I reach across her and pat Claire’s knee. She looks at me and bursts into a fresh round of tears.
Brittani pops up and paces between the two couches, cracking her knuckles. “Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck…” she repeats over and over.
“Brittani, sit down,” Summer orders. “You’re making it worse.”
Brittani drops onto the couch beside her mother, continuing to wring her hands. Rhonda rubs her back, whispering something in her ear, then flags down Hugo. “Can we get some more of that panna cotta?” she asks. “I think everyone could use a distraction.”
Hugo blinks, as though unsure he’s heard correctly. “Let me see what I can do.”
Summer’s gaze darts about the room, landing briefly on each of the other girls as though clocking their emotional state.
“And coffee,” Rhonda adds. “I bet we’re gonna be up awhile, and I could fall asleep sitting up right now.”
“That’s a good idea,” Summer says. “I’ll take a double vanilla latte with almond milk and only half the amount of vanilla you usually put in. And a sprinkle of cinnamon.”
“Anyone else?” Hugo asks.
“Bring a pot of coffee,” John instructs, “and the rest of the panna cotta.”
Summer excuses herself to change into something more comfortable, and as she moves past me, I notice the strap of her dress is ripped, holding on by a thread. On her shoulder is a long scratch, raised and red, the lower end dotted with fresh blood. John follows her back to their room, leaving the rest of us to sit staring at one another.
Brittani hops back up and resumes pacing while muttering expletives, her mother looking on nervously. Wendy strokes a still silently sobbing Claire’s hair, her eyes downcast.
Out on the water, a siren grows closer.
“That must be the Coast Guard,” I remark.
Brittani narrows her eyes at me. “I thought you were supposed to be in your room. What are you doing up here?”
“I heard the scream and was worried,” I say, exasperated.
Brittani cocks her head, unconvinced. “You heard the scream all the way from your room?”
Anger simmers in my chest. “Why do you even care right now?” I retort. “Your friend is literally dying somewhere under this boat.”
Brittani bursts into tears and runs toward the back of the boat.
“Brittani—” I chase after her, catching her arm before she can push open the sliding glass doors to the deck. “I’m sorry. I’m just upset.”
She wrests her arm away from me, her clumpy black mascara streaked down her face. “No you’re not. She was my friend. I’m so glad my sister is sending you home tomorrow. You’re such a selfish bitch.”
Before I can come up with a reply, the deck doors slide open and two men in Italian Coast Guard uniforms enter, almost on top of us.
Brittani and I step out of the way. “Did you guys find her?” Brittani asks immediately. “Is she dead?”
Rhonda rushes over and puts her arm around Brittani. “I’m sorry. We’re all worried. Do you have any news?”
They look at us, nonplussed. “No English,” one of them says.
“Italiano?” the other offers.
Everyone stares at them blankly.
“Uno…minuto.” I’m sure I’m butchering the Italian, but I hold up a finger to demonstrate my meaning.
I head for the bridge to find a crew member who speaks Italian, but run headlong into Summer coming back from her room, dressed in white jeans and a light cashmere sweater, her shoulders covered, her face freshly washed.
“Where are you going?” she demands.
“To get someone who can speak Italian,” I reply. I have no time for her bullshit right now.
“John can speak Italian,” she snaps. “Go back and sit down.”
I stand my ground, glaring at her. “Can you get him now? Time is of the essence, no?”
Just then, the wiry technical engineer comes around the corner. “Luc,” I say. “Do you speak Italian?”
He nods. “A little.”
“Can you please come translate for the Coast Guard?”
Summer bores into me with her death stare, but I ignore her. She grabs his arm. “No,” she says. “She is not your master. I am, and I say—”
“No one is his master, Summer! What the fuck is wrong with you?”
John comes around the corner and immediately assesses the situation.
“Isabelle, go back to your quarters,” he says. “You weren’t there. You don’t have any information the Coast Guard needs. Summer, come with me.”
He steers her back toward their room as I exit in the direction of the stairs, but instead of turning to descend, I proceed past the stairwell to where the others wait in the living area, confirming that Luc is behind me as I enter. Rhonda and Brittani now sit on the couch with Claire and Wendy, all of them obviously exhausted, the Coast Guard officers hovering above them. Everyone looks at me warily.
“I’ve been told to go back to my room,” I announce to the Coast Guard men, “but I’d like to make a statement.” Then to Luc. “Translate, please.”
My heart hammers in my chest while Luc translates and the men confer in rapid Italian. Finally Luc nods. “They say tomorrow.”
I can tell I am about to be dismissed, so I decide to just play my cards. “There are cameras everywhere.” I point out the cameras in the room. I know the feed is likely already deleted, but someone should at least be looking. “You should check them.”
I turn my back and march down the stairs. I’m shaking as I push open the door to my room and almost jump out of my skin when I see Bernard there, going through Amythest’s stuff. He’s holding a black canvas bag and throwing things into it.
“What are you doing?” I stammer.
“We need to find her phone to notify next of kin.”
Bullshit. We filled out contact info for next of kin on the NDAs we signed on the plane. I have her phone in my back pocket, but I’m not about to tell him that. “She probably had it on her,” I say, trying to sound nonchalant. “She always had it on her.”
He grunts and leaves. It’s not until after he’s walked out that I notice my phone is missing from the bedside table. Motherfucker.
I dart out the door and up the stairs, catching him on the landing of the upper deck with the black bag slung over his shoulder. Everyone turns to look at us. I register that John and the Coast Guard aren’t in the room as I hold my hand out to him. “I think you accidentally took my phone.”
He doesn’t budge.
“The phone you took is mine, not Amythest’s,” I insist, keeping my voice steady but loud enough for everyone to hear. “It’s in that bag and I need it back, please.”
He holds his hands up. “I didn’t take any phone.”
I turn to the others, watching me wordlessly with guarded eyes. “He was in my room looking for Amythest’s phone, and I think he accidentally took mine instead,” I assert. “Unless one of you has it? Because it’s gone.”
No one replies.
“You probably misplaced it, Isabelle,” Summer says icily. “We’ve all been through something very traumatic tonight. Can you please take this drama about your phone elsewhere?”
I want to rip the diamonds from her ears, knock her out, and mop the floor with her overprocessed hair, but I bury my rage and stomp down the stairs to my cell, angry with myself for acting like a child.
I lock the door and stand in the middle of the room, unmoored. I know I should be doing something right now, but I don’t know what. My phone is gone, my watch is at the bottom of the sea with poor Amythest—God, I hope that wasn’t the cause of her argument with Summer. I should never have given it to her. I need to think clearly, be smart. But I feel the walls closing in, and I’m starting to panic.
(twenty-one days ago)
Los Angeles
I lay in the bath, submerged in hot water, staring into the flame of a serenity-scented candle while rain drummed steadily on the
roof of my apartment. It was past midnight and the bubbles were all gone, yet my mind was still miles from the tranquility required for sleep.
I hadn’t breathed a word to a soul about the parking ticket I’d received in the mail that morning and was yet to come up with any explanation for it that didn’t point to Summer’s lying about going to her mom’s house and instead heading to Ventura, where Eric’s car had been found. But why? What was she doing in Ventura?
Did she kill Eric?
It was a leap—but not an implausible one. Though why would she do such a thing? Would she go so far as to take his life simply to prevent him from revealing their involvement to John? I couldn’t wrap my head around it. Still, the Summer I’d known had died the night Three raped her. Her loss of integrity had of course already been an ongoing affair by that point, but he’d pounded the last bit of humanity out of her and now I could believe her capable…of anything, really.
So let’s say she did kill him, and that she’d done it at the park. What proof was there? It was my car that was linked to the scene of the crime. And I had no alibi. At 1:42 p.m. on July 22, I was home alone, talking to no one, doing nothing that would have been recorded.
I couldn’t shake the feeling that Summer had known what she was doing, borrowing my car. And that she wanted me to know the danger I would be putting myself in if I raised any questions about Eric’s death.
Above the sound of the rain I heard a thumping. I sat up in the tub, listening. A branch on the roof? But it was more like a knocking. Maybe it was the neighbors downstairs. But there it was again over the low rumble of thunder, louder. Someone was knocking on my door.
Who on earth? I launched out of the tub and quickly dried myself, pulled on a bathrobe, and tiptoed into the living room, where the rapping continued. I crept to the door and put my eye to the hole.
A charge scorched through my veins. A man stood outside, backlit and wearing a black hoodie, his body contorted in what looked like pain. Or he could be hiding a gun. Regardless, I wasn’t opening the door.
“Belle,” he called, his voice hoarse and low.
So it was a man who knew me, or knew where I lived, anyway.
“I know you’re there,” he whispered.
“Go away,” I said. “I’m calling the police.”
“Please open the door. Please.”
His voice was muffled but familiar, though I couldn’t quite place it.
“Who is it?”
“Eric,” he said.
My heart stopped. Was this guy messing with me? Did someone know my car was in that park in Ventura?
I put my eye to the hole. “Push back your hoodie.”
“My face is fucked.” He pushed back the hoodie, revealing shorn blond hair, but he was still so backlit that I couldn’t see him well.
“Step into the light.”
He stepped into the glow of the porch light. His face was swollen and covered in scratches, his head shaved. But it was Eric.
Eric was alive.
I opened the door. He limped past me into the apartment, then with great effort reached over me to shut the door and bolt it. I stood staring at him as he stumbled to the windows and pulled all the curtains shut, dripping all over the rug.
“I thought you were dead.” I blinked away tears, trembling.
He shivered. “Almost.”
Finally he turned to me, revealing the full damage to his face. His jaw was swollen, both of his eyes were black, and his nose was probably broken; blood seeped through the flimsy Band-Aids that held together the deep gash in his right cheek.
I moved toward him cautiously. “Take that off. You’re soaking wet.”
He flinched as I unzipped his hoodie. “I think my collarbone is broken. And some ribs.”
“Okay, we’ll go slow.”
He winced as I gently pulled the sleeve of his sweatshirt over his swollen hand. “Probably broke my hand, too.”
“Have you been to the doctor?”
“No.”
I eased the sweatshirt over his distended shoulder, revealing gashes on his arms that bisected his tattoos. “We need to get you to a doctor ASAP.” I cast a glance around for my cell phone. “I’m calling an ambulance.”
“No.”
“Eric, you’re in bad shape. These wounds could get infected. Your bones won’t heal properly if they’re not set.…”
He swayed, unsteady. I helped him onto the couch, and he crumpled like a paper bag. “You can help me.”
“Eric, don’t be insane.”
“Please,” he begged. “You have to help me.”
I bent and unlaced his muddy boots, noticing one of his ankles was enlarged. “What happened to you?”
“Your message.” He closed his eyes. “I went. She was there.…She…”
“Summer was there?” I inferred. “Where? What did she do?”
He raised his feet up onto the couch with a groan. “I’ll tell you everything in the morning.”
So I was right. But what message? It took every ounce of my willpower not to question him further, but he looked so pitiful. “You can sleep in my bed,” I said, backing off. “I’ll take the couch.”
“Don’t wanna move anymore,” he mumbled.
I gave him a Percocet left over from when I sprained my ankle, cleaned and rebandaged his face wound, then covered him with a blanket. He was fast asleep before I could even turn out the light.
Day 7
Friday early morning—somewhere off the coast of Italy
I pace my tiny room in a cold sweat, heart hammering in my chest. I’m nearly certain Amythest is dead. The speed we were going, the blood on the side of the boat, her inability to swim—each fact a nail in her coffin.
But Summer’s explanation that she was drunk and playing on the railing? That feels patently false. She wasn’t drunk when I saw her an hour before, and she was deathly afraid of the water since she couldn’t swim, so I highly doubt she would do something to put her in danger of accidentally falling in.
Besides, there’s the arguing I heard beforehand. Who else could it have been but Summer and Amythest? I guess it could have been Brittani and Amythest, but it’s unlikely. Brittani’s not smart enough to have lengthy arguments. She’d leave it at “you’re a whore” and think she’d won.
And that scream. Bloodcurdling. I can’t get it out of my mind. It was a call for help. And it failed.
Chills run down my spine.
Summer pushed Amythest. I know it in my bones. With her history…
Through the open bathroom door, I catch my reflection in the mirror above the sink. I look unhinged: eyes haunted, jaw clenched, hair wild. It’s probably a good thing I wasn’t allowed to give a statement tonight. No one would have believed a word I said. Of course, I have to face the reality that they may not believe me regardless of how credibly I present myself.
But the cameras…The cameras will have captured it all. I wonder how quickly the footage can be destroyed. And who will do that? Bernard? The IT guy? John himself? Ultimately, how much does John know? How much bad behavior will he tolerate from his mistresses? And what of the other girls? They were there. They must have seen the whole thing. And they’re keeping silent.
Maybe they’re waiting to tell the police in private. Surely there will be an investigation. We’ll pull into the nearest marina, and the police will interview everyone, collect evidence. She can’t get away with it. You can’t just murder someone in front of five people and expect to walk free.
Or maybe, on John’s boat, you can.
At least I still have Amythest’s phone. I extract it from my pocket and punch in her passcode, checking that the videos of her and John are still there. If only there were Wi-Fi on this damn boat, I could email them to myself.
But I can plug her phone into my computer and at least back them up. I reach into the bag next to the bed where I keep my computer, but come up empty-handed. I pull the bag into my lap and open it. My books are there, my earbuds, my walle
t, but my computer is gone.
I tear the bed apart. I turn the room upside down. Nothing. Bernard must’ve taken my computer, too.
I step across the hall and knock on Wendy and Claire’s door. Wendy opens it a crack and peers at me expectantly.
“Hey,” I say. “How are you guys?”
Over her shoulder, I see Claire curled up in a ball on top of her bed.
“Really shaken up,” Wendy says without opening the door any farther. But amazingly, she doesn’t look that shaken up. She’s in yellow silk pajamas, her face washed, her hair neatly wrapped in a matching silk scarf. Her eyes aren’t even puffy. But then, Wendy’s eyes are never puffy.
“Can I come in?”
“Aren’t you supposed to stay in your room?”
I furrow my brow. “C’mon, Wen. I know I wasn’t there, but I’m also shaken up. I probably spent more time with her than any of you, and now she’s dead.”
“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?”
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