Page 15

Later, I pushed open the hefty mahogany door of the main house, the hinges silently yielding to my entrance. I had left Olivia at the bungalow, not wanting her to be around people who were treating her like a pariah.

The air was thick with tension like a heavy curtain that refused to sway even as the breeze from the ocean teased its edges. Guests huddled in clusters, their murmurs ebbing and flowing with the secrets that Paradise Key Private Resort seemed to swell with.

"Ms. Beatrice," I called out, my voice slicing through the low hum of conversation as I approached her solitary figure by the grand bay window. Her posture, a column of icy detachment, remained unaffected by the collective anxiety of the room.

"Agent Thomas," she greeted without turning, her gaze fixed on the horizon beyond the glass.

"Enjoying the view?" I asked, matching her coolness note for note.

"Always," Beatrice replied, sparing me a glance now, her eyes sharp and assessing. "Though one wonders if there's more to see than meets the eye."

"Speaking of which," I leaned in, lowering my voice just enough to be conspiratorial, "I can't help but notice your sister’s… let's call it disinterest in your friend Emilio."

"Is it that apparent?" She turned fully toward me, an eyebrow arching with practiced control.

"Only to a trained eye," I said. "Care to share why?"

"Does an aversion need justification?" Beatrice countered, her lips twitching into a half-smile that didn't reach her eyes.

"Maybe not, but it could be important," I pressed on.

"Then let's say she and Emilio have different ideas about a lot of things," she offered, her words measured, her tone laced with something unreadable.

"Could you be more specific?" I asked.

“Some subjects are more controversial than others."

"Controversial enough to kill for?" I watched her closely.

"Agent Thomas," she sighed, finally facing me again, "one hopes that in the world of civilized beings, we can resolve our differences without resorting to barbarism."

"Yet here we are," I pointed out, "on an island where civilization seems to have taken a back seat to murder."

Beatrice’s gaze slipped past me, landing on a distant point of the room.

"Human nature is complex."

She paused, selecting her next words with surgical precision. "Aesthetic disagreements can be… let’s say about the color of one’s skin."

"Emilio’s skin?" I pointed out.

"Indeed," she said smoothly. "My sister has a… let’s say… aversion to anyone bringing dark-skinned people into the family."

“I see.”

I pocketed her cryptic hint like evidence and shifted my focus across the room. Victoria, Mark's mother, was engaged in a fiery exchange and flicked her hands in sharp gestures. Her voice pierced the hum of conversation, each syllable spiked with venom.

"Can you believe the audacity?" she spat, unaware of my approach. “Bringing him here?”

"Hardly surprising," the other guest muttered, leaning in. "Beatrice must have an agenda."

"Agenda?" I interjected, sidling up beside them. Their heads swung toward me like startled deer clocking an intruder.

"Eva Rae," Mark's mother greeted me, her voice dropping to a cooler octave. "We were just?—"

"Discussing Emilio?" I finished for her. "I'm curious about this agenda you mentioned."

"Curiosity," she quipped, "can be a perilous pursuit."

"Perilous but necessary," I replied, locking onto her evasive stance. "Especially when agendas turn fatal."

"Fatal? Pfft," she scoffed, dismissing the idea with a wave. "Emilio is… misguided, not murderous."

"Yet here we stand, at a murder scene," I reminded her, leaving the statement hanging like a noose. “And there’s a man present you don’t care for and obviously didn’t want here.”

"Coincidence, Eva Rae," she insisted, but her eyes darted away, telling a different story.

"I don’t believe in coincidence," I shot back.

"Coincidence or not," the other guest chimed in, "it's clear that Emilio's presence has stirred troubled waters."

I squared my shoulders.

"Your relationship with Emilio," I started, casual but piercing. "It goes back?"

"Years," she clipped out, her eyes narrowing just enough to betray her guard.

“Where do you know him from?”

"Oh, I barely remember anymore. You know how it is, Eva Rae."

“Are you sure? Then why are you unhappy with him being here?”

"Let’s just say my sister wasn’t exactly honest about the person she wanted to bring here for my son’s birthday—about his background, where he came from, and who he was." Her tone was dismissive, but her fingers betrayed her, tapping a nervous rhythm on her forearm.

Was she referring to the fact that he was Hispanic? I had known Victoria for years and never heard her say anything remotely racist.

"What happened to your daughter? To Isla?"

Her tapping stopped. Silence hung between us, heavy and expectant.

“You’ve lost two children now,” I said. “Here on the island.”

She looked at me, confused. Tears sprung to her eyes, but she refused to let them escape and turned away instead.

“I need to… I have to….”

She walked off, stoic as always. Amy came up to me. “Why did you have to mention that? Marcus Cole committed that murder. He was sent to jail for it.”

I nodded, breathing heavily, reminding myself I was among friends here. Good friends. Old friends.

Yet I never knew that Victoria had a daughter. I guess we weren’t as close as I thought.