Page 11

I kept holding Olivia tightly, my arms a cocoon around her shivering form. The room's atmosphere was thick, a cocktail of whispers and choked-back tears. My mind raced—how would she cope with Mark being gone? Her eyes, wide orbs of shock, were mirrors to the chaos within as she clung to me.

"Mom," Olivia whispered, her voice barely a tremor. "It hurts."

"Shh, I'm here," I murmured, stroking her hair.

A sudden shift in the room's energy drew my gaze. Mark's mother, Victoria, stormed in, her presence slicing through the crowd like a knife. Her flushed face was a canvas of raw emotion—anger laced with sorrow. Each step was a statement, her grief morphing into something fierce and palpable.

"Where is she?" Her voice cut across the room, edged and brittle.

The crowd parted. I tightened my hold on Olivia, ready to shield her from whatever eruption was about to break. What was going on?

She stopped in front of us.

"Olivia!" The accusation was a blade flung into silence. "You know what happened to him! You did this!"

The room, a hive of low murmurs, fell deathly quiet. Every head swiveled, and all eyes were fixed on the confrontation unfolding before them.

"Absolutely not," I said, rising to my feet. My voice was a rock, unyielding against the accusation. "Not my daughter. My daughter is innocent."

"Then explain why—" Mark's mother advanced, her grief morphed into fury.

I stood firm, cutting across her words. "There's nothing to explain." My stance was unwavering, and the protective barrier around Olivia was as solid as my conviction. I sat down by her, holding her in my arms. "Olivia loved Mark."

Mark's mother was relentless, her voice escalating with each word. "I saw them! Together on the beach, laughing, sharing secrets!" Her finger jabbed through the air, a missile aimed at Olivia. "Last night. Before my son vanished."

"Victoria, please," came a strained whisper from somewhere in the crowd.

"Quiet!" she snapped back, not breaking eye contact. "They were inseparable, and now? Mark is dead, and she's standing here, unscathed! She was the last one to be with him before he… before he…."

Olivia quivered within my embrace, her body folding into itself like a delicate origami figure threatened by the strong winds. She pressed her palms over her ears as if to muffle the sharpness of the accusations, a low keening sound escaping her lips. She began to rock, slowly at first, then with more urgency—a silent scream etched in every motion.

"Enough!" I said, my voice slicing through the tension. "Your words are daggers, and you're only hurting an innocent girl!"

"Olivia, look at me," I coaxed, trying to draw her out of her protective shell. But the shell was hardening, and the girl I knew disappeared inside it, replaced by a fragile creature racked by unseen blows.

“She knows something; I’m telling you!” Victoria continued. “It’s all her fault. She hurt him. I know she did. She’s not even denying it. I want to hear her say she didn’t hurt my son. I want her to say it. But she can’t, can she?”

"Stop it!" My voice cracked as I angled my body to shield Olivia from the onslaught. "You're wrong."

Victoria’s eyes blazed with a fury that could have set the ocean ablaze. "Am I?" she spat.

The room's atmosphere thickened, tension coiling like a spring. Murmurs rippled through the crowd.

"Your grief has blinded you," I said, struggling to keep my own emotions in check. "You’re looking for someone to blame. But my daughter isn’t the one. Olivia is grieving too."

"Like hell she is!"

"Mom…." Olivia's voice was a frayed thread, barely audible.

"Enough!" I shot back, my plea barbed with desperation. "Can't you see what this is doing to her?"

Eyes shifted; guests traded glances loaded with doubt and curiosity. Some recoiled from the raw display, hands covering mouths, while others leaned in, ravenous for every morsel of conflict.

"Look at her," I demanded, my voice trembling with contained rage and sorrow. "She's your son’s friend, not his killer."

"Friends don't lie!" Mark's mother accused, her voice slicing through the murmured speculations.

"Neither does Olivia," I countered, each word a stone in a fortress around my daughter. "Not about this. Not about Mark."

Heads nodded, some in agreement, some in skepticism. The crowd had become judge and jury, their collective breaths held tight as they awaited the next revelation.

A cold hush fell. The double doors to the grand hall swung open with a purpose that made my heart lurch. Two uniformed officers strode in, their steps echoing against the marble floor of Paradise Key Private Resort's most lavish room.

"What’s the situation here?" The taller officer's voice cut through the whispers like a knife.

I tightened my grip around Olivia. She shrank against me, her eyes darting to the imposing figures that now commanded the room's attention. The detective from earlier stepped inside.

"Detective!" Victoria didn't miss a beat. She pushed through the throng of onlookers, pointing an accusing finger at Olivia. "That girl," she hissed, "she knows what happened to my son."

The detective's gaze locked onto Olivia, her innocence under scrutiny. His partner fumbled for a notepad, anticipation etched into his face.

"Ma'am, please, calm down and start from the beginning." The detective's words were laced with authority, but Victoria was a cyclone that refused to be stilled.

"Start with her," she urged, insistent, her voice searing through the space between them. "Mark would still be alive if it weren’t for her! She was with him last night. I saw them. In a tight embrace. Kissing. And now he’s dead. Now, my son is dead."

Olivia's breath hitched, her body tensing as if bracing for impact. I felt her pulse race, a frantic drumbeat against the silence that had once again claimed the room.

"Is this true?" The detective's question was directed at Olivia, but I answered.

"No," I said firmly, standing between them. "You're barking up the wrong tree, Detective."

"Let's keep this orderly," he replied, unswayed by emotion, his professionalism a stark contrast to the theatrics spiraling around us.

"Orderly?" Victoria scoffed. "My son is dead, and you want orderly?"

"Mrs. Thomas," the detective acknowledged me without taking his eyes off Olivia. "I'll need to speak with your daughter."

The detective's eyes darted from the enraged woman before us to me and back again, his face a mask of professional neutrality. I could almost hear the cogs turning in his mind as he weighed our words against the charged atmosphere.

"Detective, I’m an FBI agent," I cut in, my voice slicing through the tension. "My daughter?—"

"Agent or not, your badge doesn't change the facts here," he said curtly, barely blinking.

"Olivia is innocent," I pressed on, my words sharp. "There's been a mistake."

"Everyone's innocent until they're not," he replied, his tone even but his eyes skeptical. "We need to follow every lead, Agent Thomas. You should know this, being an agent and all."

"Leads? He's her best friend! They grew up together. There’s no way they could have been kissing. My daughter is gay." My voice rose despite my control, the maternal instinct to protect Olivia wrestling with my trained calm.

“Mo-om!” Olivia said, terrified.

“It’s true, isn’t it?” I said. “You were just good friends?”

"Friends can hide truths too," the detective murmured, more to himself than to me, a slight crease forming between his brows.

"Olivia, I need you to answer some questions," the detective said, his tone calculated. His eyes softened ever so slightly as they found Olivia's frightened gaze.

"Can't you see she's terrified?" My words lashed out, every muscle in my body coiled and ready to strike. But he was unyielding, his duty clear in his mind.

"Ma'am, it's necessary." His voice carried the weight of authority, but there was a tremor of reluctance that betrayed his understanding of her fragile state.

The room had become a living entity, its breath held tight as the detective stepped closer to Olivia. She looked small, folded into herself like a bird protecting its broken wing.

"Is this really needed now?" I challenged, stepping between them, the shield to her vulnerability.

"It’s procedure," he insisted, though his caution spoke volumes. He knew the volatility of the waters he was navigating. “She is most likely the last person to have seen him alive.”

“At least take her somewhere private,” I said.

"Mom, it's okay," Olivia whispered, her voice a thread of silk that might snap at any moment.

"Like hell it is," I muttered under my breath, but I stepped aside, my presence a sentinel beside her.

"Olivia, where were you last night?" His question hung in the air, each word a stone thrown into the stillness.

"After dinner… I… I walked the beach with Mark like we’ve been doing every night while here, just as friends, goofing around," Olivia stammered, her hands trembling like leaves in the wind. “And then I went back to bed.”

“What time was that? What time did you start walking together?”

“I don’t know. Eight o’clock, perhaps?”

"Can anyone confirm that you went back to bed?" The detective's eyes never left her face, always searching for a crack in the facade.

“N-no. My mom was already asleep when I came back.”

"And when was the last time you saw Mark?" The detective nodded, scribbling notes in his little black book.

“H-he… at the beach. I left him and went to bed. I assumed he went back to his own bed to sleep. When I woke up this morning, it was because I heard someone screaming.”

“I see. And when was this? When did you go to bed?”

“I don’t know. Around ten o’clock, perhaps?”

“And did you two fight about anything?” the detective asked.

Olivia looked frightened. “F-fight? What do you mean by that?”

“Did you have any argument, any disputes of any sort?”

A murmur swept through the crowd, the sound of waves crashing against the cliffs of doubt. Whispers curled into the air, each one a viper waiting to strike.

"Enough!" I exclaimed, my voice ringing out, silencing the murmurs. "You've got your answers."

"Agent Thomas, please." The detective's admonition was gentle, a plea for composure.

"Mom." Olivia's hand found mine, her grip fierce. "I'm scared."

"Nothing will happen to you," I promised, my stance rigid against the turmoil of uncertainty. "I'm here."

“All right, Ms. Thomas. We’ll stop for now, but we will definitely have to talk to your daughter again.” He turned to face the crowd and raised his voice. “My colleagues and I will take everyone’s statement about their whereabouts last night and this morning. And no one leaves the island.”

The detective closed his notebook, his job done for the moment, but the air remained charged, an electric current running from soul to soul.

"Let's give them some space," he announced to the room, parting the onlookers with a mere suggestion.

The crowd dispersed, even though it felt like their shadows kept lingering over us. And there we stood, mother and daughter, united in a fortress built of unwavering love.