Page 75 of The Bridesmaid

But we all knew how Silky died, hours before the official verdict came in.

Overdose.

Silky had gone to one of the remote beaches on the island and injected her final shot of heroin. The autopsy – completed at breakneck speed by a Colombian police force with a point to prove – showed that her body forgot how to breathe. She lost consciousness and died of a lack of oxygen. Sometime after, the tide came in and floated her body out to sea, where it snagged on the rocks where Holly found her.

That’s what police say happened. That’s what makes sense.

What doesn’t make sense, is that in the resulting mayhem and call for urgent online meetings with the various sponsors, I find myself walking out to the beach where Silky took her final breath.

Thoughts and memories are pooling in my head.

I stand on the warm sand, and angle my cellphone cameratoward my sapphire eyes, bright and clear, framed by the famous tumble of chestnut curls.

I try a few expressions.

Devastated.

Sad and reflective.

Defiant in the face of tragedy.

I put a flattering filter over the image of my sad face, and stare at the perfect girl on the screen. The pretty picture no one can hurt. Sending yourself into pieces to survive. My therapist has tried to cure me of it, but old habits die hard.

A sound from the nearby jungle startles me. I stifle the instinct to turn and look. Years of paparazzi trying to goad me into ugly expressions has given me excellent self-control in this regard.

Is someone in the bushes, watching me?

An incoming call shatters the image on my cell, sending my disordered nerves in all directions.

‘Mark?’ I click to answer.

‘Your father and I have landed. Leopold is on the runway, making calls to the media. I’m headed to the house,’ he says, direct as ever.

A million thoughts explode in my mind. The arrival of the groom should be a big moment.

‘Leopold thinks we should get all the bridesmaids together,’ Mark is saying. ‘Make an announcement about staying strong. Leave no doubt the wedding is going ahead.’

‘Mark,’ I say, my voice tight in my throat, ‘I’ve been thinking. Maybe weshouldpostpone the wedding.’

But as I turn to head back to the house, I see something written in the sand in the middle distance. Something that wasn’t there before. I was right.

Someone is nearby. Watching. Following.

Mark starts talking, but the words blur into white noise, like I’ve dipped underwater.

Gouged deep into the sand, in the same ugly writing as was on my cake is a message:

1, 2, 3, YOU’RE NEXT.

TRINITY

Chapter Sixty

HOLLY

It’s several hours later when Fitzwilliam meets me in the enormous catering kitchens, sweating over the sous vide machine. The large vacuum packer is used in high-end kitchens to slow-cook, but I’ve repurposed it for forensic use. I’m processing the papers we found floating near Silky’s body, in a way I’m hoping will yield results.

‘I tried to get a call to Ortiz,’ he says. ‘No luck yet.’