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Glancing at the phone in his hand, waiting for it to charge, he kept thinking about who it belonged to, and what had happened to her – Hannah is dead, Hannah is dead – and he was hit by a wrecking ball of memories, and with them, waves of sadness.

Hannah sharing his ramen at Tadashi in the Hill Country, breathing in the fresh air outside the city.

Hannah’s hot breath at the side of his neck as she danced her fingers down his spine to the small of his back, in that way that always drove him wild.

Hannah squealing excitedly as she showed him the plans for her new retreat in Costa Rica, right the way down to the decor in each of the bedrooms, because she trusted him so implicitly with every idea she had – every thought in her head.

The level of detail she’d given him about the retreat meant Ben had little trouble convincing Paola he’d been officially invited.

How else could he have known about the top-secret location and itinerary?

She’d not wanted to share any of it publicly, not yet at least, because she knew she had some enemies out there; people who took against her ideas, who thought what she was preaching was dangerous.

People who’d sent her death threats; who hated her enough to want to track her down and cause her harm. But she’d shared it all with him.

And then – and this one thwacked him hard in the chest – Hannah breaking up with him after ten beautiful months when she found out he’d been lying to her about kicking his addiction; that he was still using, pretty much every day.

He’d messed up so badly. He’d chosen those fucking pills over his feelings for her, when it came down to it. He’d let his addiction become his primary relationship , just like they talked about in rehab.

And because of his all-consuming powerlessness over that very addiction, he’d lost the best thing that had ever happened to him.

Because as much as she drove him crazy, he loved Hannah. He’d never stopped, not for a second – not when she’d told him what she’d done, not when his boss had called him into that meeting room.

He might have thought that he hated her for doing it.

He was livid, for sure. But he could see it now; now that he was alone, and she was dead and gone, never to be there to help him or love him or make him laugh or fuck him or drive him to the point of insanity, ever again.

Any anger that he’d felt towards her – straight after she got off the phone and blocked him on every fucking channel – he felt all that only towards himself now, for the decades-long role he’d played in his own destruction.

He – with a little help from some prescription meds – had ruined his own life, and then he had kept ruining it, over and over again, doing the same old shit and expecting it to somehow be different the next time; chipping away at his happiness and his peace and his success a little more each time.

He’d been doing that for years, ever since his first sniff of cocaine in college.

And, in spite of her flaws – the way she went about things that sometimes pissed him off – Hannah had been trying to help him see that.

He’d come here because, on some level, he wanted to tell her he understood.

That he still loved her; still wanted her.

That he needed her: she was the only person who could help him.

Ben closed his eyes, replayed in his mind the last thing she’d said to him, only a few weeks ago.

‘I’m sorry, Ben. I hope you know I was only thinking of what’s best for both of us,’ she’d said when she’d answered the phone that day.

But he’d been angry – so angry. He’d spoken to her harshly.

‘What’s best for us? Did you actually think you were trying to help me?

That this would do me good? It was none of your business – how was it your place to talk to my fucking boss ?

’ He’d had to stop then, the gasps of hurt erupting from his belly, his throat, so hard and loud that he could hardly breathe through them.

Hannah said nothing. After a long moment, he spoke again. ‘Trish is going to give me the sack now, Hannah, you know that, right? I’ll be finished – finished at work, probably finished everywhere in Austin now – thanks to you .’

‘You got fired – for having a relapse? Shit, that’s harsh – can they even do that?

’ He could believe Hannah’s surprise. She hadn’t realized – having never had a real job, having never truly lived in the real world, insulated from all this by her pseudo-spiritual social media career – what kind of impact she’d have by telling Trish that Ben needed help.

Even before she found fame online, she’d never had to work – her dad was one of Houston’s oil billionaires; Hannah had grown up with more money than she’d ever be able to spend, and almost no love.

She barely saw her father, and her mom was too busy running galas and charity luncheons to ever pay her much attention.

She’d been brought up by a series of strict, impassive nannies – from her teens, her brand of spirituality had become her escape; her source of love.

‘But... I thought she’d help you! I thought telling her would help with your recovery. Come on, she should at least give you a chance to get better,’ Hannah had insisted. ‘I guess I could reach out to my dad and ask if you can talk to his lawyer...’

‘I don’t want anything from you,’ Ben said coldly. ‘Ever again. Don’t you fucking dare try to help me. I mean it, Hannah. And no, Trish doesn’t have to give me a chance to get well – she’s already given me enough of them, remember?’

Silence, then, for a moment – only the sound of the two of them breathing hard, shakily.

‘Look, I get it, if you don’t forgive me,’ said Hannah finally.

‘But at least try to understand that I was doing what I thought was right for you – and, to be honest, for me too.’ She sighed.

‘I mean, look at what I’m doing – think about how many people listen to what I have to say.

I’m making a difference to all their lives!

And if it gets out that I’m dating an addict . ..’

Of course. This was all about her image, her follower count. He smarted at the irony of it. How dare she , when she was nothing but a garden variety, run-of-the-mill addict herself!

When she spoke again, her voice was soft but resolute: ‘I’m sorry, Ben, but it’s over between us. We’ve had a great time and all, but let’s face it – this isn’t working.’

Ben knew the conversation should be over; he knew he needed to get off the phone, try to clean up the mess of his life.

But still, after all this, he couldn’t bear to let her go.

He didn’t want her to hang up, even then.

‘This is all about your precious followers, isn’t it?

’ He barked a laugh; it was hollow, bitter. He could taste the fury on his tongue.

‘Not all ,’ said Hannah. ‘But these people need me – they rely on me, remember?’

He’d heard enough. It was over between them; she’d made that clear. He didn’t need to hear her messed-up reasoning now – or ever again. He’d ended the call, switched his phone off, tried to clear his head.

But those words. These people rely on me. The phrase had rattled inside his brain; it had kept on plaguing him in the hours and days after that last call.

Couldn’t she see that he relied on her too?

That he needed her more than people on the internet that she’d never even met?

He’d tried to call her back later that same day, and found the dial tone dead.

He’d sent her messages on Instagram, Facebook, WhatsApp; none of them went through.

Hannah had blocked him, deleted him from her life, just like that.

Did their relationship mean that little to her?

Their history – everything they’d shared, everything he knew about her?

He couldn’t let it go that easily, even if she could. And if he couldn’t get through to her on his phone or his computer, there was nothing else he could do except turn up at the retreat he knew she was hosting. What other choice had she left him?

And then he’d got here – and found Hannah dead.

After they’d found her body, he’d been torn.

On the one hand, he’d wanted to stick with the group – it was his best shot at getting back to safety, and helping find out who’d done this to Hannah.

On the other, he was keenly aware that suspicions were more likely to fall on him than anyone else for her murder.

Women were usually killed by their boyfriends, their husbands, their exes, right?

Men who knew them – not random drug dealers in the jungle.

He’d be the most likely suspect, and his reasons for being here would only make him seem guiltier.

A soft beep drew his attention back to the satellite phone clutched in his grasp.

He stared at it, as if he were seeing it more clearly now, as if he were looking at it for the first time.

A large black and grey thing, resembling one of those old school Nokia phones from the early 2000s – except it had a different brand name, one he’d never heard of. Iridium .

He drew a breath in sharply, as the memory of another phone came hurtling towards him.

Hannah’s phone. She’d had this hare-brained idea in rehab, not long after they’d met, when Ben was lamenting not being able to access his work emails, that they could get round the recovery centre’s rules – no phones or other handheld devices allowed, to ensure all patients focus only on their recovery – by asking for permission to check each other’s phones instead of their own.

‘I’ll tell the nurses that, because of my online presence, I need to at least be able to make sure there are no emergencies – and to check in with my community moderator and my virtual assistant,’ she’d said.