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I click into other episode folders, noting Word docs and audio files that I don’t have time to dig into, all carefully labelled.

Episode Two centres on Sophie Coste. Three years ago, she was here with her eighteen-year-old daughter Jade.

She was awful. She berated Jade all the time about her appearance and her supposed lack of discipline.

The moment I chose her as my target? When I heard her say, in the pool locker rooms, those words that have haunted me ever since; the words no mother should ever say to a daughter.

No one will ever love you. Better no mother than that mother.

A steroid injection took care of her. Jade flew her body back to the States.

No matter how often she comes to mind, no matter how much part of me craves the knowledge that she’s out there living her best life now, I can’t allow myself to look her up.

It’s one of my rules. I do my part by removing the poison; the survivors have to do their part after that.

I have a clear understanding of where my scope of control ends: when the bad guy is dead.

Episode Three, Brett Teubler, staff nutritionist. He was doling out unregulated weight loss pills like they were candy, brought over from a supplier on Saint Vitalis.

His penicillin allergy, carefully noted in the file, was his downfall.

You can get a lot of shit on Saint Vitalis, no questions asked.

Episode Four brings us to Michael… so what the hell are all these other episodes about?

Ah. Episode Five. Suspects. My hand is shaking as I double click on the eponymous Word document.

And there it is. My name, right at the top.

My body floods with adrenaline, urging me to run, but I force myself to stay still.

This isn’t a surprise; not really. I knew after our date last night that I was a suspect.

But that doesn’t make it any easier to see it spelled out in black and white.

Lily Lennox (29yo)– came with her girlfriend Jessica 5 years ago (what happened to Jessica?), returns once a year, always during the death. Motive– ???

I read as though I’m ingesting the words in a speed-eating competition.

As with Carlos’s file, Daniel’s notes on me are surprisingly thorough, from my childhood to present.

I skim descriptions of every encounter we’ve had at the Riovan…

without the sex. And then, at the bottom, a big: End goal– to take the place down? But why like this?

But good. There are more pages, i.e. more suspects.

Next up is Victor Salinas, Executive Manager.

Well, that’s convenient. I can’t say I feel guilty that he’s on Daniel’s radar for the things that I’ve done.

Actually, for all the destruction Vic and his policies have wreaked, wouldn’t there be some kind of poetic justice if Vic went down for the deaths?

Though I can’t imagine he’d ever be convicted– what proof could Daniel possibly have?

Next, Sean Williams from Island Vibes. I don’t have time to read all about Sean’s childhood, though I catch phrases like radical conservationist and anti-Establishment . Instead, I skip to the bottom of Daniel’s notes on him. Motive– revenge for inequitable recovery after hurricane?

The shower turns off.

I close all the files and shoot up from the chair, shaking.

I need the laptop to go into lock-screen mode, or he’ll realize I was messing around.

I can hear Daniel moving about the bathroom.

As I splay my fingers to hit Control-Alt-Delete and force it to lock, I notice a logo in the centre of the desktop that, in my frenzy of opening and closing files, I hadn’t yet registered.

A white circle with an old-fashioned stylized black mic in the centre, and a spray of blood.

I stop, fingers poised above the keys.

I know that image.

It’s the logo for Who Killed Me? , the true crime podcast that broke out big with its first season last year.

I haven’t listened to it, but my friends sure have.

Shit fuck. I can see it now. All across the Anglosphere, people tuning in eagerly to Season Two.

Suspect number one is Lily Lennox, the ‘30 under 30’ catering queen whose knife skills are doing double duty…

I’ve never listened to these kinds of podcasts– true crime isn’t my thing. Contrary to what you might believe, I don’t want to fill my head with murder and death and all things dark. But now I’m seriously regretting that choice. If I’d listened, I would have recognized Daniel’s voice right away.

The bathroom door opens. I’m out of time. I lock the screen and spring from the chair just as he emerges from the steamy bathroom. Did he see me practically jump away?

Daniel opens his mouth to say something as I line up the lies. I wanted to check the weather. The radar. The stock market. My phone is dead.

But a knocking interrupts us. ‘Room service!’

As Daniel tips the guy and sets the tray of food on the desk, I scurry about the room, recovering my various articles of clothing. By the time he’s lifted the silver domes off the piping hot plates of omelettes and greens, I’m zipping up the back of my miniskirt.

‘Sorry, I have to go,’ I say.

‘I thought you were going to stay.’

‘I’m out of time.’

‘You need to eat.’

‘I need to not get fired.’

‘Lily—’ He runs a hand through his damp hair.

I interrupt whatever he was going to say with what I intend to be a quick kiss on the mouth, but he pulls me in, lengthening the kiss.

The smell of his pine body wash envelops me.

The warmth of the shower is still on his skin.

But I can’t let myself get drawn into that warmth any more.

I push him away and leave without another word.

As I walk down the hallway away from his room, chilly with air conditioning, a single thought keeps repeating in my head: I slept with a man who wants to expose me as a killer.

It felt like he cared, and I let myself believe he did.

But it’s all a game to him.

A game that could end me. I realize this.

If I kill this year, Daniel will have one more death to lay at my feet.

Would it be stupid to proceed with my plan, knowing that my name is literally in his suspects file?

Should I catch the first plane out of here instead?

I hate the thought of fleeing– of abandoning all my carefully laid plans.

But it would be stupid to put more ammunition into the loaded gun that is Daniel Lukiewicz…

which, by the way, is pointed at me. And yet I also despise the thought of letting go, of letting him win…

My brain is a muddle, and for all the possibilities and variables that are battling to make sense in my head, all I can really think right now is, Fuck.