Page 66 of Every Time I Go on Vacation, Someone Dies

He shakes his head.

“It could be a coincidence that he got killed the next day.”

“Come on, Eleanor, you don’t believe that.”

“Okay, you’re right, I don’t. He must’ve seen who pushed you.”

“It’s the only explanation.”

I shudder. “This is scary, Connor. Killing a bystander like that—that’s hard-core.”

“Oh, now she cares.”

I cross my arms. “You want my help or not?”

“Yes.”

“Then stop being an asshole.”

He smirks. “You did say it was my default setting.”

I grit my teeth. “Is that all? Everything you know?”

“Yes.”

I don’t believe him, but I’ve had enough of Connor for a while, so I take a seat by myself and decide to try and work for the rest of the journey.

I have a murder to plot, after all.

I’ve got to get on that.

Our lunch is at a tourist trap in Pompeii with fake frescoes on the wall and a view of Mount Vesuvius in the distance. The pizza is mediocre, which seems like a crime given where we are, and the restaurant isn’t air-conditioned. I’m too scared to look up the exact temperature, but I don’t need to see the number on the dial to know it’s hot.

Climate-change hot.

Old-people-die-in-this-weather hot.

I can’t believe we’re about to tour a massive archeological site in the full midday sun. It sounds like a recipe for disaster. But that’s what this whole trip is, isn’t it?

Six more days after this and it will all be over. Maybe before then. One can hope.

One can pray.

In the meantime, I wish I had a hat. I’m sure I do—I was wearing it yesterday, wasn’t I?—but I’m guessing it’s in Harper’s bag and I can’t bring myself to ask her for it.

She’s eating lunch with Oliver and Guy, while I’m stuck with Shek and Allison, with the rest of our group spread out in the open-air restaurant full of faux Corinthian columns and sweating BookFace Ladies.

Connor and Isabelle are at a table by themselves on the edge of the room. He’s sitting with his back to the wall, and every time I look over, he’s scanning the other tables like he’s waiting for someone to knife him.

It must be hard to relax while you’re waiting for death.

Even if you’re Connor Smith.

I’m having trouble relaxing myself. The conversation with Harper on the bus didn’t help. Because even though the rational part of me knows Harper doesn’t think I’m trying to off Connor, the fact that she’d even ask is emblematic of the problem between us.

I’m the bad thing that happened in Harper’s life.

“After all these years,” Shek says, penetrating my thoughts. “After all these books, they’re going to drop me? It’s outrageous. It’s age discrimination. I should sue.”

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