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He pulls me into his arms and holds me close. I can’t tell if this feels like a beginning or a goodbye, and sadness wells up in my chest as tears spring to my eyes.

“Hey,” Oliver says, tipping his head back and looking down at me. “Hey.”

“Hi.”

“I love you.”

“You do?”

“Very, very much.” He dips his head down, and we kiss, a slow build that starts soft and then turns into hunger, our mouths open, our tongues intertwined, our bodies pressed close. And right when I’m about to pull him into the bedroom, to seal us together instead of pulling us apart, there’s a loud knock at the villa door.

“Do we need to get that?” Oliver asks, slightly out of breath.

“I was thinking we could ignore it.”

He kisses me once more, then lets me go and walks to the door. When he opens it, Officer Anderson is standing there.

“Can I come in?” she asks.

“Yes, of course.”

Oliver steps back and she enters. She looks even younger, up close, with a lot of responsibility resting on her shoulders, her two red braids falling over them.

“How can we help you?” Oliver says.

“I have some questions about the events of today.”

“Let’s sit over here,” I say, pointing to the dated, tile-covered table near the window. “And you can ask us anything you like.”

We sit at the table, and she takes out a notebook like the one Inspector Tucci was using and clicks a pen after turning up a fresh page. She takes down our details—names, addresses, occupations—and then goes through our timing over the course of the weekend. The party on Thursday, when we got on the boat, what we did since then, mapping out the last two days.

We’re thorough in our explanations, both good at remembering the details of plots.

“And then you contaminated a crime scene,” Officer Anderson says with a cluck of the tongue.

“Right. Sorry about that.”

“I would’ve thought you’d know better, being crime writers and all.”

“Yes, well, we weren’t thinking, clearly, but no harm, no foul, right?”

“We’ll see about that.”

“What does that mean?”

She puts her pen down. “Just seems convenient. All these people on this island who have a motive to harm Mr. Winter and Ms. Wood.”

“All these people? Who besides Tyler?”

“Mr. Smith, for one.”

“Connor?” I glance at Oliver. “Why would he want to harm them?”

“He’s a hired gun, he told me that himself.”

“He doesn’t own a gun that I’m aware of. Was José shot?”

“No, his neck was broken. And Mr. Smith told me the same thing,” Officer Anderson says. “However, I’m not sure he was telling the truth.”