Page 48 of Their Cruel Love

And if we find nothing, what will her stepmother pay me? Nothing?

That part worries me. I need an alternative if I find out Emma intends to betray me. But how will I know if she does? How? I wish I had insurance.

None of us is a detective. We might findnothing. Absolutelynothing. Which makes the other reason for being here is even more legit—making Phoebe mine, again, with or without Razor.

My fucked-up problem is, I’m not sure I want her for more than a trophy now. Which makes that wrong too. I’m fucked if I fuck her and fucked if I don’t. I snort at my logic, wipe away the tears brought on by the wind blasting my eyes, then raise the binoculars again.

Down below, on the sand, something catches my attention.

It is white and it has eyeholes. Part of a small skull has washed up onto the bed of sand and it’s looking up at me. A chill lodges in my stomach. Shocked, I stare at it, focusing for what seems ages, watching it be half washed out then shoved in again, as if the sea is torturing me on purpose. Finally it’s drawn out and never returns.

Five or ten minutes must have elapsed.

Do I tell someone about this? What are the chances they’ll launch a boat or call the police, wherever they might be?

Small to zero. What if I tell the murderer without realizing? And I couldn’t even snap an image. I have no proof.

I did see it, though, and from my knowledge of preserved skulls, I’m thinking that was a female’s skull. It’s BS of course. I don’t know the sex of it. All I know is that someone died on or near this island and their body or head has been in the water long enough to be picked clean by the fish and the crabs.

That could be a fisherman or someone who fell off a cruise ship. It might be a well-preserved piece of a British sea captain from the nineteenth century.

It could also be a woman killed here. Or a man.

It could be anyone. It might even be a grand stinking great clue.

This fucking island will be the end of me.

I watch for a little longer just to be certain it’s gone before I give up and return down the trail.

When I reach our room, carrying my shirt, it’s obvious I need another shower, and the dinner started fifteen minutes ago. I start to rush then decide to take my time. The one thing I do know is that the fun will happen later in the evening. Before I leave, I grab the handcuffs from Razor’s kit. I lay them flat and folded over my palm, and trace the circle of shiny metal, then I stuff them in my pocket.

Now I’m ready. Just wish I could fit the spreader bar in my pocket too.Hmmm.I grab a few other small things before I leave. I can be the fifty shades of MacGyver.

When I enter the room where the dinner is being held, a man is up the front, announcing the start of the CNC activities and extending a hand to the table where Phoebe and Razor sit.

“First come, first served!” he announces. He gets a laugh from that, though it looks to me as if no one has come, yet.

Well then.

I pause in the doorway.

Dessert is arriving. Everyone has their own private table, with the tables arranged to form a ragged circle. Since I decide to cross the empty middle to ours, every eye swivels to watch me. Even the servers, bearing trays of creamy and indubitably delicious desserts with wafers of chocolate lodged in them, stop and stare.

Why do I feel like I’m a dying cowboy in a desert who’s just walked into a conference of vultures or bloodthirsty vampires? Voyeurs, that’s why. And none of them has had the courtesy to start getting naked first.

Because Phoebe is the new main course or appetizer? Or the sweetest victim.

The air of expectancy in here is strung taut and waiting to crack. The skull in the surf washes about in my memories. How many of them are privy to murder? Some? Many?

We need to blend in to get anywhere with this inquiry.

I’m fine with that. I nod to a few as I pass them and note that Bastion is the man with the mic. Phoebe’s mad stepmum showed me his picture. His blond hair is swept back with a few carefully arranged unruly pieces left to make him look wilder than he probably is. As I approach the table beside ours, I wink at a pepper-haired older man and his sub who seem about to get busy. He’s put her to his knees beside him and has his hand on his fly.

I reach our table.

“Razor.” He nods at my greeting, straightening from where he was saying something to Phoebe, up close and personal. “Why is she still dressed?”

It’s a valid question. My chair is on her other side, but I ignore it and drag hers out, while she protests, of course. Then I scoop her off her chair and place her above Razor’s lap, kissing her once—because she’s impossible to resist this close—before I drop her.

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