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Back at the hotel, I move about the room in a dream state, booking a ticket on my phone on the first flight out, then packing my things. My Riovan-branded gear I leave on the bed.

I hand the first man my passport and scan the ticket QR code on his device, my pulse racing as I remember the prison conditions on the island. The hole-in-the-ground potties. The overcrowded cells…

‘Go ahead,’ he says with a smile, handing my passport back. ‘Have a safe trip home.’

Really? That easy?

The duty-free shops on the way to my gate display mementos– posters and straw hats, sandals and carved earrings. I stop before one of the displays, and some achy part of me wishes this was that kind of trip; one I’d want to remember with a bird-shaped magnet or a set of tacky coasters.

Even while I wait in the short line of people boarding the flight to Miami, I can almost hear it– the footsteps of police, running to stop me before I leave the island. Arrêtez, mademoiselle, arrêtez!

But I board in peace, take up residence in my oversized seat, and am promptly offered a steaming washcloth to refresh my face and hands.

‘Would you like a beverage before we take off?’ says a glossy flight attendant in navy blue, leaning towards my seat with a pair of tongs to collect the hot washcloth I just used.

I upgraded to first class. I figure, if I do go to prison after Season Two drops, I’ll appreciate the memory of the leg room on my final flight. The hot washcloth and the warm salted nuts are just added bonuses.

‘Some white wine, please,’ I say. Pretty sure they don’t serve that in prison, either.

I sip the wine. I’m still processing so much, but one thing keeps floating to the top:

I brought Daniel to the Riovan.

My plea for help drew the attention of the man who has the power to undo me.

The irony is not lost on me.

We rattle down the runway, and when we take off I can feel the emotion held tight in my chest as I watch the island slide away, just as the sun is rising.

Here I am, soaring away from what I’ve done.

Not that it won’t follow me. The first episode of Daniel’s new season is dropping tomorrow, according to the website.

I crane to see Saint Lisieux until it’s out of sight, which doesn’t take long. It’s a small island in a large ocean, in an even larger world. Like my life– a speck, when you stop to think about it.

The airplane ride back is nothing like the ride here.

On the way to Saint Lisieux, I was fizzing like a shaken soda can, ready to burst.

Now, I’m contemplative. Present. Sober. I don’t know what I’m going to do yet; what’s going to happen to my life. But that’s OK, because it’s not my move. It’s Daniel’s move. And until someone stops me, I’m moving forward.

I pull out my phone and pay the surcharge for inflight wifi. A few taps of my fingers, and I’ve pulled up Who Killed Me? , Season One. Might as well catch-up.

I pop in my earbuds and press play on Episode One: The Death of Sammi Jones .

Immediately, Daniel’s voice washes through me.

It feels like he’s right next to me, telling me the story of Sammi’s tragically shortened life over drinks.

As I eat my salted nuts and sip my wine and choose between the vegetarian lasagne and the chicken Vesuvio for my meal, I lose my gaze out of the window and allow Daniel’s voice to fill my senses.

One episode melds into another, and during my layover in Miami, I just keep on going.

I don’t want to stop being with Daniel in this way, his voice nestled in my ear, unravelling chaos into one smooth story.

I can see why my friends are into this, after all.

It’s not so much the lurid voyeurism involved in true crime that makes this so enjoyable.

No– it’s scratching the same itch that makes me enjoy completing a puzzle.

Order from chaos. Finding a reason for the shit that happens.

Whatever happens to him, to me, I love that he knows the truth about me now– or most of it.

There’s one part I didn’t tell him. Should I have?

Who knows– maybe he could have helped me see the order in the chaos.

But I held back, because I always hold back; of all the sources of pain in my life, this is the greatest, and most days, I can hardly bear to face it myself.

It almost makes me wish I’d told Daniel my one, final secret about Jess.

Because it’s always about Jess.