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Up we go, then. I find my footing on the first flattish white rock, then climb.

These are the same rocks I was going to propose to Jessica on.

The same rocks Serena went viral for slipping on.

The waves are still crashing to my left, but I know how to be safe, and anyway, it’s worth the risk.

It’s out of view of the hotel, and I need that feeling of breaching a barrier, of space and more space, of expansive water and sky that are bigger than me.

Barefoot, I hop from rock to rock, pausing in between to recalibrate.

I’ve already been so reckless with Daniel, and I can’t afford any more recklessness, especially on these rocks where I could break my leg and fall in the water and fucking drown.

That would be rich. Not to mention Daniel would interpret it as a sure sign of guilt.

I was on to her, so sadly, she took her own life…

At least I gave her the orgasm of a lifetime before she passed.

Hah.

Puddles have settled into every crevice of the rocks, and the mossy patches of growth are slick. My foot skids slightly as I hit a slimy spot. It’s really not hard to see why Serena fell. As the waves crash up from the left of the jetty, the water sprays my ankles.

Traversing the rocks takes all my focus, giving my mind a welcome respite. I finally reach the last rock. Now, only the ocean is before me, grey and furious.

I sit with one knee drawn up and the other leg hanging down, not even caring that the wetness is soaking into the seat of my sweatpants. I close my eyes and breathe. I taste salt on my lips and remember Carli’s kiss.

It was a hair dryer, by the way. Not the speaker.

As I said, Michael liked to take baths with his Bluetooth speaker playing, which did bring electrocution to mind.

Fortunately, the Riovan had old-fashioned metal drainpipes; that was a must. The Epsom salts would help– saltwater conducts electricity well– but even so, the battery voltage from Michael’s speaker wouldn’t be enough. However, 220 volts would do it…

I happened to be in my own bathroom washing my face as I was thinking about this, and my eyes landed on my roommate’s hair dryer.

I picked it up and examined the tag. Do not remove this tag!

Warn children of the risk of death by electric shock!

A little picture showed a bathtub and a hair dryer with a red line over it.

A little advertisement meant just for me. Here’s how you do it!

I frowned as I turned the hair dryer over in my hands. Of course, if I threw the hair dryer into his bath, it would trip the breaker. But if the breaker had been bypassed…

The next day, a bunch of us lifeguards went over to Saint Vitalis for some shopping on our day off. Everyone else bought shell jewellery, straw hats and boho maxi dresses. I bought a maxi dress too, to wrap my other purchases in.

It was easy to clip the Ground Fault Circuit Interrupter off the end of my new hair dryer and rewire it with a non-GFCI plug that would not act like a circuit breaker.

The evening of Carli Elle’s performance, I went to the electrical panel on Michael’s floor, unlocked the protective door marked RESTRICTED ACCESS, unscrewed the panel, and donned the electrical gloves I’d bought at the little hardware store on Saint Vitalis, along with my other supplies.

I identified the breaker that went to his room and flipped it off.

Using the screwdriver, I revealed the black wire that routed to the bathroom plug.

I pulled the black wire and stuffed it into the main 240-volt lug at the top of the breaker box. Then, I tightened it and replaced the cover.

The charge was now coming straight from the lug, which still had a breaker, of course, but the hundred-amp one that would be located somewhere by the entrance of the hotel.

Way back where the whole box comes from…

so it wasn’t going to trip easily. Nope.

It would keep delivering killer electricity.

I’d got a key to Michael’s room the day before, from the front desk. ‘Carli Elle’s manager locked himself out of his room,’ I said. ‘He’s, uh… naked.’ They were more than happy to give me a key, and I was more than happy to pretend to run up with it.

Forty minutes before Carli Elle’s yacht was due to leave for the Mambotel, I let myself into Michael’s room. Right away, I heard the music filtering out from the bathroom door, which wasn’t all the way closed. Marvin Gaye.

I still had my electrical gloves on. First, I put my extra key card on the dresser.

I didn’t bother wiping it down for prints; I’d collected it yesterday and, presumably, delivered it to naked Michael in the hallway, so if anyone even checked it for prints– which was unlikely– my prints made sense.

A lack of prints, to my estimation, might be more concerning to authorities.

Then, I pulled the hair dryer out of my backpack.

I walked softly over the carpet. Through the crack in the bathroom door, I could taste the steam.

I could smell his body wash. I could see Michael’s head lolled against the edge of the tub as he rolled it from side to side with the rhythm, his mouth puckered a little in his enjoyment of the music.

Couldn’t blame him. It was a good song.

I pushed the door open, plugged the hair dryer in, turned it on and heaved it into the tub. No hesitation. No big showdown. No chance for last words on either of our parts.

There was a sputter and a crackle and a smell. It was so fast; he was dead.

Still, I leaned over the body and looked, just in case. His eyes were bugged open. Tiny, charred craters marked his chest. He smelled like barbecue. I haven’t had the stomach for barbecue since– a pity, really, since Taste of Heaven does a really good job with smoked ribs.

Still wearing my electrical gloves, I unplugged the hair dryer and pulled it out of the water. My pulse was regular, my head cool. I’d planned it well, and nothing would go wrong.

I took one final look at the man as ‘Sexual Healing’ echoed around us– the last song he’d ever hear.

‘You shouldn’t make women feel like shit about their bodies,’ I said out loud.

He didn’t answer.

Then I kicked his Bluetooth speaker into the water for good measure.

It only took ten minutes to set the electrical panel to rights.

Back in my own room, I changed into the slinky dress Carli had lent me for the evening, swiped my lashes with a little mascara, and headed out, backpack slung over my shoulder, already weighted with rocks to make sure it sank along with the screwdriver and gloves.

‘Have fun!’ said my roommate, who was curled up in bed with a novel. ‘I’m totally jealous!’

‘I will! Thanks!’

As the boat pulled out of the marina, I asked Carli, ‘Isn’t Michael coming?’

‘We can’t wait any longer,’ she said, giving her phone a frustrated check. ‘He probably fell asleep in the bath.’

He sure did , I remember thinking. And he ain’t waking up . It would make a killer song. In a parallel universe, I’d tell Carli what I did just so she could write it.

Somewhere between Saint Lisieux and Saint Vitalis, I tossed the backpack into the sea.

Carli slayed that night.

I did wonder if she might remember our conversation by the pool.

The way she said, He’d have to be dead .

If the possibility would cross her mind that I had done it.

But she left the Riovan the next day, undoubtedly to avoid the attention that would surely come after her manager’s untimely death, and I never saw her again.

Sure, a newshound found me because of that picture. And there was that random call Becca WhatsApped me about. But no one ever asked me questions about Michael’s death. Not the Saint Lisieux police. Not hotel management.

No one until Daniel.