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26 CAMILLA

NOW

Camilla stands in the dining room of Kate’s villa, confusion beating off her in waves. She looks down at the slim bouquet of sumptuous red roses on the table, six velvety blooms the size of fists at the end of three-foot-long stems.

“What’s going on?” she asks Kate, who has a hand clasped to her mouth as though she’s going to be sick. “Kate?”

“I told them, I always told them,” Kate says, the words spilling out of her mouth in a tearful, whispered jumble. “I said someone was watching me but they never listened, they never…”

She’s hyperventilating again, but Camilla is prepared this time. Not another bloody panic attack , she thinks. No way is Kate going to the first-aid unit a third time.

Camilla places her hands on Kate’s shoulders and steers her away from the roses to the living room of her villa, setting her down on the sofa.

“Right,” she says firmly, kneeling in front of her. “Start at the beginning. What happened? Did someone come here this morning? Who brought the roses?”

Kate is trembling, still struggling to breathe, and Camilla is frustrated. She wants to get back outside and walk around the island until she finds Antoni.

“Kate,” she says loudly. “Katie baby.” She snaps her fingers in Kate’s face, trying to bring her back. Kate’s eyes focus on her. “There we go,” she says. “That’s it, lovely. Keep looking at me, that’s it. Repeat after me: ‘I am safe. I am not in any danger. I am here, right now, safe in my lovely villa in the Maldives with Camilla….’?”

Kate tries to say the words, but her voice falters to a whisper. Her cheeks are flushed, and she closes her eyes, her hands balling into fists.

“No,” Camilla snaps. “Focus, lovely. Stay with me here. I’m here with you, OK?” It’s not working as she’d hoped. She looks around, sees the wine cooler, and pulls out a bottle of Mo?t. “When in Rome, right?” She pours two glasses and hands one to Kate.

“It’s the anniversary today,” Kate says, her voice a whisper.

Camilla nods, her stomach churning. “I know. Twenty-two years.”

Tears brim in Kate’s eyes. Camilla rubs her back.

“Remember I told you about the roses?” Kate says, swiping tears from her cheeks.

Camilla pauses, studying Kate’s face. “Told me what about the roses?”

Kate gasps for breath, trying her best to rally. “Every year for twenty-two years now, someone has sent me six roses.” She sets her glass down too roughly. “For the six people murdered in the guesthouse.”

Camilla remembers Kate mentioning it in the cafe when they first met. She turns her eyes to the bouquet in the dining room, as though seeing it anew.

“I thought I’d escape it this year,” Kate says, trembling as though she’s freezing cold. “They’ve only ever been sent to my home address.”

“Who brought you the roses?”

“They were delivered. My butler, Rafi, brought them.”

“Did you ask them who sent them?”

Kate shook her head wearily. “They won’t know. Believe me, I’ve tried….”

“They’ll tell me ,” Camilla says, glancing around for the landline. “I’ll call reception….”

“Don’t you think I’ve tried to find out?” Kate says. “This has been going on for twenty-two years, Camilla. Twenty-two years .”

Camilla softens, aware that Kate is on the verge of hysteria. “Did you tell the police?” she asks.

“Yes!” Kate says, apoplectic. “Years ago. I begged them to look into it. They said it was probably someone who felt sorry for me.” She gives a rueful laugh.

“You should have said before,” Camilla says. “Adrian Clifton could have looked into it.”

Kate makes a noise of frustration, pressing her hands to her eyes. “I emailed Adrian about it. He never came back to me.”

“He still can,” Camilla says. “We’ll ask him again. It’ll stop, I promise.”

“I’ve just… felt watched,” Kate says wearily. “All this time. I’m so angry. I don’t have privacy. What if they’re here, on the island?”

Camilla paces, wringing her hands. She thinks of the red mark she saw on her deck and draws a slow breath. Could it have been blood? Antoni’s blood? She thinks of Jacob’s emails. Could the roses be connected to those?

“Whoever sent them,” Camilla says, turning back to Kate, “I bet you anything they’re not on the island. They’ll have found out where you are and then sent them. Probably some pathetic man-child festering in his mum’s spare room in Swindon.”

Kate is starting to shake again, her breaths shuddering as though she’s about to pass out. Camilla begins to feel frantic. She raises a hand to slap Kate out of it but falters. Violence is probably not the best way to help someone in the throes of PTSD.

“Piss kink!” she yells at Kate. “Piss kink! Say it!”

Kate looks at her as though she’s lost her mind. “What?”

“Piss kink!”

“What the hell is a piss kink?”

“Just say it. It’ll help snap you out of the panic attack.”

“Kiss pink… I mean, p-piss kink!”

“Again!”

“ What is a kiss pink?”

“Piss kink, love, piss kink. Like, you know, a golden shower.”

Kate pulls a face of disgust. “Oh God.”

“Shout it!”

“Piss kink!”

“You feel better now?”

Kate takes a deep breath, then another, and nods, a little dazed. Good , Camilla thinks. At least she can breathe. Camilla climbs up onto the seat next to her, worn out from the adrenaline rush, while Kate leans her head on her shoulder.

“How hard is it to trace a bunch of roses, honestly?” Camilla says. “Look, I’ll go and talk to the resort manager, OK? We’ll get to the bottom of this.”