Page 91 of No One Was Supposed to Die at This Wedding

“We could just ask him, I suppose.”

“Does that ever work?”

“Isn’t that what Connor does in your books?” Oliver says. “Ask questions?”

I don’t take the bait. We’ve just made up.

“Maybe I’ll ask him over tennis this morning,” I say.

“Gah, is that still happening?”

“It’s on the schedule.”

“Before or after the murder?”

I pick up a pillow and toss it at him. He catches it without effort. “If someone is going to get murdered today, we should make hay while the sun shines.”

“That’s a terrible mixed metaphor.”

I climb onto the bed and push him back. “Let’s save the editing for later, shall we?”

He smiles at me and I cover his mouth with mine, and the few clothes we have on peel away as the day breaks.

But you don’t need to hear about all of that.

So I’ll just say:

And, scene.

Later, ahem, but notthatmuch later, I slip into my swimsuit and head down the steep path to the beach. It’s eerily quiet, only the birds in the trees greeting the day, and the clank of halyards on the boats that are still anchored here as they rock against the increasing surf. The umbrellas I spotted yesterday have been tucked away, and the beach is empty of beach chairs. The sky is still clear and blue, but there are dark clouds on the horizon, pregnant with rain. I can’t smell it yet, but I can feel like it’s coming, like I felt in my dream last night.

Like someone’s watching me.

Maybe someone is.

I check over my shoulder.

There isn’t anyone behind me but a cat. It might be the same one from yesterday that almost died.

Sprinkles? Sparkles? I wish I were better with names.

We stare at each other for a moment, and then it darts off into the bush.

If itwasthe cat that almost died, it seems to have bounced back.

But cats have nine lives.

People only get one.

I put my towel down on the sand and do a running start into the water. I don’t like to get in by inches if I can help it.

The water’s cool, but I’m used to that. I swim straight through the chop out into the bay, passing the boats, getting my rhythm, four strokes and a breath, four strokes and a breath. I do ten minutes out and then stop, treading water. I take in my surroundings. The beach already looks far away. And the current’s taken me toward Avalon Bay. I can see the dock we landed on yesterday, and the high street. There’s a small clutch of people on the dockand a ferry pulled up next to it, but the rest of the town seems deserted.

Given how all of this is going, that’s probably the last ferry before the storm hits. And the smart people on this island are taking advantage of it and getting the hell out of Dodge.

Not me, though. But I’m having my doubts.

I feel very alone out here.

---