Page 142 of Every Time I Go on Vacation, Someone Dies

“You were in love,” Oliver says.

I try not to flinch. “I was in something. But I’m not even sure that was it… I… That’s why I wrote the book, I think. To justify it to myself.”

“And then he read it?”

“Before it came out. And he had all these demands, and the publishing house wanted me to cave and… I should’ve just shelved the book. If I’d done that, everything would be different.”

“We wouldn’t be here now,” Oliver says.

Is that regret I hear in his voice or relief?

“I know. But Shek would be alive.”

“You can’t blame yourself for that.”

“Why not? Inspector Tucci thinks I’m responsible.”

Harper shakes her head. “But you’re not, I know you’re not.”

“Thank you for saying that.”

“I don’t think you did it either, for the record,” Oliver says.

“For the record, I appreciate it.”

Our eyes lock across the table, the way they always seem to, and I can hear that rising music in my head. Maybe it’s that Taylor Swift line about being saved by a perfect kiss, maybe not, but something, and it’s just the two of us at the table, Harper receding outside of our bubble.

Then he looks away, and just as quickly the moment is gone.

And I’m back in a room with someone who wants to kill me, and it occurs to me that all of the evidence that Inspector Tucci referred to—the key, the device that killed Shek—means more than my guilt.

It means someone is trying to frame me for his murder.183

But who?

After dinner, which is delicious and filling in the best way, we go to our rooms.

There’s no awkward silence in the elevator, just me, Harper, and Oliver playing over the day in our minds. We separate without discussion, and mindful of the fact that I’m not the killer, that Guy has a gun, and Shek is definitely dead, I double-lock my door and put a chair under the handle for good measure. I also stole a knife from the table, slipping it into my pocket, and while it’s dull, it’s better than nothing. I put it under my pillow, and since the police still have our phones, I take out my iPad and put on something I’ve watched before to try to lull myself to sleep.184

After thirty minutes of tossing and turning, I wish I’d asked Harper for a sleeping pill, but on second thought, being drugged seems like a bad idea in the circumstances.

If someone comes to kill me tonight, I want to have my wits about me.

But what I want most is sleep, which feels like it’s going to be a permanent stranger, particularly given the noises coming from above.

Coming from Connor’s room.185 But mostly I hear Isabella.

They’re going at it hot and heavy, and this is the last thing I need to be listening to. I stuff a pillow over my head, but that doesn’t erase the squeaking bed and the grunts and moans that are all too familiar.

And okay, I confess. It still has an effect on me. Connor was a good lover. He had skills, ones I’ve tried hard to forget. But you can’t tell your body what to react to.

It doesn’t help that this might be my last night of freedom.

Do I want to spend it listening to someone else’s raucous love life?

No, I do not.

I get up quickly and slip on my robe. I don’t stop to check my hair or what I look like, because if I do, I’m going to stop myself altogether, and I don’t want to do that. Instead, I pull the chair away from my door, unlock it, and walk into the hall. I close my door behind me carefully; I don’t want to wake Harper, who’s a light sleeper.

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