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I slip inside Vic’s office, then close the door quietly behind me and turn the lock.

Staff training just ended– a smaller affair for those of us arriving mid-season to support the busy month of July.

The focus on branding this year was more heavy-handed than ever, and I had to tune out Serena Victoria’s closing speech in which she used the acronym T-H-I-N to remind us of the hotel’s values: Thriving, Healthy, Inspirational, Natural.

A strange tactic for all her purported ‘taking the focus off weight loss’.

After training ended, it wasn’t hard to peel away from the group of about a dozen to ‘hit the bathroom’ and let myself into the corridor of offices behind reception.

I copied Vic’s key five years ago, and thankfully he has yet to change the lock.

His office is dark, the air freshener lovely as ever.

I make for the desk, which is a bit of a mess, with his tablet sitting on top of some brochures and what look like loose receipts.

At a jiggle of the mouse, his computer monitor leaps to life, shedding enough light for me to see the Post-it note on which his password is scrawled– the same one as previous years but with more exclamation points at the end. Got to love that Vic.

The file has their basic information– name, gender identity, height, weight, address, employer, emergency contacts.

Photocopies of their IDs, signed waiver forms, private health information– not to mention Vic’s personal research notes on each, which over the years have proved to be a treasure trove.

As Executive Manager, Vic is personally responsible for the satisfaction of each and every guest, but the happiness of the four-week intensive group is his absolute top priority.

It should be, since they’re paying what for some is a year’s salary to be brutalized by trainers and dietitians in the name of wellness.

I hit print.

The printer, a behemoth that sits against the wall, wakes up noisily, sending a rush of adrenaline through me. We have quiet cars now; why can’t they design silent printers?

For a few seconds, I’m certain someone will hear the noise, the door will fly open and I’ll be discovered– but as the first sheets of paper start spitting out into the tray, I remind myself that office hours are long gone.

By the printer, I look over the first sheet in the dim light from the monitor, already absorbing information on Melanie Ahrens, 42, who just had gastro surgery…

While the printer keeps churning, I pull out my phone, more from habit than anything else.

To my annoyance, there’s a WhatsApp notification– a message from Becca, my office manager at Taste of Heaven back in Cincinnati.

To my further annoyance, it’s a voice message.

I told my staff not to bother me unless it’s an emergency, and Lisa, my General Manager, assured me everyone understood…

Ugh. It’s too hard to mentally go back and forth when I’m Riovan Lily.

I lower the volume on my phone and press it to my ear to listen.

Becca’s voice comes through, clear and peppy as always.

‘Hey boss, some guy called for you. I know we’re not supposed to bug you while you’re gone, but it was just, um…

kind of weird. He said he had this catering order for a corporate event, but he was only willing to speak with you about it.

I said you were out of the office for a while, just like you told me to say, but I could connect him with Lisa.

And then he was like, “Oh, right, Lily’s at the Riovan, isn’t she?

” I was like, “Excuse me, who are you again?” He said you shared a mutual friend.

Michael…’ There’s a rustling sound. ‘Jones? Or Johnson? Anyway, I told him you weren’t available but if I could just take down his name and number, we’d be happy to take care of his catering needs.

He just kind of laughed and said, “That won’t be necessary,” and hung up.

Anyway, it was such a weird call, I felt like you should know.

Oh! And I got his number from caller ID in case you wanted to get in touch with him.

It’s two-one-two…’ I stop the recording, a cold sweat already forming in my armpits.

Forget about ageing out of my Riovan job. I’m getting sloppy. Johnson was supposed to be old news, but the second I get here, Vic is still working on the pipes, and now there’s this reporter– because that is absolutely what this mysterious Mr Caller Guy is– claiming some mutual friend crap.

I walk over to the filing cabinet and start opening drawers.

What am I looking for? Pipes. Electrocution.

Johnson. Carli… There. A folder marked East Suite 6605.

Michael’s room number. I splay the folder out on Vic’s desk and start rifling.

A bunch of official-looking documents in French…

Invoices for what looks like the transportation of Michael’s body back to the US, courtesy of the Riovan…

Copies of various articles about the death…

‘I guess my career is in trouble,’ Carli said. Last year, poolside, after midnight, following a few drinks, when all confessions are made. The pool was glowing, the moon winking down on us.

After discovering our Calumet Heights connection, I think she felt like she could tell me anything. Nothing like shared trauma to elicit trust.

‘What? You’ve won a Grammy. You’ve made it.’

‘Noooo… Michael says I can’t book more shows unless I drop two sizes. He’s got these pills he wants me to get on… No, don’t be like that. All the girls do it… but still, I’m trying my own way first. That’s why we’re here. I can lose the pounds naturally, and… I lost a friend to pills. So.’

‘Carli, he is way out of line. You should fire him.’

‘That’s not how things work.’ The tips of her long hair were dyed pink, fluttering over her shoulders like fairy wings as she swished her feet in the pale gleam of the water.

‘So, I’m not famous,’ I said. ‘But I do run a business back in Cincinnati. And when you get that toxic employee, you have to cut them out.’

Her brow furrowed. ‘I’m telling you, it’s not like that in the music biz. Anyway, he knows too much of my shit– enough to ruin my career if I pissed him off. For me to get rid of Michael? He’d literally have to drop dead.’ She tossed me a glance and suppressed a laugh.

‘That bad, huh?’ I said, grinning back like I was amused, too.

Voices. Shit! Outside the door. The printer is still chugging out pages. I grab the stack that’s already printed and dive behind the desk. The pages are warm against my chest.

The door clicks open just as the printer spits out the final page. At the last minute, I remember the folder I pulled from the cabinet, just lying there on the desk.

They’re going to discover me. I will be totally calm. Hey, Vic, I was just grabbing some info on the guests so I can better serve them… Oh my fucking fuck, no one is going to buy that load of bull—

‘Yeah, it’s here on my desk…’ It’s Vic’s voice.

Someone else is standing in the door. Who?

Doesn’t matter. All that matters is that they don’t find me.

I can see the top of the desk from my hiding spot, and I watch him grab his tablet.

Somehow, he doesn’t notice the folder. ‘OK, Serena, you were right, I didn’t have it with me in training.

Dear Lord, getting old is not for the faint of heart. Just keep that in mind, sweetie.’

‘You’re not old,’ comes a cloying voice– Serena’s. ‘But seriously, Vic, if you want me to recommend a cleanse, there’s this one that totally targets mental alertness—’

‘I have a love–hate with cleanses,’ says Vic, already back at the door, leaving.

‘Speaking of which, have you had a chance to look over the proposal I sent, for the brand partnership with CleanSlim? I just think it’s going to be huge , our guests are going to adore this stuff, and I don’t want to keep their CEO waiting . ’

‘I gave it a glance—’

The printer makes a wheezing noise; Vic stops in his tracks at the doorway. Turns.

‘What the—?’ He crosses the office and plucks up the final page of my printout. ‘Huh.’

My heart slams and slams against my chest. If he turns to the left from where he’s standing, he’ll see me.

He turns the page over, examines it. ‘I swear, my printer is possessed.’ Then, with an ‘oh well’ flourish, he tears it into thin ribbons and drops the shreds into the trash.

‘Do you have a second, actually?’ says Serena. ‘If we can go over that proposal together, I can answer any of your concerns—’

‘Serena, it’s ten o’clock at night!’

She laughs. ‘I’m a night owl.’

‘You just want that bonus for bringing on new co-branding,’ teases Vic. ‘Not that I blame you…’

The door clicks shut behind them and Vic turns the deadbolt.

I let my head sink down, feeling the tension burn in my neck.

That was close. Too close. I am getting careless.

I snap the elastic hairband against my wrist. Then I uncramp my body from its crouched position and retrieve the final shredded page from the trash bin, jamming the slivers into my pocket to be pieced together later.

Finally, I return Michael’s folder to the drawer.

All these close calls, and it’s just my first day here. Surely this doesn’t bode well…

But I don’t believe in omens.

Vic coming in here was just one minute of bad luck.

And actually, flip that around and it was good luck, wasn’t it?

After all, he didn’t see me, and that’s what matters.

As for the Michael Johnson stuff that Becca called about…

some sleazy reporter came across that photo of me and Carli and tracked me down with the goal of squeezing me for a soundbite for some clickbait headline, just like the first time, and if I ignore him, he’ll go away, just like the first time…

And how did this guy know you were back at the Riovan?

He didn’t. It was a guess. He was fishing, and he just happened to be right. Who cares, anyway? While I don’t exactly want to broadcast my presence here, it’s also not a state secret.

‘You got this,’ I mutter to myself, as I quietly leave the office.

Finally outside the hotel, with the sound of waves lapping the shoreline below, I run the whole way to Vista West along the dark back paths, intermittently lit, grasses tickling my ankles and the moon impossibly bright overhead, throwing blades of white light on to the ocean.

I don’t stop until I’m in my room. Breathless, sweaty, but safe.

For now.