Page 24

I weaved through the resort, my eyes locked on Clementine. The housemaid's hands fluttered over polished silverware. I caught her in the alcove, away from the crowd.

"Clementine," my voice was a hushed blade, "what do you know about Emilio's ties to this island?"

She stiffened, the gleam of the chandelier above us reflecting off her wide eyes—a silent beat, then another, each one thudding against my chest like an accusation. My gut churned; something wasn't right. I had been thinking about the man Marcus mentioned and thought of Emilio. He knew Isla back then, he said. Was that the guy Marcus was talking about?

"Ms. Thomas," she breathed, barely audible. "Not here."

"Then where?" I pressed, urgency sharpening my words.

"Walk with me." She glanced around, shoulders tense, eyes sharp darts seeking eavesdroppers.

We slipped into the rhythmic flow of servants invisibly attending to the guests' every whim. Her whisper broke the cadence, "Emilio… he's hiding more than anyone knows."

"More?" The word escaped me, heavy with implications. “What do you mean?”

"Much more." Her lips barely moved. "Dangerous truths."

Every muscle in my body coiled, ready to spring into action. This—this was why I needed to speak to Emilio. Every instinct as an agent, every ounce of protective drive as a mother, screamed for resolution.

"Can you—?" I started.

"Shh." A finger to her lips, her gaze a signal flare of caution. We'd talk more. Later. For now, Clementine's words clung to me, a second skin of suspicion. What was it about this man, this Emilio? I needed answers. I would get them.

Guests strolled around the shimmering pool. They chatted quietly among themselves, their voices a gentle hum mingling with the faint sound of splashing water. Some gathered in small clusters, their heads bowed together as if sharing secrets. They were probably concocting elaborate stories about how my daughter, with her serene smile and poised demeanor, could have possibly turned out to be a murderer and how she killed her best friend in cold blood. The air was thick with speculative whispers as each guest contributed their own version of events to the narrative.

Ugh.

I watched Emilio from the corner of my eye, his mysterious presence drawing me in.

"Time to move," I muttered under my breath.

Palm trees swayed as if they were privy to my plan, whispering secrets to the ocean breeze.

"Ms. Thomas, to what do I owe the pleasure?" Emilio's voice was a velvet trap as I approached him.

"It’s not really the place or time for small talk, is it?" I said smoothly, sidling up beside him. "Care for a walk?"

His eyes narrowed, sensing the undertone in my invitation. "Is there something on your mind?"

Gravel crunched under our feet, breaking the silence as we ventured farther from the main house. A secluded grove of palms lay ahead. We stopped, and the only sound was the rustle of leaves in the wind.

"Here's good," I said, my voice low.

Emilio's arms wrapped around himself, a barrier against vulnerability. "What's this about?"

"Your secret," I began. "You were here on the island when Isla died, weren’t you?"

His eyes darted away, then back, fierce. "Who told you?"

"Doesn't matter. I need to know more," I pressed.

"Why? Why should I trust you?" He was a statue.

"Because I'm here to help." My tone softened. "I want to understand."

"Understand?" He scoffed, but his rigid stance faltered. "You have no idea."

"Then explain it to me," I urged. "Please."

He exhaled sharply, a fortress considering its gates. "It's… complicated."

"Most truths are." I edged closer, my words a gentle prod. "Start somewhere—anywhere."

Emilio looked out to the ocean. "Fine," he relented, "but this goes deeper than you can imagine."