Page 170 of Every Time I Go on Vacation, Someone Dies

We grip hands across the table, and I know I should confide in Oliver, but I don’t. I don’t want Connor in this moment. He’s been in too many moments between us.204

Instead, I open my menu and say, “Do you think anything’s good here?”

He laughs and says that it all looks amazing, and we order some cacio e pepe, then make idle conversation while I watch the rest of our party.

Harper’s sitting with Emily, an uneasy détente. Guy and Sylvie are at a table with the bus driver. And then there are the BookFace Ladies, chattering and taking photographs on their phones. They’re subdued, though, tamped down. I wonder why until I hear Cathy tell Susan that she’s thinking of going home.

Shek, I realize. They’re mourning him.

I should do that, too, more than I have.

A newsletter devoted to him. Or a lecture series. I should read his books and promote them. Emily should do her thing on TikTok.

The man died, after all, because of me.

Wait, wait, wait, hold up. It’s not what you think.

I’m not the perpetrator. I’m just the catalyst. So that makes me responsible but not, you know, legally.

Which brings me to Connor, the person who is responsible.

He’s sitting with Isabella and Allison, surrounded by BookFace Ladies, and I can’t help but wonder what’s going on at that table.205, 206, 207

Connor looks carefree, but Allison’s usual sunny demeanor has slipped. She’s biting her lower lip, concentrating on something, while Isabella tells a story, gesticulating with her hands for emphasis.208 Cathy watches them from the table next door, and I wonder once again how she got on this tour. Maybe that was part of Connor’s plan. To torture me first with Cathy before he finally did away with me. That might explain her disinterest in me and the shift in her focus to him. Because there’s one thing I know about Cathy—no one tells her what to do.

Our food comes, and the cacio e pepe is delectable, creamy, and spicy, with the pasta fresher than fresh. I don’t have much appetite, though, with everything going on. I try to make light conversation with Oliver, but it’s hard not to feel like there’s a target on my back.

That’s why I’m sitting on the edge of the group, my eyes on everyone.

No one’s sneaking up on me at this lunch, I’ll tell you.209

When the meal’s over, I pose for a group photo with the BookFace Ladies in front of the church or cathedral or whatever it is. Then Sylvie leads us to the Villa Rufolo, which is, according to Sylvie and Google, “one of the largest and wealthiest on the Amalfi Coast. Built by the influential Rufolo family in the thirteenth century, it’s been the host to Renaissance poets and Neapolitan royalty. It was even the source of inspiration for the composer Wagner.”

It’s impressive. The architecture is Moorish in origin, with scalloped walls and gardens full of colorful flowers laid out in intricate designs. And soaring above it all is the Torre Maggiore, a medieval tower that has a magnificent 360-degree view of Ravello.

If Sylvie’s to be believed, anyway.

Which, I think we can all agree, she shouldn’t be.

“Some of you want to climb the tower, yes?” Sylvie asks, pointing up.

“No,” Connor says. “Some of us do not.”

“It is optional. Inside there is a museum and I have bought you all tickets. You can walk in the gardens for the next hour, but if you want the best view in Ravello, then up, up, up you go.”

I catch Harper’s eye, and she rolls her eyes at me. I shake my head in response. In a few days, we’ll be rid of Sylvie, and then all she’ll be is a footnote in our lives.210

If I last that long.

I’m repeating myself.

My mind is clouding with too many thoughts. That pure clarity I had an hour ago? It’s slipping away. I didn’t have anything more to drink with lunch, but all that wine in the morning, that day drinking—as fun as it was—it’s still there, swirling around.

I need to feel that clear certainty again so I can make a plan and execute it.

I look up at the tower.

There.