Page 153 of Every Time I Go on Vacation, Someone Dies

“Excuse me?”

“One of those fan pages… You know the one who’s always making these relationship-theory videos?”

“What are you talking about?”

Harper rolls her eyes. “I’ve shown them to you… Anyway, there are a couple dozen BookTokers who’re obsessed with Connor, and Emily is big on there, too. One of them got some photos of them together and made this whole thing. Here, I’ll show you.” She reaches into her pocket, then stops. “Oh, I don’t have my phone.”

“The police still have them,” Guy says. “It’s rather annoying.”

“Hopefully we’ll get them back today,” I say. “But did you know about this, Emily?”

“There’s a lot of stuff on TikTok about me and my book. I can’t keep up with all of it.”

“What about you, Oliver? How did you end up on the tour?”

“Marta asked me to do it.”

“Hmmm… Who’s Marta again?”

“She’s been in the publicity department for about a year, I think?” Harper says. “You met her. When we were in New York last year?”

I think back. New York was a blur of events and signings and TV appearances around the release of my last novel. There was a new woman in publicity who shepherded us through all of it, but I can’t put a face on her.

“You should email her and ask,” I say to Harper.

“I’ve been trying to get in touch with her for the last couple of days, actually…”

“Why don’t you call Vicki when you get your phone back and find out why Marta hasn’t been returning your messages?”

“You don’t think she’s involved in it, do you?”

“I have no idea… Connor, do you know her? Did you sleep with her?”

His chin rises. “I met her just like you did last year, and no, I don’t sleep with every woman I meet.”

“You sure about that?” My eyes flit to Isabella, but she’s unconcerned.

Must be nice to have that kind of confidence.

“It’s your tour, Eleanor, not mine.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“The only certainty was that you’d be on it. So maybe we’ve been looking in the wrong place. Maybe it doesn’t have anything to do with me, and I’m the smokescreen to get to you.”

“You know,” Allison says, “Shek’s the only one who’s dead. Maybe he was the intended victim.”

We all turn and stare at her.

“You mean we’re the smokescreen?” I say. “But what about the shots at me this morning? That wasn’t an accident.”

“Hmmm,” Allison says, something occurring to her. “Maybe—”

“Maybe you should have listened to me,” Inspector Tucci says, striding into the room, “and left all this to the professionals.”

Inspector Tucci is, how do you say, not pleased.190

Not pleased at all.

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