Page 34

Sweat trickles down my temples. I swipe it away, but the trickle just starts again, like a leak I can’t plug.

My thoughts feel liquid too, dribbling out no matter how much I try to stuff them away.

I need to focus. Whatever I am, I am a good lifeguard…

I have a responsibility to these swimmers, but no matter how much I snap my elastic, I can’t seem to keep a correct count of how many people are in the water—

I could kill him.

The brightness on the beach is intense, even behind the protective wall of my sunglasses. Everything feels washed out, not quite real, as if someone poured bleach over the world.

But if I kill him, everything changes.

I snap my elastic.

Focus on the swimmers. One, two, three… No, wait– one—

‘You know, the bass player at the Sunset?’

Two women are shuffling through the sand past my lifeguard chair. From up here, they’re just broad straw hats and slick, reflective legs.

‘Wait, hot band guy?’

‘You wouldn’t believe what he can do with his tongue…’

‘You didn’t !’

‘I did!’

There’s a man swimming far out– not too far yet, but almost… He’s the older man who likes to do his laps along the perimeter of the swimming area.

Killing Daniel would solve everything.

Except then, I’d be a true murderer. Up until now, I’ve merely been a killer.

Could I live with myself, if I kill for my own gain?

Could I go back to Cincinnati and run my business and go out with my friends and sleep at night if I killed a guy who wasn’t toxic, just inconvenient?

My thoughts jump track like a wild train.

Because there’s another solution: to not kill anyone this year.

Not Daniel. And not Serena, either. Not while a true crime podcaster is literally up my ass.

A death at the Riovan while I’m still here will just add fodder to his growing files.

I can skip this year. Make up for it the next.

By then, he and his little podcast will have moved on to greener pastures.

Jessica , I think– a mental plea to someone I’d love to talk this through with.

I wish she could tell me what to do. What she wants.

Jessica, it’s so bad. Not only is Daniel an investigative reporter on my trail, but he’s the host of last year’s breakout podcast, and I’m set up to be the main course of Season Two.

I try to imagine how she might tilt her head or scrunch her cute nose.

At least the sex was good , I can almost hear her say. Hah. We loved our dark humour.

The thing is, I’ve always known the risk. The consequence for what I’ve done is prison for life; I’ve never fooled myself about that. But I’ve always assumed I was going to be smarter. Said every killer ever.

There’s always someone who comes for you.

Isn’t that the lesson of Crime and Punishment , stupid?

The dance of Raskolnikov and Porfiry? I haven’t finished yet, but I can already feel it’s not going to end well for Raskolnikov.

And part of it is his uncertainty, his waffling, which is exactly what I’m doing right now.

I want to slam that book over my own damn head.

But maybe I can still convince Daniel I’m innocent.

Especially if he really wants to believe it.

Which he has to… right? Even though I’m the first name on his list, part of him must not believe I’m truly dangerous, or he wouldn’t have slept next to me all night, helpless, knowing I could have killed him…

Yes. Either he doesn’t believe in his heart of hearts that I actually killed anyone, or he thinks I’d never kill him .

I like that first option. People who want to believe something are much more persuadable. But how? How can I erase his suspicions? Talk alone won’t do it. Sex won’t do it…

I take a swig from my water bottle.

The sun beats down full force. The shade of the umbrella protects my shoulders but not my legs. The waves sing their bright way on to the shore. People lounge and swim and bake.

Damn it, I wish Daniel had written that horrible article. I wish he was the appalling Daniel Black, staff writer for Fit Life and all-around shit human. Then I could kill him and be done with this whole mental dance. If there’s one thing I hate, it’s indecision.

My wrist is red from all the snapping, but I snap again anyway, viciously, as if I can cattle-prod myself out of this uncertainty.

The blue of the water cuts. So bright—

A flicker, far out, like a visual snap against my awareness… what was that? I lean forward, shading my eyes. Another flicker– something pale– a hand. It disappears.

I leap down from the chair, my training kicking in without the need for processing or thought. My feet hit hard on the sand; I grab the flotation device under my arm and sprint, already fitting the whistle to my lips.

I blow my whistle; a path clears. I keep my eyes on the spot where I saw the hand.

The lifeguard at the end of the beach blows his whistle too, a signal that he’s heard my call for help.

Swimmers are starting to leave the water as I plow into the ocean, the waves splashing up violently around me.

I run through the shallows, then dive forward.

Strong arms, Lily, strong crawl forward.

Eyes on the place where you saw the hand.

But it’s a lot of blinding blue, and not much else.

I reach the area and dive, opening my eyes in the murky underwater.

Tendrils of dark seaweed make the ocean floor shadowy.

I turn, go up for breath, then back down, one hand on the flotation device, scanning.

There. I release the flotation device and dive down to the pale starfish shape that the body makes, arms and legs extended.

It’s an older man, his limbs pale and weightless in the water, eyes closed, mouth open: not good.

C’mon, Grandpa , I think, as I hug my arms around his torso and kick my legs in firm scissor swipes to bring us both to the surface. Today is not a good day to die.

Our heads shoot above the water line. I gasp air in, but he doesn’t draw breath. I have to get him to shore, asap.

Anchored on the flotation device, I kick with all my strength towards shore, keeping a firm hold on the chilly, limp body of a man who might already be dead.

Three lifeguards meet me in the shallows, and together we lift the man out and lay him on the sand.

I crash to my knees and begin CPR. Firm pulses on the chest, rocketing my strength into him, willing life to return.

C’mon. Live. Live. I press my mouth to his.

His lips are cold. I pinch his nose and blow breath into him, emptying my own lungs, willing it to fill him up with what he lost. Then, I knot my hands together and begin the pulses again.

He coughs up water. His eyes flicker open, a milky blue.

The jolt of relief feels like someone punched me, and leaves just as fast.

‘You’re gonna be OK,’ I tell him, my voice surprisingly steady for the swell of feeling that’s expanding in my chest. I push the feeling back. Time to stay neutral, strong, in control. ‘You had a little scare, but you’re gonna be OK.’

Then, paramedics are arriving with a stretcher and I’m stepping aside, and my supervisor Kenton is there, serious and in charge, with a clipboard and a pen, dressed in his Team Lead T-shirt.

He asks me questions about the event, which I describe mechanically.

After he completes the necessary form, he puts a kind hand on my shoulder.

‘You did good, Lily. I’ll take your shift from here; you go recover. I’m sure that was emotional.’

‘Thanks,’ I say, gathering my bag and water bottle and towel.

Was it emotional? I don’t know how I feel. There’s been no space to feel.

As I walk through the sand back towards the hotel, to my surprise, guests are making a spontaneous human corridor and breaking into whooping applause, like I’m a one-woman parade. Now emotion comes, making a thick knot in my chest, painful and raw.

You don’t know me , I suddenly want to shout out. I cross my arms; my hands are shaking. If you did, you wouldn’t be cheering.

And yet, as people cry, ‘Bravo!’ and ‘Well done!’ it feels… strange and wonderful. To have done something so universally, innocently good that, for a few moments, everyone agrees I’m the hero.

The passageway of applause takes me all the way to the end of the beach, and right before I step on to the cement walkway that will lead me back to the Riovan—

Daniel. In a row with all the other faces. Beach towel over one shoulder, pumping his hands together in firm claps like everyone else, eyes sparkling, a broad smile on his face, radiating unreserved approval.

As I catch his gaze, he nods, like he’s saying, Well done. The moment slows down, the seconds expand, and… I know in my gut this is one of those pivotal moments when something either happens, or it doesn’t.

If I have a chance at convincing Daniel of my innocence, of my moral purity, this is my moment.

I meet his eyes fully and smile back, willing him to see the hero in me.

The hero who just saved an old man’s life.

The same hero that kills.

I’ve been saving lives all along , I send to him wordlessly. I am good. And see? I’m doing good.

And I’m going to keep doing good…

… next year.

This year has become too dangerous. I won’t kill Serena or Craig– or anyone.

Scrapping all the effort of the past week feels like a small death.

All the hours spent scouring through guest files, researching each candidate, trying to piece together the complex puzzle of a perfect death– it fucking sucks to just throw that away.

I know more than most that life is short– shorter than we’re ever ready for– and it’s hard to accept that I just wasted a piece of my life, no matter how small, on plans that won’t come to fruition.

On the other hand, in some small part of me, it also feels good not just to have reached a decision… but to have let go.

Anyway, in the grand scope of things, it’s OK. I force myself to remember: there’s always next year.

All good things come to those who wait.