Page 20 of Every Time I Go on Vacation, Someone Dies

“To drink a million Aperol spritzes?”

“At least two.”

“Sounds like heaven.”

We follow the group into a tunnel made entirely of sandstone. I reach out to touch the thick stone walls. I try to picture it. How terrified the gladiators must’ve been while the lions roared overhead and the crowds screamed for blood.

“No touching of the cave!”

I pull my hand back like a scolded child, and we shuffle through the tunnel until we’re back out in the hot sunlight on the stadium floor. We’re on a metal walkway, the walls rising up on both sides. Above us, in the rostrums that surround the floor, a crowd looks down on us like they must’ve done to the gladiators centuries ago.

It’s beautiful and overwhelming, and I experience that feeling of transference I get sometimes when I’m writing. Like I’m one of the people waiting to do battle, the crowd howling its pleasure and delight. Like I can smell the blood and sweat and fear of those expecting the same fate.

Like my death is waiting for me.

I shiver, a shadow passing over my grave.

This would make an excellent setting for a murder.

But how?

I’ve committed so many literary murders that the possibilities cycle through my mind quickly. If Connor tripped and fell onto the grate, would the blow to his head be enough? Or if one of the stones was loose, and just a bit of pressure could drop it on him…

“I do need your help,” Connor says, coming up next to me.

“Why?”

“Because I’ve tried to figure this out on my own and I almost died yesterday.”

“I already gave you a solution. Go to the police.”

“You know why I can’t do that. Come on,” he says, smiling down at me. “We work well together. You’re good at this. Think about the Giuseppe case. You figured all that out on your own.”

Ugh. I hate it when he’s nice to me.

“I’m not some naive twenty-five-year-old anymore, Connor. If this is some scam, I’m not going to go along with it.”

“It isn’t a scam, it’s my life.”

“Is there a difference?”

“Okay, then. Forget it.” He strides away, pushing past the BookFace Ladies.

I feel a moment of regret, but it’s quickly replaced by relief.

Whatever game Connor’s playing, he’s let me off the hook.

I should take the win.

The tour comes to an end as Sylvie leads us to the exit. “And now, Miss Author, you enjoyed the tour, yes?”

“Yes, Sylvie, thank you.”

Harper steps in to tip her, and Sylvie smiles, then bustles away with a mention over her shoulder that she’ll see us tomorrow.

I shudder at the thought of what her mix of fake and real history will do to Pompeii.

But that’s a problem for another day.37, 38

---