Page 147 of Every Time I Go on Vacation, Someone Dies

If I hadn’t gotten up and gone to Oliver’s room, I’d be dead right now.

Dead.

Finito.

I can’t make any jokes about that.

Would I even know what had happened? Would I be watching all this unfold like some movie I couldn’t reach through? Or would I be in some black oblivion, nothing, all that’s left of me on a page somewhere?

I’ve never thought about death this much before, despite what I do for a living.

The people who die in my books aren’t real. They’re pieces of a puzzle I’ve invented. It always surprises me when fans speak to me as if they’re alive.

But now that I’m in the middle of my own murder investigation, I wish I’d shown more compassion to the people I killed on the page. Because even if you’re a liar and a bad person, dying before your time isn’t something I’d wish on anyone.

“Did you want some tea, Eleanor?” Oliver asks me.

I blink against the light. It feels like I’m coming out of a fog, but it’s still there, right in front of me.

“Yes, thank you.”

Harper squeezes my hand, and I realize that we’re back on our couch. The easel with our Allison accusations is still here, all the other squares blank, a series of missed opportunities.

Oliver hands me a cup of tea and I take a sip. It’s full of sugar and cream, and the English know what they’re about, thinking tea is the cure for everything, because a couple of sips and I do start to feel better.

All things considered.

“Well, we know one thing,” Allison says sitting on the settee across from me. “Eleanor didn’t kill Shek.”

“She could’ve shot at her own bed,” Emily says next to her.

“No,” Oliver says, standing behind them. “She was in my room when the shots occurred.”

I can feel everyone’s eyes staring at me, but I’m not embarrassed. The only good thing to happen last night was me and Oliver.

“Yes. We were together.”

Harper squeezes my hand again, a show of approval. “So that leaves you two out of it.”

“How did they get your gun, Guy?” I ask. “I thought you always slept with one eye open?”

He shakes his head like he’s trying to clear it. “I think I was drugged.”

“Drugged? Come on. How many glasses of wine did you have at dinner?”

“Several, I admit. But this feels like more than that.” He taps the side of his head. “It feels like a sleeping pill.”

My eyes dart to Harper’s and then away.

“How could you have taken a sleeping pill without knowing it?” Allison asks.

“Someone could’ve dosed me over dinner,” Guy says. “We were all there in the dining room. Easy enough to intercept a glass going to my table. And if I recall, a few of you came to talk to us at various points. It would be the work of a moment.”

“Okay, maybe,” Oliver says. “But wouldn’t you taste it when you drank it?”

“Depends on what they used. But I know when I’ve been drugged.”

I’m going to leave that there.