Page 60 of Every Time I Go on Vacation, Someone Dies

“You wish.”

I put my back to him. Everyone else is still standing there, watching us like we’re an episode of Love Is Blind. “Let’s go, Harper.”

We push through the crowd as Connor calls after us. “You’ll regret this, Eleanor. You’ll see.”

He’s got that right, anyway.

I already do.

I take a quick shower while Harper finishes packing, trying to rinse off the film of unease that Connor’s stunt created, but it’s no use. Because someone is trying to kill Connor.

I believe it now. Not because I saw anything on the faces of the others on this tour—I’m not a human lie detector, and neither is he.71

No, it’s Connor’s actions. Faking his own death smacks of desperation, and that’s not something he usually traffics in. He must truly believe he’s in danger from one of us. Which means there’s something, maybe more than one thing, he hasn’t told me yet.

Damn it. This is always how people die in murder mysteries.

They hold back a crucial piece of information that could help identify the killer.

“Eleanor!”

“Coming!”

We make it to the bus with a few minutes to spare.

It’s one of those fifty-person coaches, black and sleek with tinted windows and two exhaust pipes in the front that look like horns. Inside, the seats are covered in a plush red material, and there’s a bathroom in the back. The air smells like disinfectant and maybe slightly like pee, and I pop a piece of gum into my mouth to distract myself.

I wish I’d had time to grab some breakfast to soak up some of the alcohol that’s stuck in my system, but there’s a stop in about an hour at a pasticceria, Harper says, so I’ll get my fill of empty calories then.

The bus is full of BookFace Ladies, who wave to me excitedly as I pass. Or maybe it’s Harper that they’re waving to. After this morning’s debacle, I could not look further from my author photo if I tried.72

Today’s T-shirt is a BookFace of Murder in Nice. I wonder if they have shirts for every day of this trip.

And oh! I get it—ten days, ten years since the first book…

I’m a tourist in my own life.

Only there isn’t a Book Ten. Not yet. Which is my fault or Connor’s fault or maybe both of us together.

I shudder as I pass Cathy, who’s waving at me in greeting.

“What is she still doing here?” I hiss to Harper.

“I can’t just kick her off. There could be liability issues.”

I close my eyes for a moment. “At least keep her away from me.”

“I’m doing my best.”

I catch her hand. “I know you are. I’m feeling off because of everything that happened this morning.”

“You don’t have to take it out on me.”

“I’m sorry.”

We walk farther up the aisle until we find two empty seats together. I swing my purse into the mesh rack above and sit down next to Harper. We’re wearing a variation of the same outfit—light linen shorts and cute T-shirts with practical walking shoes she sourced for us.

It’s selfish to even think about it, but I really will be lost without her.

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