “Ann, I’m so sorry. I didn’t realize it would cause this much hardship. When Christina approached me about the project, she made it sound fun. I’d play the part of a villain, just like those villains cast on The Bachelor and other reality shows. I wouldn’t do anything crazy. Just stir the pot while people actually search for love.”

  I don’t watch The Bachelor, or any reality shows, so I don’t know how that works. It sounds ridiculous, though.

  “I was trying to do something different than my parents. Trying to get out of their shadow, and this seemed like an inventive, original concept.”

  Original? Big Brother and The Bachelor have been primetime staples for decades. It’s a rip-off. A badly devised rip-off.

  “Nick, I don’t care about your insecurities.”

  He winces at my bluntness. “Right. So anyway, the stunts and the ploys became more intense. It was more psychologically damaging than I’d anticipated. I had no idea that I looked like your ex-boyfriend, or that Lamb and Reese would go missing, or that stunt with Sally and Dermot would happen today. I mean, they are brewing some PTSD shit. I didn’t sign up for this.”

  “Wait . . .” My heart freezes in my chest. “Are you saying Lamb and Reese’s disappearance is part of the show?”

  “I don’t know for sure,” Nick says. “But I think—”

  “Is this,” I say, motioning to the space between us, “part of the show as well? Is there a camera in here somewhere?”

  I scan the empty walls for a lens. It’s illegal to put cameras in bathrooms, but it is private property, and at this point, I don’t know what Christina would and wouldn’t do.

  “No, there isn’t. At least I don’t think so.”

  “Then why are you telling me this?” I whisper-shout.

  “Because,” Nick hisses as he motions for me to lower my voice, “I could tell you’re really worried about your friend, and I didn’t want to lie to you anymore.”

  “So what’s the truth? Where is Reese?”

  “I think maybe Christina is hiding them until the show premieres. To prevent spoilers or some shit.”

  I search his eyes as if by staring I can read his mind. “Oh.” My shoulders fall. The monument of worry that I’ve been carrying on my back for the past month crumbles. Reese is safe. She’s safe.

  But then—

  “Why would Reese do this to me?” I plead. “Why would she put me through so much worry? She has to know I’ve been going out of my mind.”

  “I don’t know, Ann, there’s a lot of money involved in these reality TV shows.”

  “Are you telling me my friend would torture me like this for money?” My skin starts to tingle, and my vision goes hazy. I grab on to the wall to steady myself. He reaches for me, and I swat his hand away. If this is all an act to get closer to me, or stir up more drama, it’s not going to work.

  Based on my impending panic attack, maybe it already has. The line between fiction and reality has become so thin it’s practically nonexistent.

  To his credit, he does look hurt by my rejection.

  “No. I’m just saying that this is an explanation for the two of them disappearing. Christina doesn’t always think things through, but she’s not evil. She wouldn’t hurt them.”

  He stares at the wall
and scratches his head. If he wasn’t lying before, he’s definitely lying now.

  “Anyone,” I spit, tunneling my vision until all I can see are the whites of his eyes, “and I mean, anyone, who would put another human being through this is a sociopath.”

  “I know, I know. This has gotten so out of hand. I’m going to get in a lot of trouble for telling you all this, but I—”

  A knock at the door interrupts him. One of the handlers.

  “Everything okay in there?”

  “Yeah, be right out,” I say. I can’t be in this room any longer. “I’ll go out first, and then you follow thirty seconds later.”

  “Ann, talk to me,” he says.

  What to say? How do I explain the betrayal, the stupidity, I feel? I’m relieved Reese is okay, of course, but I can’t reconcile the Reese I know with someone who disappears without a care for those she left behind. I can’t believe that Reese would willingly allow Christina to fake her flight home and cause a police investigation.

  But Nick is here, with irrefutable proof, so I guess at least part of what he said must be true. Maybe I don’t know Reese as well as I thought I did. How well do you ever know another person? Even Ned had an inkling that she was okay.

  Oh my God. Ned. I need to call him. It’s been over twenty-four hours, our agreed-upon time of no contact before Ned calls the police. Shit.

  I open the door, careful to keep Nick out of view. A handler waits for me, expectant.

  “Is your dress ripped?” he asks as he points to the torn fabric above my breast.