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‘Hi,’ I say in a friendly tone to the woman behind the reception desk. ‘I’m so sorry to bother you, but—’ I lower my voice and lean forward over the counter. ‘We have a journalist staying with us. Daniel Black? And he, um… just locked himself out of his room. Could I grab a key for him?’

The woman’s brow wrinkles. ‘We’d be happy to issue him another key if he can come down himself—’

‘He’s naked.’ I make a cringe face. ‘Vic is really keen on keeping him happy, so I’m supposed to run Mr Black a key as quickly as possible. Oh– I’m Lily. I work here too. Sorry, I should have said.’

Still, she hesitates, possibly because I’m a sweaty mess and not looking on-brand.

‘Look,’ I say, with an edge to my tone. ‘I’m not trying to be difficult, but this is urgent. Do you need me to get Vic?’

Immediately, the resistance melts off her face.

‘Of course not, no need to bother Mr Salinas. Let me just activate a new card for Mr Black—’

Key finally in hand– and multiple minutes wasted, ugh– I take the elevator to his floor, slicing the card back and forth along my palm because the ascent feels unusually slow.

Can’t they build faster elevators? Time is money, people!

Finally, the doors open. Two guests are waiting.

I smile, they smile back. I walk down the hall slowly, knowing their eyes may still be on me.

As soon as the elevator doors close fully and I’m free from watching eyes, I sprint.

My lungs are heaving as I finally reach his door and jam the key card in. Inside the dark room, my eyes immediately find the bright green digits of the bedside clock– shit . Only twenty-two minutes to spare. Move, Lily! I flip on the lights.

First: dresser drawers. All empty; he hasn’t even unpacked. I push open the mirrored closet door where the room safe is. His luggage is on the floor– a hardback Tumi splayed open, with a mess of clothes spilling out. At least that makes it easy to search.

I rummage through the clothes, looking for anything– identification, papers, notes.

Nothing.

He has a backpack leaned up against the TV console, a laptop open on the desk, and a pair of reading glasses on the nightstand. I go through the backpack next. Water bottle– almost empty– some pens, an unused legal pad, a sleeve of tissues, a battered pair of sunglasses. Onward.

The laptop springs awake at a touch of my finger to the mousepad, but of course it’s password protected. Even though I already know it’s a waste of time, I make a few random attempts– DBlack123, DanielB, DanielB1. When it warns me that I have one attempt left, I stop.

The nightstand drawers are also empty, save a hotel notepad, a laminated TV guide and a room service menu.

The bathroom is messy. A towel on the floor. Personal hygiene items scattered across the sink. Aftershave– mm, smells like him– and immediately, I’m mentally on his bed again, naked under him, the smell of sweat and desire rolling off him, my hands clawing at his back—

Trash bin! Trash bin!

Back to the present. Cheap razor, a beard trimmer, a toothbrush, Colgate toothpaste.

I note toothpaste smeared in the sink, hair clippings on the counter, some Q-tips in the trash.

I return to the bedroom area and check the clock.

Ten minutes left, and I’ve found nothing of worth.

Certainly nothing magazine-related… no notes for his article, though of course those would likely be on his phone and laptop, no press ID… would he keep them in the room safe?

The default number, I happen to know, is 1-2-3-4. Most guests change it, but… I punch the numbers into the keypad. It pops open– hah!

Inside the safe, there’s finally something. A microphone. A ring light. Some cash, US dollars and euros. And finally, a US passport. I reach for the passport and open it. Daniel’s face stares back, utterly serious. Almost scary-serious. My eyes immediately fall on his name.

Daniel Aleksy Lukiewicz.

What the …

I’m reaching for my phone to take a picture of his passport when I hear a voice outside the door– Daniel’s. Shit! He’s back early from his workout!

Tossing the passport back in, I shut the safe, but there’s no time to close the sliding closet door.

I make a wild scan around the room for the best hiding place, then dive under the bed, already feeling the sting of a rug burn down my leg.

It’s a tight, tight fit– I have to keep my head turned to one side.

I’ve barely wiggled my feet out of sight when the door clicks open.

The clearance is so low that if he sits down on the bed he might actually crush me.

‘Did you get the coroner’s report I sent?’ It sounds like Daniel’s on the phone. ‘No. I’m not sure yet… I’ll shoot over my notes. See what you think.’

And then, he sits on the fucking bed.

The pressure is immediate, and intense. I can feel my spine bend and my lungs compress. His feet are inches from my face. One lifts, then a sock is flung. Then, the other sock.

‘I know. You think I haven’t thought of that a million times?’

The voice on the other line is a muffled blur, but sounds animated.

‘No. It can’t be a coincidence. I’d bet my career on it… I am betting my career on it. One person, every year, at the same time of year…’

Oh, fuck. He’s not just looking into Michael’s death. He knows there are more.

In fact, I might be next. If he shifts, or bounces a little, he might snap my spine, and then it’s adios Lily.

He chuckles. ‘Nah, you’re right. Just remember I’m here under Daniel Black , OK?’ Pause. ‘Yeah, let me know about that advertising slot. It feels like exactly what we’ve been waiting for.’

Sweat is beading on my forehead. My lungs are pancakes.

‘Could be huge,’ he goes on. ‘Listen, I just got back from a workout. Let me call you after I hit the shower.’

He gets up. Sweet relief. Painfully, slowly, I allow my lungs to fully inflate again.

He must have disconnected his call. I hear the clunk of the phone being set down on a hard surface.

I listen to him pad around the room. His feet come in and out of my line of sight, then one lifts– ah.

His workout shorts are coming off. Then a pair of black briefs.

In spite of the circumstances, I have a sudden and very specific vision of the two perfect muscled mounds that comprise his ass.

A grunt tells me his shirt is next, and it’s also suddenly very hard not to remember how good his torso looked when it was inches above mine.

Some quiet thwacks tell me he’s throwing his clothes on the bed.

Then, the creak of the bathroom door and, finally, the sound of the shower– my exit cue.

I wait until I hear him singing, loud and off key like last time. This time, it’s Cat Stevens’ ‘Peace Train’, a song that’s always made me inexplicably sad, even though I think it’s supposed to be hopeful.

Forget about ‘Peace Train’ and peace your way out of here!

I chide myself, and army-crawl out. I scrape sweaty tendrils of hair from my eyes as I make for his laptop, just in case he happened to drop his password in as he roamed about the room; still locked.

Fuck. Do I have time to go back into the safe…

The shower turns off. Nope. Also, who the hell takes a two-minute shower? Can he even be clean?

Then a thought hits me like a freight train.

I could kill him.

I could kill Daniel in this very room.

He’s stronger, too strong for me to overcome without the element of surprise… but I’m creative…

No, you’re thinking crazy.

I move with swift steps towards the door. I open it as quietly and as quickly as I can and step out into the hall, where—

‘Fuck!’ I breathe, just as a surprised maid with an armful of towels says, ‘ Merde! ’

She was obviously just about to knock when I flung open the door.

‘Um…’ I give a guilty smile. ‘He’s in the shower. You might want to come back?’

She hesitates, then extends the soft pile of towels to me. In accented English, she says, ‘Would you like to take them inside, miss?’

‘Ah… not a good idea.’ I shut the door behind me the rest of the way. Unfortunately, the noise of the door clicking into place is somehow gargantuan.

Daniel must be out of the bathroom, because from inside the room I hear him say, ‘Hello? Who’s there?’

‘Please don’t mention me,’ I say, with barely enough time to register the puzzled expression on her face before I’m fleeing down the hall.

I round the corner just in time to hear the woman say, ‘Towels, sir?’

‘Oh– yeah. Thanks. I forgot I ordered these.’

‘You’re welcome.’

*

I don’t return directly to my room. Instead, I head to the beach to clear my head.

Daniel’s name is Lukiewicz, not Black. Fine.

He’s not the toxic Fit Life reporter– great.

He’s only posing as the toxic Fit Life reporter, which– what the hell?

Then again, I guess that means I didn’t sleep with some toxic asshole, so that’s a plus!

But– killjoy– he’s looking into the deaths I am responsible for.

And I can’t imagine it will take him long to realize that the dates of my yearly employment coincide, always, with the demise of someone.

Or maybe he came here already knowing that.

Why is he investigating– and why undercover? Is he… FBI? Interpol? But what was that about an advertising slot?

I pull out my phone and type his name– his real name, this time– into my search engine.

It only takes a little scrolling to find a hit…

nope. Broken link. But the next one is a LinkedIn hit, which is very promising.

I open my LinkedIn app and switch to private mode so he can’t see I’m looking.

And there is his headshot, looking almost as serious as his passport picture.

His work history is very conveniently spelled out… except that it ends over a year ago, with his last job at– oh, shit! The Pacific , one of the most illustrious news magazines in the English-speaking world.