Page 26

I nod empathetically, but I don’t relate. I miss Jessica, too, but I can’t imagine myself being ready to go. I have too much unfinished business.

‘Oh, hey,’ says Sean. ‘We’re having a big retirement party for Randy on Friday.

You should come.’ He reaches for a stack of blue paper by the register and hands me the top sheet.

Randy’s smiling face is at the top, in black and white.

Beneath, in Comic Sans font, the page reads: Randy’s Retirement Bash!

Trivia, Half-Price Drinks and More From 7p.m.! Don’t Miss It!

‘You might take a few, get some Riovaners up here,’ Sean suggests, handing me some more copies. ‘I know Randy would love to see Vic. They used to hang.’

‘Sure, no problem,’ I say. I promise to put them up in the staff break room and other public places, and to personally hand one to Vic.

I choose a table under a fan, where there’s lots of light, and connect my laptop to the wifi.

It takes a minute, so I trail my eyes over the pictures Randy has hung on the wall– a younger Randy with a surfboard under his arm.

Various celebrity surfers at Island Vibes raising the famous daiquiri in salute.

A faded shot of Brenda, Randy’s wife, from the 1970s, pregnant and smiling, here on Saint Lisieux.

They came here together as a couple a few times over the years.

Like me and Jessica.

It’s strange how I’ve never noticed this similarity. Randy and I both came here with our romantic partners; we both lost them. I guess the similarity ends there, since he came back permanently to follow a dream. I just dip in once a year to chase my nightmare.

Finally, the wifi connects and I turn my attention to my laptop screen.

The Riovan Guest Services Portal loads slowly, in calming shades of blue.

I tap in Vic’s info, and after a short wait, I’m in.

The first two years, I had to break into Vic’s office for this part of the process, too. Thank God they moved to the Cloud.

In spite of Island Vibes’ less than lightning-fast wifi, it’s an easy system to navigate, and it tracks absolutely everything for everyone staying at the resort.

The courses they’ve signed up for. Appointments with nutritionists, counsellors, coaches, chiropractors.

Scheduled spa services. Also, their allergies. The medications they take.

I type in Daniel Black, then take a long sip of sweet, cold coffee while I wait for the page to load.

Ah. He’s sitting in on Pat Burton’s seminar today, Mindful Healing . But other than that… not many services. A massage at the spa later on today, and that’s it. Huh.

The Riovan costs an arm and a leg, so most people pack their schedules.

Jessica sure did. Why doesn’t Daniel want the full experience for his article?

Surely the magazine is paying for this. If all you’re doing is hanging out on a warm beach and hitting on the lifeguard, you can do that without leaving the good old U.S. of A.

Whatever. I’m not here to figure out why toxic assholes like Daniel Black do anything.

I’m here to figure out how to kill them.

And what do you know? Under allergies, Daniel has a nice big red warning: lethally allergic to sesame.

Wow. Why are my shoulders suddenly super tense?

I should be feeling great about this. Killing someone is rarely this damn simple.

I stare at the screen for a long beat, imagining myself slipping some sesame oil into Daniel’s food.

It would be so easy: ask him on a date, and when he’s in the bathroom, boom.

I could do it without breaking a sweat. So why am I suddenly sweating?

I roll my shoulders, then shake myself. Moving on.

Craig is up next. I type his name into the search bar and pull up his file with a click.

He has that heart condition, which I already knew about– unstable angina pectoris.

I looked it up a few nights ago, and his risk of sudden heart attack is definitely higher, which is good to know.

That could appear ‘natural’ for sure. He’s on anticoagulants and takes aspirin regularly.

The nutritionist has him on a low-fat diet– no surprise there– and there’s a note that he is absolutely not able to do intense physical activity.

As I peruse his schedule, I notice that he has a standing appointment for one of the individual sauna rooms every day he’s here.

An appointment that only lasts five minutes.

A little internet research tells me that, in his condition, staying in the sauna for much longer could be lethal.

That, or dousing him in really cold water right after his session.

That could set off a heart attack. Though I struggle to picture myself storming in with a bucket of ice water.

What if it didn’t work? That would be awkward.

Dumping him into a cold pool would be better, but if he passed out in the heat, how would I carry him from the sauna room to the pool? Things to think about.

Finally, I look up Serena. As VP, her information in the system isn’t as extensive as a guest’s, but it does display the services she’s booked with her 50 per cent management discount.

She’s seeing a life coach once a week. She has a lot of cosmetic treatments lined up– a weekly facial, the Seaweed Body Wrap, a mani-pedi.

Everything I might have expected. Even though I’ve already imagined staging a ‘slip’ on the stairs, it’s a little disappointing that there’s not something as obvious as, say, Daniel’s allergy.

Damn it… why couldn’t she have the sesame allergy?

Still, there’s always a way. Let’s see…

Could I somehow poison her body wrap? Though a poison absorbed through the skin doesn’t feel like it would be fast-acting enough.

I make a mental note to research this further, but…

maybe an accident is my best bet with her after all?

The thing is, even though a push sounds simple, it’s risky.

I’ve only pushed someone once, and it’s definitely not my favourite method; too much can go wrong.

However, if you can pull it off, it does leave the least evidence behind. High risk, high reward.

‘Hey, you want that bowl of poké?’

I snap the laptop shut and smile up at Sean, who’s looking amused. I glance at the clock. Wow– two hours have gone by.

‘You know I do,’ I say.

‘Coming right up. Any allergies?’

I almost laugh. ‘Nope.’

I look around the place as Sean disappears into the kitchen.

The light has shifted. Everyone who was here earlier is gone, and a sparse lunch crowd has taken over.

A couple of teens holding hands across a table.

An old man drinking a beer with half-closed eyes and ignoring his sandwich.

Two loud Americans– a guy in board shorts, a girl in a bikini– sharing nachos.

The scent of the spiced meat wafts over and my stomach growls.

My phone vibrates against the table with an incoming call just as Sean returns with the poké bowl, a mountain of rosy fresh tuna pieces sprinkled with bright orange roe. Perfectly fanned avocado slices, and a sprinkling of sesame seeds like a wink from the universe.

I gesture my thanks as I pick up my phone. It’s a WhatsApp call. As soon as I see who it is, my gut clenches and my heart races. There’s no question; I have to answer.

‘Hi Beth Ann,’ I say into the phone. Already, I sound stiff and cold, not like myself at all, but I don’t know how to be any other way with Jessica’s mom.

We never shared a lot of love. Maybe she could tell how hard I was trying to impress her back when Jessica introduced me, our first Thanksgiving together.

Maybe she didn’t like that I had no family, no mom, no ‘roots’ as she called them.

Or maybe she just didn’t like that her daughter was with a woman.

Now, of course, she has all the reason in the world to openly hate me. I’m the person responsible for her losing her daughter.

‘Lily?’ Her voice already grates– breathy and gentle and nice .

I can understand her hatred. I’ll never forget that horrible dark night in the hospital waiting room as she shrieked at me. I can’t believe you left her alone in the apartment! What were you thinking?

I had no answer. She was merely voicing the same things I’d been shrieking at myself.

‘What’s going on?’ I ask. Of course, there’s a fierce little hope at the reason she might be calling– but I squash it.

‘I hope I haven’t caught you at a bad time,’ she says. ‘I know you’re out of the country right now.’

‘This is a fine time,’ I say, using all my self-control to keep my voice calm. For the love of God, woman, just tell me why you’re calling. ‘What can I do for you?’

‘Well… this is maybe a little awkward, but…’

I bang my fist silently against the table and watch the poké shake.

‘There’s a picture.’

What?

‘And Don was wondering if perhaps you have it. Maybe in a box with some of Jessica’s old things?

It’s from her college graduation. She’s in her cap and gown, and Don and I are on either side.

We’d just like to have it back. If you don’t mind looking for it.

Jessica’s birthday is coming up, you know, and I’m making a little collage for the party. ’

It doesn’t escape my notice that there is no invitation for me.

Not that I’d want to go.

Jess isn’t here any more. It makes me feel sick inside to envision Don and Beth Ann in party mode, putting on a celebration and waxing sentimental over old photographs.

Beth Ann talks on. ‘One of us could pick it up from you, or you could mail it. We’d just really like to have that picture back.’

‘Sorry. I don’t remember that picture,’ I say, leaning my forehead on my clenched fist and squeezing my eyes shut. You kept what was supposed to be mine , I want to scream at her, and now you’re shaking me down for a picture? Don’t you understand that I have nothing left?

‘Well, perhaps you could check…’ Beth Ann lets her voice trail off.

‘Yeah. OK. I’ll let you know,’ I say, and then I disconnect the call.

I won’t check. And I won’t let her know.

Fuck you , I think. I remember Jessica’s stories about how her mom would put them both on ‘little diets’ in advance of swimsuit season.

Early on in our relationship, Jess rolled her eyes and laughed as she told me these stories, like it was just another annoying eccentricity of her trim mother, along with her obsessive flossing and consummate vacuuming. But I’ve never forgotten.

I rip the paper off the disposable chopsticks, target a piece of tuna and, for a few minutes, just allow myself to enjoy the food. The velvety texture of the spicy mayo, the juicy sweetness of the diced mango. The crunch of tempura flakes and the bursting salty pearls of roe.

By the time I’m dredging the last bite of rice through the sauce at the bottom of the bowl, I’m ready to dive back into my research. Sean comes to take away my bowl.

‘Hope you enjoyed it.’

‘It was perfect. Hey– you hear all the Riovan gossip here.’

He nods, that amused smile already back on his lips.

‘Has anyone been talking about that death last year?’

Sean’s eyes crinkle in thought. ‘Actually… yeah. An American from a magazine was here just a few days ago. Daniel something. He was asking what I knew about the guy. I said, I heard he was some bigshot in the music industry, and there was an accident of some kind.’

Oh shit.

Sean continues. ‘Daniel said, did you hear what kind of accident, and I said no, my impression was the staff wasn’t in the know either.

Management kept a tight lid on that one.

My educated guess? Drugs. It’s always drugs with these celebrities.

’ Sean nods slowly, as if the motion of his head is jogging his memory.

‘But then, he started asking about the hurricane. Yeah, he was really interested in the hurricane.’

Wait– huh? My expression must show my confusion, because Sean keeps talking.

‘Yeah, ten years ago, wasn’t it? Hurricane Alberta.

Destroyed everything.’ He swipes flattened palms through the air.

‘The Riovan rebuilt in six months, but Brisebleue…’ He shrugs.

‘We never really recovered here. I mean, Randy had some savings, add in some sweat equity, we brought Island Vibes back within a year.’ He gives me a half-smile.

‘I was the plumber, the electrician, the dry-waller, you name it. Learned a lot that year. But that guy, Daniel– he was curious about local resentment, you know? And Randy’s story.

Why he chose to build here instead of closer to the resort where he’d get more business.

If there was... I don’t know. Bad blood between us and the Riovan.

At that point, I’d had enough of him, so I told him he’d have to talk to Randy. ’

Well, now I’m even more confused. Yesterday, I thought Daniel might not be a journalist. Then I read his Fit Life diatribes.

Now he’s asking questions, and it’s not just about Michael’s death, but a hurricane from ten years ago?

The topics seem not only unrelated, but too serious for the kind of stuff Fit Life publishes– or the kind of refuse Daniel seems to enjoy writing.

I smile at Sean, even though my pulse is drumming. I can’t seem to fit the pieces together where Daniel is concerned. And if I’m going to kill him, I’d better make damn sure I know who I’m killing.

‘Thanks, Sean.’

He hesitates before leaving. ‘You OK, Lily?’

I give him a fond smile. It’s sweet that he seems to actually care.

‘Peachy,’ I say. I check my watch. ‘Is it too early for something strong?’ After that call from Beth Ann, I could use some help.

He seems pleasantly surprised. ‘Not at all. What’ll it be?’

I smile back, but I’m already opening my laptop back up and typing Daniel Black into the search bar.

‘Surprise me.’