I am not prepared for this.
* * *
—
My hands hover over Liza’s face, trembling, unsure. Useless. I don’t—I really don’t know what to do. Do I look for a pulse? No—she’s clearly dead. This is a body. A dead body. She’s not coming back. This is done. This can’t be undone.
I swallow past the panic that’s filling my throat like rushing, brackish water, and I force myself to look back over my shoulder, to scan the length of the beach for someone, anyone, but everyone’s inside, aren’t they? They’re all still inside, drinking and gossiping and flirting and thinking the worst thing in the world is losing a job.
Jesus Christ, what do I do?
I put my hand to my chest. It’s heaving. So why does it feel like I’m not getting any air?
I should go inside. I should get help. But I can’t leave her alone, not like this. What if there’s—what if there’s something I can do? What if there’s someone coming for her?
What the fuck do I do?
I’ve always thought it seemed over the top when people screamed in movies, but now I understand. Sometimes there’s just nothing else for it.
If only someone could hear me.
The only other thing I can think of is to call someone—but who? I only have three numbers memorized, and none of them would be able to—
I almost laugh when I realize what I’ve overlooked. And maybe I actually do laugh, I don’t know, nothing in my body feels like it’s in my body anymore, it’s all just floating along behind me, like a balloon tied to a child’s wrist. If I’d read this scene in a script, I would’ve rolled my eyes. I would’ve sent a screenshot to Amy. I would’ve said this is what a hundred years of skewed representation has wrought, because what actual human woman would forget something like that?
I punch in the fourth number I know.
“Nine-one-one, what is your emergency?”
It’s at this precise moment that I realize Liza isn’t just dead.
“Hello? Is anyone there?”
She’s also in costume.
“Hello?”
Someone’s dressed her in Caitlyn’s clothes.
For the second time that night, I throw up.
* * *
—
The dispatcher tells me not to move, they’ll be there right away, but I’ve decided this is a terrible idea. Liza isn’t just dead—she was murdered. I need to get to the lobby. To the lights. To witnesses. I wipe my face on my sleeve and start across the sand.
It’s much harder to walk than it should be. I have to fight for every last bit of sensory input: I have to squint to keep the hotel in focus; I have to strain to hear through the rushing in my ears; I have to stomp my feet to feel the ground beneath them, and even that doesn’t do much.
Maybe the dispatcher had a point.
I use my good hand to grab on to any surface in reach, to keep my balance, to move me forward, and still I fall twice before I manage to reach the hotel driveway.
I plant myself there, on the steps, against a column. It’s the best I can do.
* * *
—
This is where things start to get fuzzy.
* * *
—
Two police cruisers pull up in front of me, along with a boxy, silver-plated vehicle that’s either a food truck or a fire truck.
Probably the latter.
Probably.
A blur of faces, a chorus of “ma’am”s.
I extend my arm in the direction of the beach, and the cops take off.
I slump back against the column.
I guess I’ll just wait here, then.
I can still see the edge of Liza’s chair.
* * *
—
Behind me, the door crashes open. Whoever it is runs for the beach, too.
After a moment, someone else screams.
At least, I think it’s someone else.
* * *
—
A blue sedan with a crumpled front bumper rumbles up the drive. It has one of those magnetic sirens movie cops slap on the roof of their cars before doing something exceptionally dangerous at rush hour.
It also appears to have “24-Hour Locksmith” painted on the passenger door.
I rub my eyes. What exactly did I tell the dispatcher?
The driver’s side door opens, and a pale giant of a man struggles to climb out, his limbs awkward and uncertain, like he’s emerging from a chrysalis instead of a dented Corolla. I point him to the beach, too, but he ignores me.
He crouches in front of me instead and pulls something out of a black bag.
“It’s an arm,” I say.
He gives me a sharp look.
“Not a lock,” I add, in case that wasn’t clear.
He glances back at his car, then at me, and the line between his eyebrows smooths away. “I’m a paramedic,” he says.
“Oh.” I sit up a little straighter. “Ever seen Bringing Out the Dead?”
He searches my face, and I find I don’t mind studying him back. He has a wide mouth and a crooked nose and lovely large ears. Good features. Trustworthy features. This guy definitely wasn’t popular in high school.
“Can you look at me?” he asks.
“I am looking at you.”
“No, I need to see your eyes.”
I grit my teeth and lift my chin.
“Are you dizzy?” he asks. “Nauseous?”
I take a steadying breath. “I didn’t hit my head, if that’s what you’re asking.”
“Good. Is it okay if I touch your arm now?”
I nod.
He unwraps the cardigan and rotates my arm gently to get a better look. The wound isn’t nearly as deep as I thought, but it extends the length of my forearm, from my wrist to my elbow. I almost find myself admiring the curve of it, knowing it would hug perfectly against the curve of the Autowind, a broken-heart pendant matching up with its mate.
He turns away to reach for his bag.
All of a sudden, an arm slides under my knees and another goes around my back, and before I know what’s happening, I’m being scooped up off the ground.
The paramedic comes to his feet. “What the hell?”
I tilt my head back to see who’s carrying me. Oh. It’s Isaiah.
“You okay?” he murmurs.
This is such a spectacularly inane question, all I can do is shake my head in disbelief.
Anjali appears at the top of the stairs, alongside two stone-faced men I don’t recognize.
“Take her inside,” she says. “I’ve called a real doctor.”
The paramedic runs a big hand through his shaggy hair. “Now, ma’am, I don’t know who you—”
I don’t hear the rest because I’m being carried up the stairs, inside, through the lobby, past the still crowded but now nearly silent bar. Isaiah takes me into the conference room and settles me in one of the soft, high-backed chairs.
Without thinking, I use my good hand to push the chair into a spin, and—oh—that’s nice.
Isaiah catches the arm of the chair, stopping me. “The police are going to want to talk to you. You’re going to have to get it together.”
I slide my hand under my thigh and dig my fingertips into the fake leather. “Did you see her?”
A pause.
“I did.”
“So I didn’t imagine it, then?”
Another pause.
“You didn’t.”
* * *
—
The first thing Anjali’s “real” doctor does is squeeze my jaw open and slip a narcotic under my tongue.
“Don’t move,” he says sternly.
I never would have imagined that a strange man sticking his gloved fingers in my mouth without
my permission could be the least bad part of an evening, but you learn something new every day, I guess.
My head lolls to the side.
I’m dimly aware that someone’s arguing out in the lobby. I think they’re getting closer.
“I will not be ordered around by some small-town, shit-for-brains—”
The door flies open. Anjali stumbles through, an outraged look on her face. As soon as she recovers her balance, she turns and tries to head back out—
The door slams in her face.
“They took my phone,” Anjali says, looking stunned. “They took my phone.”
An inappropriate laugh knuckles up out of me. “Did they also make you sign an NDA?”
Before Anjali can respond, there’s another flurry of voices from outside the door.
This time it’s Valentina who barges in. She scans the room, mutters something in Russian, and bolts back out into the lobby.
The door slams shut again.
Anjali clears her throat. “Any chance either of you understood that?”
“The literal translation,” Isaiah says, “is something like ‘fuck-digging.’”
Anjali and I stare at him.
“It means ‘goddammit.’”
“Of course you speak Russian,” Anjali says, but there’s no real heat to the accusation.
We fall silent. The only sound in the room is the rough draw of the black thread being laced through the flesh of my arm. Whatever pill the doctor gave me is doing the trick: I can feel the needle curving up through my skin, the thread pulling through the hole, the knot tugging it closed, but it doesn’t bother me. On the contrary, the doctor’s steady rhythm is sure, soothing.
In, through, out, closed. In, through, out, closed.
It’s a good pattern.
Isaiah shrugs out of his coat and drapes it over my shoulders. “You’re shivering,” he says.
I look down, surprised to see that he’s right. I’m disgusting, too—crusted in blood and sweat and seawater and who knows what else. I pinch my shirt between my thumb and forefinger, drawing it away from my skin. The fabric makes a damp sucking sound as it peels away.
Just like the sound of Liza’s feet against that tile.
Liza.
Another gurgle of laughter threatens to escape, and I squeeze my lips shut, hoping I can hold it back.
What the hell are we doing, just sitting here?
Liza’s dead.
This time I don’t notice the door opening. It’s as if Gavin’s just appeared out of thin air, his hands shoved deep in his pockets, so pale and haggard you’d never imagine so many people are willing to pay to look at him. Tony and Valentina are right behind him, only marginally more prepossessing.
Anjali groans. “Gavin, get back to your room.”
Gavin dredges up a smile. “Sorry, Mummy, you’re not in charge anymore.”
He flings himself into the nearest chair; Tony and Valentina sit next to Anjali.
“The police asked us all to wait here,” Tony says, his voice so low I want to curl in on myself. His gaze drops to my arm. “Jesus, what happened?”
“She’s fine,” the doctor says.
“I believe I asked her.”
I open my mouth to answer—but where do I start? Do I open with the projection room, or do I begin earlier, in the hallway? In the spa? Do I just skip to the part with the dead body?
I know, I know. An editor who can’t tell a story. Ha-ha.
But this is different. When I’m cutting a movie, I control the flow of input. I can skip ahead, rewind, zoom in. I can pause, leave the room, refill my Coke. I can take all the time I need to sift through everything I’m seeing, hearing, feeling, to find the clues, the turns, the heroes, the villains, and then—and only then—do I string it all together into a single narrative. When I have to do it on the fly, like now, when I have nothing to go on but a tidal wave of sense-memory—augmented by what I’m beginning to think were some fairly powerful psychostimulants—I’m not exactly able to massage the evening’s events into a neat three-act structure.
Or five acts, if we’re talking TV.
“Someone stole the movie,” I say, eventually. “They attacked me, and they stole the movie, and then, while I was stuck in that theater and getting lost in a cave, they must have gone to find Liza and—”
I cut myself off, not wanting to say it out loud. But it’s one of those thoughts everyone’s going to hear whether you say it or not, so all I’ve really done is forced everyone else to think it through instead.
Imagine that. Me, making things worse.
It’s Anjali who breaks the silence. “You saw who it was? Can you describe them? Was it a man?”
I open my mouth, ready to tell them that the lights were out, that I couldn’t get to the lamp—and that if they weren’t, or if I’d been able to, then maybe I wouldn’t be here now, because what are the chances—seriously—what are the chances we’re dealing with two separate perpetrators? And if he killed Liza, he could just as easily have killed me.
(Huh. I guess I do think it was a man.)
But before I can say any of that, Isaiah lays a hand on my shoulder.
“You should wait to talk to the police,” he says.
Anjali snorts. “Oh yeah? And what are they going to do?”
I open my mouth again; Isaiah’s hand tightens around my shoulder.
I look up at him. “Why are you squeezing me?”
He snatches his hand away; it goes to rub at the back of his neck. “I just really think you should wait for the police.”
I come up out of my seat. There’s something he’s not saying, and maybe I’ll be able to figure out what he means if I can just get a better look at him. But he turns away before I get the chance.
“Isaiah?” I ask.
Across the room, Gavin heaves a sigh. “Darling, don’t you see? He doesn’t want you to reveal too much. He wants you to be quiet in case one of us is the killer.”
No one seems to have anything else to say after that.
* * *
—
The doctor takes that opportunity to stick a second pill between my lips. This is a very different kind of drug, clearly, because by the time he’s finished my dressing, I’m amped up and alert, and while I may not be pain-free, I’m more or less pain-indifferent—and thank God for that, because here’s another miserable surprise: The guy who tried to barge his way onto Billy Lyle’s boat is now barging his way into this room.
“Men at the docks, men at the doors,” he snaps at someone just out of sight. “No one leaves this island, no one leaves this hotel. I see anyone with a camera, I’m throwing it in the fucking ocean.”
Nick. His name is Nick. And he must have been very drunk that night on Billy’s boat, because I can tell right away that, when sober, this is a man who worships at the altar of right angles and neat creases. His khakis are ironed; the sleeves of his green knit shirt are precisely sized; his part is so straight I wonder, for a second, if he’s wearing a wig. If I saw this guy in a movie, I would assume his character was being set up to have a nervous breakdown.
“Ms. Dahl?” he says. “I’m Detective Decker, Lewes PD, and this is my—”
He looks up, pauses. If he’s surprised or dismayed to see me and Isaiah there, I can’t tell, and that makes something in me go hard and tight. Someone with his complexion shouldn’t be so difficult to read, but I can’t see even the slightest hint of color blooming beneath his freckles. The barest twitch to the corner of his mouth is the only other sign he gives that he’s recognized us—and I might be imagining that.
It’s a level of control that would be impressive in an actor. It’s downright unnerving in a civilian.
“This is my partner, Detective Hanson,” he says after a moment, indicating a brown-haired man I recognize as Blue Polo.
(Tonight, said polo is purple.) Nick’s eyes flick down to my arm, then back up to my face. “We have a few questions.”
“Of course,” I say. “I’ll help however I can.”
He sits down across the table from me. His partner pours a glass of water and slides it in my direction.
Nick takes out a notebook and flips it open. “You were the one who found Ms. May’s body and called the police, correct?”
I nod.
“Can you describe the events that led up to that discovery?”
I look around the room. “What, now?”
Nick’s mouth tightens. “I didn’t realize I needed to make an appointment.”
“No, I just meant I assumed you’d want to talk to me alone.”
“This is just a preliminary interview, ma’am. If I think I’m close to cracking the case, I’ll be sure to ask everyone to gather in the dining car for the denouement. Will that suffice?”
I nod, abashed.
I may be more alert, but I’m still not sure where to start, so I just tell him the same thing I told everyone else. Everyone perks up a little when I mention coming across Liza in the spa, but when Nick asks, everyone admits that they had no idea Liza was seeing anybody.
When I’m finished, Nick looks up from his notebook. “They stole the movie?”
“Not exactly,” Anjali says. “The movie’s backed up, obviously.”
“But whoever it was has access to the raw footage,” I point out. “For whatever that’s worth.”
Nick scratches the back of his neck, thinking hard. “And you say you didn’t get a good look at the guy’s face?”
“No. In fact, I’m not entirely sure it was a—”
“You’re wasting your time,” Anjali interjects. “I already know who you should be looking for.”
If Anjali expected Nick to respond with enthusiasm or gratitude, she must be pretty disappointed right now. He looks like a waiter who’s just been told the entire table is going to order off-menu. He slumps in his chair and holds his pen high over his notepad. “Yeah, okay. Who?”
“Our last AD,” Anjali says. “He left under less than pleasant circumstances.”
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