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‘Hey. I, um, locked myself out of my room.’ Thank God it’s not the same woman as last night.

‘OK. Happy to help you. Room number?’ says the young woman, whose name tag reads Carolina.

I give her my information; she gives me a key.

I really, really have to pee at this point, so before returning to my room I make for the restrooms down the hall.

The women’s restroom is a cavernous affair with marble sink countertops and golden fixtures.

A few women are chatting at the sink while they wash their hands, and the smell of coconut and lemongrass is overpowering.

‘The jungle excursion was booked, but she got me a spot!’

‘Do you think we need bug spray?’

‘Oh, good idea. Let’s check the gift shop—’

A couple of stalls are occupied, but I keep my head down and disappear quickly into a free one. For a while, I just sit there on the toilet as I relieve my bladder, head hanging, listening to the sounds of people coming and going with brisk morning energy.

I hate the feeling of impotence sleepwalking gives me. As if I’m a loaded gun in the hands of a stranger… and the stranger is myself.

Self-pity really isn’t my thing, but a little voice edges in anyway.

Why are things always so hard for me? My childhood, the loss of my mom, losing Jessica– and now this mess with Daniel, the only person I’ve felt drawn to in years, who’s trying to make a case that links all the deaths together, to a single killer.

Which he may or may not already believe is me– a question I intend to answer tonight at the Sunset.

‘Hey, what’s wrong, honey?’ says a voice I recognize, pulling me out of my pathetic little pity-party. It’s Serena, her voice echoey in the bathroom. There’s a sniffling.

‘It’s my mom,’ says a second voice. A younger, more childish voice, which I also recognize immediately. Skylar. ‘We’re going on the waterfall exploration tour today. So I put on my bathing suit? And she said I’m f-f-f-… fat.’

‘Oooooh,’ Serena croons. ‘Hon, growing up is so hard.’ She clicks her tongue compassionately, and for a second, I think– maybe Serena is about to redeem herself.

If she’s kind to Skylar, I decide spontaneously, I’m not going to kill her.

‘I just don’t look… pretty enough,’ says Skylar, gulping back her words in a way that tells me she’s trying not to sob.

‘Trust me, when I was your age, I had exactly the same struggle,’ says Serena.

‘R-really?’

‘Of course! I was overweight as a kid, too! But don’t worry. We all have the power inside us to make a change.’

‘N-not m-me,’ says Skylar, sniffing again. ‘My mom says I have n-no self-control.’

‘That was probably hard to hear,’ says Serena. ‘But listen… you don’t have to do this alone! Sometimes we all need a little help! Actually, we’re working with this amazing company now. It’s called CleanSlim, and I’ll give you a complimentary package. Would you like that?’

‘Really?’ Skylar’s tone is so sweet, so grateful. ‘What is it?’

‘You just mix it into your smoothie, and all the baby fat will fall right off. Promise!’

Oh. My. God. Serena is giving a laxative to a teenager.

‘Can I have some now?’ says Skylar.

Serena laughs. ‘Actually, I do have some on me…’ There’s the sound of a zipper, then the crinkling of plastic. ‘I keep this with me to give to prospective customers. How lucky that we ran into each other! Now, don’t tell your mom. Just surprise her with the results! Wouldn’t that be fun?’

‘Yeah,’ says Skylar. ‘Will it work that fast?’

‘You do have to keep at it, but you’ll start seeing a difference within the week, promise.’

‘Wow. Thank you!’

I hear Skylar leave the bathroom, and then Serena humming to herself and washing her hands.

For a minute, I brace my hands against the sides of the stall and push as hard as I can, feeling the blood throb in my body. I don’t even have to try to conjure up the violent scenarios. I see myself killing Serena in six different ways within as many seconds.

One thing is sure: I’ve got my mark. This is it. Now I have to calm down and bide my time and do it smart, like I always do.

When I emerge from the stall, Serena is tweaking her make-up at the mirror.

‘Lily! Oh my god, I didn’t realize you were in here!’ She does a bit of a double take. ‘Rough night?’

‘I locked myself out of the room,’ I say with a wry smile, as I imagine killing her in two more ways. The faucets have sharp edges. ‘Not ideal.’ I take in Serena’s sweat-drenched athletic top and flushed face. ‘But you look like you’ve had a workout already.’

‘Oh, it’s just my morning hike. It’s important to build those habits in, you know?’ She uncaps a highlighter and sweeps it over her cheekbones, turning her face from side to side.

Morning hike. My heart pounds.

‘Where do you hike around here?’ I say innocently. Or do I sound guilty? Shit, I have to play this right. Thankfully, however I sound, her focus is on her mascara now, so she takes it in her stride.

‘I have this whole circuit that goes around the hotel and ends on the rocks by the ocean, you know that gorgeous jetty? It’s the perfect spot for a post-hike meditation session.

No one is up that early, so it’s just the sky and the water and…

’ She laughs and pops the mascara wand back into its tube. ‘Little old me!’

I feign a laugh. ‘Wow, you must get up really early, then.’ I make some attempt at redoing my ponytail, even though it’s useless. I need a full shower and change of clothes.

‘Five thirty,’ she chirps, smacking her freshly moisturized lips. ‘It’s perfect, because then I’m hitting the rocks just as the sun rises. Soooo pretty! Well– see you around, Lily.’ She hesitates at the bathroom door. ‘Hey, do you happen to know if that journalist is single?’

I give her a wide-eyed ‘what journalist?’ expression, but follow it up quickly with an, ‘Oh, yeah, him… no, I think he has someone back home.’

‘It figures,’ she says with an exaggerated pout. ‘All the good ones are taken.’

‘Yeah. Pity. But there’s always that other guy… Kyle?’

She screws up her face like she’s having trouble remembering, then visibly flinches. ‘Yeah, ew. Too old. Too needy . But hey, great talk!’

She swishes out of the bathroom, leaving me momentarily alone.

I look at myself in the mirror. My hair is wild, frizzed from sleeping outside. My polka-dot shorts look extra ratty and faded in the daylight, and my tank top has fresh sweat stains. But no matter how dishevelled my outward appearance may be, inwardly, things are sliding into place.

It’s the same sweeping feeling of certainty like all the other years, when I realized it had to be Michael Johnson.

Brett Teubler. Sophie Coste. Carlos Dulatre.

A gut-level feeling that’s almost like a déjà vu– as if I had already made this decision in some previous, parallel life, and I’m just remembering, That’s right, it’s this one.

Serena. On the jetty. At sunrise.

Not on the stairs, like I was thinking before, but the very rocks where she recorded herself slipping already. Obvious. Perfect.

It’ll be a shove. Nothing with tools or electrical panels– nothing that will leave evidence behind.

No doubt she’s a strong swimmer, so first I may have to bash her head on the rocks.

When they find her body– bodies always wash up– they’ll see the trauma on her head, but it will be easy to assume she hit it going down.

The viral TikTok will resurface, a sign of what was to come, a dark omen people will be eager to believe.

The irony , they’ll say. Such a loss for the Riovan.

I wash my hands, dry them with the ultra-soft paper towels, and toss the damp, crumpled mess into the trash.

I smile to myself. This is a good plan. Despite the tumultuous start to this year’s trip, everything is falling into place like it always does.

As long as Daniel doesn’t interfere.

His presence is an added risk, that’s for damn sure. But I’m here for a reason, and I’m not about to let Daniel Lukiewicz stop me. I’ll just have to be more careful than ever– and that starts with figuring out exactly what he knows– or thinks he knows. Tonight. At the Sunset.

While we eat and drink and flirt, I’ll pretend everything with Daniel is fine.

I’ll put him at ease with a pina colada or three.

And I’ll find out once and for all what the hell he’s up to, using whatever means necessary– such as the low-cut top I have in mind.

I won’t even feel bad about using alcohol and sex.

In my playbook, the ends always justify the means.