Page 9 of Every Time I Go on Vacation, Someone Dies

“It’s fine.”

“No, it isn’t.”

She pulls away. “It doesn’t matter.”

“We can ditch this stupid tour and go somewhere and talk.”

“Nope. Remember? After.”

“Okay, after.”

“Come on, it’s just over here.”

We round the corner onto a short, narrow street full of tiny shops and tourists. There are old cobblestones under our feet, and the storefronts are a colorful mix of reds and blues. It’s a nice respite from the busy street behind us, and whatever bullshit Connor’s spinning.

The gelato shop is, miraculously, free of the usual long line, and we step inside. The young, hot guy behind the counter coos over Harper, like all men do, and I try not to let it bother me.17 It’s no coincidence, though, that the two men I’ve been in love with met me without her present.

Anyway, she doesn’t give the gelato guy her number when he asks for it, just picks up our order—lemon for me and chocolate for her.

I want to linger in the cool air and stare at the vibrant colors of the massive vats of gelato, but Harper pulls me outside because we need to meet our tour guide in ten minutes.

Once we’re on the street again, I take a slow bite of lemon-flavored creaminess while the hot wind blows on my face. I close my eyes in pleasure, savoring the cool feeling in my mouth.

By the time I leave this trip, I’m going to be equal parts gelato and Aperol spritz.18

Speaking of which: “Is there time for a drink before the tour?”

“Absolutely not.”

“Damn it.”

Harper grins at me before a storm cloud passes over her face. I sense Connor’s presence behind me, like how the air changes before it rains.

“I need your help, Eleanor,” Connor says.

I turn around slowly, but not slowly enough. He’s standing so close to me that my elbow catches on his arm and my cup of gelato pops out of my hand and falls to the ground. Its contents spread across the cobblestones, immediately melting like butter in a hot frying pan.

If I murder Connor in revenge for killing my ice cream, would that be considered justifiable homicide?

“Sorry about that, El.” Something in his tone is different—less sure of himself, less cocky. Like his voice in the church, it reminds me of the Connor I used to know.

“Suppose it’s true. What do you want me to do about it?”

“Help me figure out what’s happening. Like the old days. You remember.”

I shudder despite the heat. That’s the problem. I do remember. Too much of it.

“Your brakes failed on an old car, and you got jostled in traffic. That’s a pretty thin plot.”

He nods slowly. “It’s all true, though.”

“What aren’t you telling me?”

He takes his fedora off and holds it between his hands. “I’m not certain I can say.” His voice is full of emotion and—

Oh good God, no. No, no, no. I am not going to feel sorry for Connor Smith.

“If you want my help, you’re going to have to tell me everything.”