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I descended the main staircase to see the police boat docked at the back of the yacht.

My heartbeat quickened as a gangly older man with an impressive mustache stomped into the salon, followed by an officer so good-looking that if he turned up at a party in the figure-hugging shorts uniform he was wearing, I’d be more inclined to think he was a stripper than a real police officer.

Marielle was on their heels. “Can I offer you anything? A glass of water?” she inquired, rushing to head them off.

The older one plodded over to the coffee table and plucked a canapé from a tray. “What are these?” he asked, his bushy eyebrows knitting as he inspected it.

“It’s a brie tart with fig jam,” she answered. “I have ham and cheese mini-quiches as well if you’d like?”

He popped the tart into his mouth and nodded appreciatively as the younger officer smiled at her, revealing a dimple, the highlights in his brunette locks glinting in the sun. “Water, please, for both of us,” he said. “Thank you.”

Marielle returned his smile, flustered.

“And yes to the quiches,” the older one said once he’d swallowed.

As Marielle scurried away, their eyes landed on me. “I am Officer Lambert,” the older one said, switching to English, “and he is Officer Gauthier.”

“I’m Audrey Collet,” I said. I peered past them, looking for Laurent. “Are the rescue divers with you?”

“They are showering on the lower deck,” Officer Gauthier said.

“What is your relation to Monsieur Dale?” Officer Lambert asked, assessing me with a penetrating gaze.

“We were old friends. He invited me here to celebrate his birthday.”

Officer Gauthier glanced around. “Where are the others?”

“I don’t know. Can I ask…do you know what happened to him?”

“We will need to interview all of you,” Lambert replied, sidestepping my question. He turned to Marielle, who had returned with a cold bottle of water for each of them. Switching back to French, he asked her, “What room can we use?”

“Give me just a moment, I will find a room for you.” And she was off again, bustling up the stairs.

“I can talk to you now if you like,” I volunteered, wanting to appear helpful while gleaning whatever information I could.

Officer Lambert looked down his prominent nose at me, then threw his hands up and sat in a nearby chair, gesturing for me to take the couch opposite.

I did as directed and Officer Gauthier sat in another chair, extracting a tape recorder and a notepad from the backpack I hadn’t noticed was slung over his broad shoulder.

I considered the tape recorder, wondering whether I needed a lawyer. But I’d just volunteered to talk to them; backing out now would make me seem suspicious.

“This is Audrey Collet,” Gauthier said into the tape recorder.

“Audrey, can you tell us about the dive?” Lambert asked.

While I talked, Gauthier took notes and Lambert kept his eyes trained on me, mustache swishing as he gnawed at one cheek and then the other.

When I reached the part where we’d gotten caught in the murk, he stopped me, asking me to carefully recount who I’d seen, following up with questions about timing.

I answered everything as best I could, with the caveat that it had been quite cloudy, and I’d been more focused on my own safety than who I saw when.

My words faltered as I saw Laurent, Evan, and Rémy emerge from the stairs beyond the pool wrapped in towels, their shoulders slumped, faces somber. Laurent caught my eye for just a moment, his gaze uneasy, before he followed them down the central stairwell toward our cabins.

“Did you talk to the owners of the gray yacht?” I asked the officers.

I could tell from the look that passed between them that I wasn’t the first to ask. The hair stood up on the back of my neck. “Why?” Gauthier asked.

“We saw one of them down there. They own the land around the proposed De-Sal site, and apparently they were really upset with Tyson.”

“How long had you known Tyson?” Lambert asked, abruptly switching directions.

“Since high school,” I answered.

“And the last time you saw him before this trip was when?” he pushed.

I paused, knowing my answer would only elicit more questions. “Ten, eleven years ago.”

“Why so long?”

While my exterior remained calm, my pulse skyrocketed. “Our lives went in different directions.”

“So why did he invite you, who are not close to him and had not seen him in so long, to this intimate birthday celebration?” Lambert asked.

The wheels of my brain spun as I tried to decide how much to tell them.

Should I reveal that he’d hired me to find out who was blackmailing him?

But that would lead to other questions, questions neither Cody nor I could easily answer.

Still, they would see the $50,000 he’d paid my firm up front if they looked at his bank statements, which, if this turned into a murder investigation, they definitely would. So I needed to tell them something.

“I’m a discovery agent,” I said.

That got their attention.

“What is this?” Gauthier asked, pausing with a brie tart halfway to his mouth.

“I normally work with attorneys doing discovery before trial.” I lowered my voice. “But Tyson was afraid someone in his inner circle was plotting against him, and he hired my firm to find out who.”

“Plotting, how?” Lambert asked, stroking his mustache.

“He was a bit…paranoid,” I said. “There were a few things, documents, that should have been confidential but were leaked. He wanted me to find out who was leaking these documents.”

“And did you?” Lambert asked.

I shook my head. The only proof I had of Cody and Allison’s duplicity was the pictures of her talking to those two men at Le Ti who were wearing costumes that concealed their identity, and I was not inclined to make accusations without evidence that would stand up in a court of law.

“I’ve been here less than forty-eight hours.

And the others don’t know I am here in that capacity, so please don’t mention it to them. ”

Lambert nodded as Gauthier madly scribbled on his notepad.

“Did Mr. Dale say or do anything while you were here that would lead you to believe he might be capable of harming himself?” Gauthier stepped in.

“No,” I said, relieved that they didn’t seem inclined to ask any more questions about my work.

“And can you think of anyone who might have wished Tyson harm?” he asked.

Literally every guest on this boat . But all I knew was hearsay, and I wasn’t about to start pointing fingers without talking to an attorney first. I shrugged. “Sorry I’m not more help.”

Behind the officers, I saw Marielle descend the central staircase, followed by Allison and Cody, who looked more composed than when I’d left him. Officers Gauthier and Lambert stood, hands extended, as Cody and Allison crossed to them.

“Cody Dale,” Cody said.

“Allison Zhu,” Allison followed up.

Gauthier’s eyes lit up as he registered who Allison was. “You are the champion swimmer,” he said, impressed. “I watched you beat our girl in every race.”

Allison nodded. “Alaina was a great competitor. She beat me sometimes too.”

“But not in the Olympics,” Gauthier said, pointing at her. “My little sister is a swimmer. She had your poster on her wall in—”

Lambert cleared his throat, cutting his partner off. “We need to take statements from everyone who was diving today.”

“Marielle told us you need a room,” Cody said. “There’s an office upstairs. I can show you.”

“Do you need anything more from me?” I asked as they started toward the stairs.

“Not now,” Lambert answered. “But you will be here if we have more questions.”

—

I descended the stairs to my room, kicking myself for volunteering to speak to the police as I went over the half-truths I’d just told them about why I was here.

Was there any way for them to learn about the blackmailer if I didn’t tell them?

I had both the article and the letter the person had sent Tyson hidden inside the pocket of my jeans in my suitcase. But where was the money he’d taken out?

Their questions about who might have had reason to harm him indicated to me that they thought his death hadn’t been an accident, but they’d also asked whether I thought he might have been inclined to harm himself.

So maybe they weren’t sure yet what had happened to him and were just covering their bases, not ruling anything out.

Still, I couldn’t help but think of Samira’s other dead husband and her drunken vitriol last night, of Allison’s almost eerie calm, and of Cody’s preoccupation with having everyone sign new NDAs.

All these things were suspicious. Yet each made sense: Allison and Cody still had a multi-billion-dollar company to run, and whether Samira was more upset that her husband was dead or her meal ticket was gone—because God only knew what his will said—she seemed the right degree of upset, under the circumstances. Hell, everyone did.

Sure, Gisèle and Jennifer were more shell-shocked than anything else, but their relationships with Tyson were the least close. And what of Rémy and Laurent?

Who was Rémy? And what secrets was Tyson holding over Laurent?

I paused between the door to my room on one side of the hall and Laurent’s on the other. I raised my hand to knock on his door but stopped, knuckles inches from the wood, when I heard voices within. Male voices, whispering in tones so low I almost hadn’t heard them.

I glanced up and down the hallway and leaned closer to the door. I could tell they were speaking French, yet their voices were so soft that I couldn’t make out what they were saying. One of the men had to be Laurent, but who was the other? Rémy, most likely, I figured.

Rémy was a new dive instructor, and Tyson had appeared not to know him. Could he have been hired by someone to kill Tyson?

Laurent was who had hired him, I realized with a jolt of unease.

I hovered there, straining to listen, aware I could be caught at any moment if someone came into the hallway. But it was no use. Their voices were too low to make out.

I retreated to my own room, where I shut the door and lay on my bed, the wheels of my mind spinning as I listened for Rémy’s departure. I was getting ahead of myself. I didn’t even know yet what exactly had happened to Tyson.

A knock at my door jerked me out of slumber.

I sat up, groggy and disoriented. Clearly the late night and stress had taken their toll, though I wouldn’t have imagined sleep possible in my agitated state.

I blinked and checked my watch, surprised to find that more than an hour had passed. “Who is it?” I called out.

“Laurent,” came Laurent’s voice, in a whisper.

I opened the door and he quickly slipped inside and shut it behind him, seemingly no longer worried about what people might think about the two of us being alone together.

He was dry now, in a black T-shirt and gym shorts, and clearly on edge, his eyes sunken, jaw tense.

Before I could ask him if he was okay, his voice was in my ear, low and urgent.

“Tyson was murdered.”