The Lion's Den(91)

“Don’t wanna move anymore,” he mumbled.

I gave him a Percocet left over from when I sprained my ankle, cleaned and rebandaged his face wound, then covered him with a blanket. He was fast asleep before I could even turn out the light.





Day 7

Friday early morning—somewhere off the coast of Italy



I pace my tiny room in a cold sweat, heart hammering in my chest. I’m nearly certain Amythest is dead. The speed we were going, the blood on the side of the boat, her inability to swim—each fact a nail in her coffin.

But Summer’s explanation that she was drunk and playing on the railing? That feels patently false. She wasn’t drunk when I saw her an hour before, and she was deathly afraid of the water since she couldn’t swim, so I highly doubt she would do something to put her in danger of accidentally falling in.

Besides, there’s the arguing I heard beforehand. Who else could it have been but Summer and Amythest? I guess it could have been Brittani and Amythest, but it’s unlikely. Brittani’s not smart enough to have lengthy arguments. She’d leave it at “you’re a whore” and think she’d won.

And that scream. Bloodcurdling. I can’t get it out of my mind. It was a call for help. And it failed.

Chills run down my spine.

Summer pushed Amythest. I know it in my bones. With her history…

Through the open bathroom door, I catch my reflection in the mirror above the sink. I look unhinged: eyes haunted, jaw clenched, hair wild. It’s probably a good thing I wasn’t allowed to give a statement tonight. No one would have believed a word I said. Of course, I have to face the reality that they may not believe me regardless of how credibly I present myself.

But the cameras…The cameras will have captured it all. I wonder how quickly the footage can be destroyed. And who will do that? Bernard? The IT guy? John himself? Ultimately, how much does John know? How much bad behavior will he tolerate from his mistresses? And what of the other girls? They were there. They must have seen the whole thing. And they’re keeping silent.

Maybe they’re waiting to tell the police in private. Surely there will be an investigation. We’ll pull into the nearest marina, and the police will interview everyone, collect evidence. She can’t get away with it. You can’t just murder someone in front of five people and expect to walk free.

Or maybe, on John’s boat, you can.

At least I still have Amythest’s phone. I extract it from my pocket and punch in her passcode, checking that the videos of her and John are still there. If only there were Wi-Fi on this damn boat, I could email them to myself.

But I can plug her phone into my computer and at least back them up. I reach into the bag next to the bed where I keep my computer, but come up empty-handed. I pull the bag into my lap and open it. My books are there, my earbuds, my wallet, but my computer is gone.

I tear the bed apart. I turn the room upside down. Nothing. Bernard must’ve taken my computer, too.

I step across the hall and knock on Wendy and Claire’s door. Wendy opens it a crack and peers at me expectantly.

“Hey,” I say. “How are you guys?”

Over her shoulder, I see Claire curled up in a ball on top of her bed.

“Really shaken up,” Wendy says without opening the door any farther. But amazingly, she doesn’t look that shaken up. She’s in yellow silk pajamas, her face washed, her hair neatly wrapped in a matching silk scarf. Her eyes aren’t even puffy. But then, Wendy’s eyes are never puffy.

“Can I come in?”

“Aren’t you supposed to stay in your room?”

I furrow my brow. “C’mon, Wen. I know I wasn’t there, but I’m also shaken up. I probably spent more time with her than any of you, and now she’s dead.”

“We don’t know she’s dead,” Wendy says, crossing her arms.

“Okay. So what do we know? What’s the Coast Guard doing?”

“There’s a search-and-rescue team looking for her.”

“And are the men still upstairs?” I ask.

“They left so we could get some sleep. They’ll be back tomorrow to brief us.”

“We’re not, like, stopping at a port so they can investigate?”

Wendy wrinkles her nose. “Investigate what? She fell. Listen, Belle, I’m upset, too, but—”

“So, did they interview everyone about what happened, or…?”

She sighs, growing impatient. “John talked to them and told them what happened. He’s the only one who speaks Italian.”

“But he wasn’t even there,” I protest. “Didn’t you want to talk to them?”

“Belle, it was an accident,” she insists. “She fell in. She’s in the water. They’ll find her or they won’t, but me talking to the Coast Guard isn’t going to do anything. Look, we’re really tired and upset. Can we talk in the morning?”

I squint at her, trying to work out where she’s coming from. “I’m sorry,” I say with as much patience as I can muster. “I’m just trying to understand what’s going on. Are you sure she just fell in? You saw it happen?”

“Yes.” Wendy eyes me carefully. “Why are you asking so many questions?”

Why are you not? I stifle a scream. “I thought I heard arguing,” I admit, watching her just as closely. “Before she fell.”