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The previous book owner had written:
Sounds just my type. I hope she’s notTOOmad at me...
What did that mean? Why write it in the book? Should I take the book back and find another? This running commentary distracted from the story.
I drank more, adjusted the umbrella to block the sun because I was overheated, and turned the page.
The end of chapter one had Juan showing Gabrielle what he’d found. The last paragraph was underlined:
Three gold pieces stamped with the royal crest, hidden away from the world, buried on an island, until someonefound them.Why couldn’t it have been me?Gabrielle thought.Why couldn’t it have been my dad?
The book vandal had drawn an arrow and written at the bottom of the page:
He just walked by on the way to the bar. How much will he pay for the truth? How much will he pay for me to keep his secret?
Chapter Five
“All human beings have three lives: public, private, and secret.”
—Gabriel García Márquez
Secret. What secret? Was this unknown destroyer of books writing about people here on the island?
That seemed far-fetched and rather ludicrous.
Yet... I felt surprisingly like her confidante, her friend. As if she were writing these notes for me. Silly, I know, but still... it was exciting to be privy to information both tantalizing and intimate. She was Harriet the Spy, and I had found her secret diary.
Over the top of the book, I looked around, sunglasses masking the direction of my gaze.
David, Doug, and the two men they’d been drinking with were now playing a friendly game of beach volleyball, away from the reclining sun worshippers.
A couple—the couple from the ferry who I hadn’t spoken with—argued in a nearby cabana. I only recognized them from the man’s bright flowered shorts. What were they fighting about? Maybe this vacation was their one last chance to save their marriage.
I glanced down at the book, half expecting to see commentary about the couple in the margins, but they were new on the island, and my compatriot couldn’t have spied on them.
Brie watched her dad and his girlfriend walk hand in hand along the edge of the water. Though Brie’s face was blank, her body was tense, practically screaming in silent rage. She watched until they disappeared from view. I could relate to Brie in some ways—my mom had walked away when I was six and my dad had dated on and off. He’d once told me that after my mom left—a beautiful woman who was never happy—he didn’t have the energy to fall in love again. I asked him if he was lonely.
“No, I’m content with my life.”
I wanted to be happy, but I didn’t know how. I didn’t want to end up like my mother, never happy with anything or anyone, or my father, being merely content.
“Stop being so melancholy,” I whispered and opened the book again.
How much will he pay for me to keep his secret?
Whose secret was she keeping?
One of the guests? One of the staff? Maybe there would be more clues in the book.
Bothstories were interesting—the bookandthe writing in the margins. A thrill ran up my spine and had me reaching for my drink. I had two mysteries to solve. I had the missing womanandthe identity of Harriet the Spy. Plus, who were the people she was writing about? Were they still here? The idea that I might share in this treasure trove of secrets kept me reading, book in one hand, drink in the other.
At the end of chapter two, the graffiti artist had penned:
Money or love? Money, of course—he’s worth a small fortune. Does he know all the dirt on his new girlfriend?
Below that, written in a different color, as if added later:
112 ~ est. net $80–90m, AZ residence $5m+, vacation house $3m