I haven’t shown a single person my writing for almost seven years. Not since… well. The-event-I-don’t-like-to-think-about happened. It’s my own personal Voldemort.

The-thing-that-must-not-be-named.

I dig my toes deeper into the sand and catch sight of two women standing by the shoreline. They look like they’re arguing. One woman’s hands move in a swan dance as she makes her point, while her companion’s expression is set in hard lines.

Sisters,I think. Here, after the death of a parent, on an all-inclusive trip paid with a vast inheritance. They could throw a few wrenches into the plot…

A wrench or two is something I know about. Cindy and Caleb had thrown one into my life.

I’d had it all mapped out before they did.

The rest of my life, essentially, or at the very least the upcoming two decades. Caleb and I were saving for a bigger house together. In two or three years we’d start trying for a baby. House, kids, jobs, two cars, and maybe a dog. Predictable, stable, and safe.

And now I’m left with an expanse of time, the collapse of a comfortable relationship, and the question of who I am on my own.

Even worse is the prospect of dating again. Of going on apps and meeting men online. The mere thought of online dating makes me shudder.

I tap my fingers against the side of my phone and watch the couple next to me again. That could be it. The murder victim could be here to meet someone they only know from a dating app. That would seriously slow down the investigation, too, because my characters could only find that out by accessing the murder victim’s phone. Which, of course, will be locked.

My fingers fly over the screen with strings of ideas and nuggets of a story.

I’m broken out of my reverie by a familiar voice.

“—no, that won’t do. You know it won’t. Those papers need to be airtight if they’ll want a—”

It’s Phillip, the disturber of the peace and stealer of tables. He’s walking across the white-sand beach with a phone in hand and headphones in his ears.

I watch him stroll to the end of The Winter Resort’s stretch of beach. He turns on his heel at the perimeter and begins heading back, bare feet leaving footprints along the shoreline.

There’s an air of annoyance about him. Even in the distance and with sunglasses on, his face looks tense. Seems he’s graduated from answering emails at dinner to making work calls on a Caribbean beach.

I curl my legs up and return to the notes app on my phone. There’s something about him marching back and forth, hands gesturing, that triggers my imagination.

Maybe he can be the manager of the resort in my story. There’s a secret, something he’s keeping from the guests and staff…

Or maybe he’s a high-profile visitor who fled from New York or London where his business has just collapsed? He has to be a suspect, for sure.

I catch a snippet of his conversation as he passes me. “Briggs, that’s not my problem. It’s yours. You’re the one the client requested, though I can’t understand…”

This happens three more times. It gets more amusing with every pass. He’s going to make a great base to build a character on. Grumpy and rich, and with a large secret that comes out at the very end. Maybe it will be one that’ll affect the two main characters and their romance…

He stops right In front of my chair. His back is to me, and he’s staring out at the horizon.

“…okay. Send over the paperwork and I’ll read through it… yeah. Bye.”

He turns around in my direction and halts at seeing me.

I give him a small smile and raise my hand in hello. Grump or not, he’s now a part of my cast of characters.

He’s statue-still for a second before he nods in greeting. It’s a curt clip of his head as if we’re business acquaintances passing by one another in a hallway. Then, he flips his phone around in his hands and strides back across the beach, toward the bungalows. I watch his retreating back disappear between the luxury villas and the jet-setting denizens who stay there.

That’s one part of the resort I still have to explore.

I reach for my lemonade and take a long sip. Two weeks here might not be so difficult after all.

It’s the next morning, and I’m back to finish my survey of the breakfast buffet. My conclusions… The fruit is a must, especially mangoes grown here on the island. And, as good as they are, the waffles aren’t worth the space on the plate, not when the cooked-to-order pancakes are fluffy as a cloud. By the end of my trip here I’ll have my breakfasts down to an exact science.

I eat on the resort’s patio. It overlooks the crystal-clear, blue waters, with gently swaying palm trees casting a cooling shade over the space. I’ve been sitting here a while now, eating and reading the first of the three books I brought with me on this trip. Out of the corner of my eye, I’m also watching the other guests.