Page 21

PARADISE KEY – SUNDAY MORNING

I leaned against the veranda railing, my gaze sweeping over Paradise Key Private Resort's splendor. It was morning again, and I had barely slept. Olivia finally fell asleep around four a.m., so I let her sleep a little longer while I went out for breakfast. The rustle of palm trees and the distant murmur of ocean waves usually brought a sense of peace. Not today. My chest tightened as I entered the main house.

The grand foyer opened before me, sunlight streaming through the windows and casting long shadows across the floor. With each step toward the breakfast buffet, I scanned faces, analyzed postures, and listened for hesitations in voices that might betray nerves or guilt.

"Ms. Thomas, enjoying your stay?" Mr. Harrison, the resort manager, greeted me with practiced charm. It was routine for him, a question he obviously always asked guests in the morning.

"Not really," I replied, matching his grin while my mind worked double time. "With everything that’s been going on. But I have noticed that you run a tight ship here."

"Only the best for our esteemed guests." He puffed out his chest like a proud peacock.

"Indeed." I let the word hang, then moved on. “Say, how long have you worked here, if you don’t mind me asking?”

“Oh, we’re coming up on fifteen years, me and the wife.”

“I see,” I said. “So, you live here?”

“We do. No better place in the world.”

“And you were here when Isla Walton was found murdered?” I asked.

He took a deep breath and shook his head. “Yes, such a terrible, terrible tragedy. And now it’s happening again. We have known the Waltons for many, many years and never thought we’d see this happen to them again.”

“And Mr. Walton, he died five years ago, am I right?”

“That is correct, yes. Heart attack as we understand it.”

“Yeah, that’s what Victoria told me, too. Did you know Isla well?” I asked.

“She would come here every summer when she was out of her boarding school. I believe she went to school in England. She preferred it here to being up north. Didn’t do well with the cold, I take it.”

That’s why I didn’t know about her.

“And the boy, Marcus Cole, who was convicted of killing her, did you know him?” I asked.

“Most certainly. He would also come here to visit every summer. They were the loveliest couple. A very good fit for one another, in my opinion. And Ms. Victoria seemed to think so, too. She was very fond of him, even though he came from a different background than Miss Isla. She very much encouraged their relationship. It’s very strange what happened. He was such a nice young man. It makes one think… who can you really trust? Especially around your children.”

“I guess,” I said.

One of the staff members approached him and asked him a question.

“If you’ll excuse me,” he said and left.

“Of course.”

I walked to the buffet and got a plate of scrambled eggs and sausages while thinking about what Mr. Harrison had told me. I sat down, a lot going through my head.

Marcus Cole, who was this guy? This morning, I received an email from Agent Simmons telling me Marcus had recently been released from prison. I couldn’t stop thinking about it. The questions darted through my mind. It could be him again. Marcus had reason enough: revenge, perhaps, or a twisted homecoming. With its isolation and luxury, the island presented the perfect stage for either.

Slipping away from the whispering voices and clinking silverware, I made my way toward the bungalows. The breeze tousled my hair, whispering secrets as I passed. Each step was light, a dance with danger on this island masquerade.

"Going somewhere?" A voice sliced through my focus like a knife. It was Michelle. I had walked right past her, caught up in my thoughts.

"Just getting a quick breath of fresh air," I said without breaking stride. My heartbeat thrummed in my ears, a steady rhythm pushing me forward. Michelle gave me a strange look like I was up to no good, but I didn’t let it bother me. In front of me loomed the bungalows like pearls on a string. There were thirty-four of them, but only twenty-eight were being used for this event. Six of them remained empty.

Compelled by curiosity, I walked toward the empty ones.

The first bungalow loomed, its door ajar. I paused, listening, then slipped inside. The room was dim, curtains fluttering slightly. I scanned for disruptions, for anything out of place. My hand grazed the bedspread—crisp, untouched—then moved on.

Second bungalow, same routine. Nothing.

But the third… something felt off. No ransacked drawers or scattered belongings. Yet there it was—a small backpack on the floor, a silent scream in the silence. I picked it up. There were a couple of T-shirts and some underwear in it.

Men’s underwear.

Stepping out of the bungalow's shadow, I nearly collided with Jason, one of the resort's gardeners. His hands were dark with soil, and a gentle smile played on his lips.

"Ms. Thomas, beautiful day, isn't it?" he greeted, tilting his head.

"Yes," I replied, my eyes not meeting his but darting past to the thickening foliage around us. "You've been here all morning?"

"Since sunrise," he nodded, wiping his brow with the back of his hand. "Keeping paradise perfect."

"Anyone… out of the ordinary cross your path? New faces, maybe?" I kept my tone light, almost idle.

"Here?" He chuckled. "Guests come and go, but today, no new footprints in my gardens."

"Footprints, you say?" I arched an eyebrow, feigning curiosity.

"Metaphorically, Ms. Thomas. Everyone stays on the paths, as they should." He gestured to the neatly outlined walkways.

"Of course," I murmured. My gaze fixed on a crushed frangipani flower by the path—a misstep gone unnoticed.

"Anything else, ma'am?" Jason asked, ready to move on.

"Nothing. Thank you," I said, watching him return to his pruning.

I turned away, every sinew taut, every nerve firing. The backpack, the crushed flower. Something was up.

"Olivia," I whispered to myself, reminding myself of my silent vow to protect her at all costs.