6. Alex
Chapter six
Alex
I sat with my bare feet pressed against cold tile, feeling every groove and imperfection through skin still tender from running across splintered dock boards. The makeshift interview room—repurposed from some administrative office—hummed with aggressive air conditioning that raised goosebumps along my arms.
Two officials sat across from me. The woman, Officer Teuira, wrote in a notebook with meticulous care, her handwriting exceedingly precise. Her colleague, Inspector Hauata, observed me with the steady gaze of someone who'd seen too many tourists bring their problems to paradise.
Officer Teuira prompted me. "Please continue, Mr. Kessler, tell us what happened after the explosion."
I closed my eyes briefly, reconstructing the sequence. "Everyone was running away from the marina. Michael did the opposite."
"And Michael is..." Inspector Hauata already knew who he was. I'd mentioned him twice. It was a test.
"Michael McCabe. He's a police officer from Seattle. SWAT."
"And he told you this?"
"Yes. At breakfast."
Officer Teuira's pen paused. "So you knew him previously?"
"No. We met yesterday."
Inspector Hauata and Officer Teuira exchanged a glance. I could almost see an unspoken judgment hanging between them.
I tried to steady my voice. "Please, I watched him run toward the explosion. He reached the dock before anyone else. A man—masked, in dark clothing—was dragging a security guard. The guard wasn't moving."
"And this McCabe?" Inspector Hauata leaned forward. "What did he do?"
"He inserted himself between the injured guard and the masked man." My fingers curled around the edge of my chair. "The man had a knife. They fought."
"And then?"
"Michael disarmed him. The man stumbled backward and..." I swallowed, feeling the residual pain from smoke inhalation. "He fell into the burning yacht."
"He fell?" It was the sound of doubt from Inspector Hauata.
"Yes. Michael tried to grab him, but it happened too quickly."
Officer Teuira stopped writing and looked directly at me. "Mr. Kessler, you've known this man for less than a day, yet you seem very certain about his intentions and actions."
"I am."
"You trusted him after a day?" Inspector Hauata raised an eyebrow.
"Yes."
Officer Teuira set down her pen. "And why would you trust someone you barely know in such a situation?"
I had no rational explanation—nothing that would satisfy their procedural minds. All I had was the truth.
"Because when everyone else was running away, he ran toward people who needed help." I met her gaze steadily. "And because I know what I saw."
Twenty minutes later, the door opened with a soft pneumatic hiss. A younger officer dressed in the same navy uniform but lacking the silver insignia of rank entered with hurried steps. He leaned down to whisper something into Inspector Hauata's ear, his French too rapid and low for me to catch.
Inspector Hauata's expression changed. His posture straightened, and the casual authority he'd projected transformed into something sharper.
He turned back to me. "The man who died was Lars Reeves."
The name meant nothing to me at first. Then, it registered.
Lars Reeves. My memories connected with the name clicked into place.
Reeves-Halvorsen Technologies. It was a Seattle-based conglomerate that had grown from a modest software company to a sprawling empire with tentacles in defense, biotech, and artificial intelligence.
I'd researched them in preparation for a lecture on modern corporate empires less than a year ago. They were players in the murky world of Pentagon contracts. "Lars Reeves. Son of Harold Reeves?"
Inspector Hauata nodded once, watching my reaction with renewed interest.
"You're familiar with him?"
"Not personally. I teach history. His family's company is significant in Seattle's tech development. That's my home city."
I tried to reconcile the polished images of a corporate executive with a masked assailant on a dock in Tahiti. "Are you certain it was him?"
Officer Teuira spoke up. "We have positive identification." She shared no details on how they'd obtained such confirmation so quickly from a body consumed by flames.
I leaned back, and my mind raced. Lars Reeves had been the kind of wealthy scion with a press team as a child. His exploits, charity galas, and endless yacht parties filled celebrity-focused media.
"What was he doing dressed in tactical gear and attacking a security guard?" Lars Reeves was notorious for thirty-thousand-dollar watches and custom Italian suits, not combat boots and tactical masks.
Inspector Hauata picked up the thread. "That's what we're investigating. Did Officer McCabe mention knowing Mr. Reeves before the incident?"
"No. We talked about Seattle, but Lars Reeves never came up." I frowned, struggling to process the new information. "Michael was on vacation. So was I. This doesn't make sense."
"Few things do in situations like these." Officer Teuira shut her notebook with a soft thud. "We'll need you to remain available for further questions, but you may take a break. Please don't leave the resort grounds."
As I stood to go, Inspector Hauata asked one more question. "When did Officer McCabe tell you he was with SWAT, Mr. Kessler?"
"At breakfast, about an hour before the explosion."
I could barely hear the words muttered in response. "A convenient disclosure."
A need to defend Michael bubbled up inside me. "He was forced to come here. His brothers made him take a vacation. He didn't want to be in Tahiti at all."
Neither officer responded.
Outside, pink light crept across the clouds as early evening approached. I sat on a low stone wall near the staff parking lot, far enough from the resort's main buildings to avoid the curious stares of guests and employees alike.
My hands trembled as I pulled my phone from my pocket. I had received a wave of notifications: missed calls from my history department chair, texts from colleagues, and news alerts that made my stomach queasy.
One Seattle Times push notification stood out against the others: brEAKING: SWAT Officer Involved in Island Killing – Seattle PD's Michael McCabe Named.
It rattled my world. I tightened my fingers around the phone's frame.
"Of course, the guy I open up to in paradise turns out to be headline news back home," I whispered to myself.
I checked my direct messages, and there was nothing from Michael. There were no missed calls or texts explaining what had happened after they separated us at the marina. I speculated that meant he wasn't allowed access to his phone.
I opened a message thread. My thumbs hovered over the keyboard, hesitating. What do you say to someone you've known for less than a day, who might now be in custody after a deadly altercation?
Finally, I typed a message to Michael: Alex: Are you okay? Please tell me you're okay.
The delivery confirmation appeared instantly, but there was no indication he'd read it. No three dots appeared to signal a response forming.
I didn't call. The rational part of my brain knew a phone call might interrupt something important. It might ring during questioning or while Michael spoke with lawyers.
My rational thoughts didn't quiet the part of me that desperately wanted to hear his voice. Only he could confirm that he was still the same person who'd offered me a bottle of water on the beach.
Somewhere on the island, Michael faced questions I couldn't answer and accusations I couldn't counter.
I dug my fingers into the rough stone of the wall, seeking something solid as my mind pulled me backward through time. The media firestorm starting to rage around Michael was sickeningly familiar. It was the kind of accelerated rush to judgment I'd witnessed after Marissa's accident.
Two days after the crash, local media began to question whether she'd been texting while driving. They'd based their speculation on nothing but comments from a bystander who "thought" they saw a phone. The lie circulated for days before the police report confirmed her cell phone had been untouched in her purse.
By then, it didn't matter. The narrative was already part of public consciousness. Even at her funeral, I'd overheard a distant cousin wondering if she "might have been distracted."
Now, as the sun dipped toward the horizon, bathing the parking lot in amber light, I recognized the same pattern unfolding around Michael. "SWAT Officer Involved in Island Killing" already presupposed guilt.
I wondered if Michael even had access to legal representation in Tahiti. Did Seattle PD have protocols for officers involved in incidents overseas?
Would the department stand behind him or distance themselves? My questions multiplied, each one heavier than the last.
When Marissa died, I'd been fortunate enough to have friends who formed a protective circle around me. It included colleagues who screened my calls, brought me food I couldn't eat, and sat quietly when words failed.
Who did Michael have? His brothers were an ocean away. His colleagues, too. And I was… what? A stranger who'd shared his bed for one night?
A cruel irony lodged itself in my mind. I'd come to Tahiti to say goodbye to someone I'd loved. Instead, I'd connected with someone new, only to watch him vanish into a crisis that broadcast his name and questionable "facts" across continents.
My phone remained silent in my palm—no response from Michael. There was no breaking news that might explain where he was or what happened after the confrontation.
I stared at the screen until it dimmed, my reflection faint in the black glass. It was a pale outline, hollow-eyed, waiting.
My phone buzzed with a photo app notification. " Your memory from three years ago today."
It was a blurry picture of Marissa and me on the Bainbridge ferry. She had windblown hair, no makeup, and her eyes squinted into the sun.
I'd taken the photo right before she grabbed my phone and made me pose for one, too. Neither shot was good.
She'd laughed so hard when she saw them. "You look like a sea-worn scholar in exile."
The ache hit me low in the gut—sudden, deep, stupid.
"I don't want to lose someone else. Not like this."
I stood up too fast. My legs tingled from where I'd been sitting too long. I needed movement. A task. Something I could control.
Back in my room, I stepped into the shower and twisted the knob to its hottest setting. Steam billowed around me as I scrubbed at my skin with mechanical determination.
The resort-provided soap smelled of coconut and vanilla—a tropical indulgence I could no longer enjoy. I scrubbed harder, watching rivulets of gray water swirl down the drain, carrying away soot and ash.
The mirror revealed angry red patches where I'd scrubbed too roughly. My eyes appeared hollowed out.
With a towel wrapped around my waist, I retrieved my leather-bound journal from the bedside table. The familiar weight of it anchored me to routine.
I ran my fingers over the embossed cover, tracing the patterns Marissa had chosen when she'd given it to me. "For the thoughts that need more than margins," she'd written inside the cover.
I'd started countless investigations on the pages—historical puzzles, research questions, and lecture outlines. My methodology never changed: observe, document, question, and connect. Analyze not only what happened but also what was missing.
I opened to a clean page and wrote: Explosion at Vaitea Marina – Preliminary Observations
I hesitated briefly and then began my list:
· Attacker in tactical gear, masked
· Michael unarmed. Responded as a trained professional
· No ID presented. Visual confirmation of Lars Reeves? None.
· Michael not yet in contact. Legal representation? Unknown.
I underlined the third point several times, the pen digging into the paper. No visual confirmation of Lars Reeves reported. How did they know?
The fourth point troubled me the most. I glanced at my phone again, its screen dark and silent. Still no response.
I added one more bullet point:
· Identification of Lars Reeves—how so quickly? Body burned beyond recognition.
My academic mind churned through possibilities. Dental records? It's impossible in hours. Personal effects? Perhaps, but unlikely, if he'd been in disguise. A confession from Michael? Doubtful.
Something didn't add up. The historian's instinct that had helped me reconstruct narratives from fragmentary evidence sounded alarms. The story presented so far was too neat and convenient.
I tapped my pen against the page, adding another observation:
· Marina security footage? Unknown.
Maybe cameras had captured what happened. Or perhaps they'd captured something that contradicted the emerging narrative. Either way, I hadn't heard them mentioned.
I stared at my list. My training had taught me to distrust clean narratives about messy events. I always looked for contradictions and inconsistencies. The story of Lars Reeves dying in a yacht explosion was tidy, but maybe it was a screen for something far more complex.
Unfortunately, without Michael and his perspective, I was assembling a puzzle with critical pieces missing.
Night pressed against the bungalow windows, the tropical darkness velvet-thick and alive with sounds that should have been soothing—waves lapping at stilts and the distant music from the resort bar. I lay in bed, staring at the lazily turning ceiling fan.
"Please be okay," I whispered into the darkness.
My eyes closed against my will, exhaustion finally overpowering anxiety. Deep sleep remained elusive as my mind skimmed just beneath the surface of consciousness.
In my half-dreaming state, my brain continued its analysis, collating facts, questioning narratives, and seeking patterns in seemingly random events. If history had taught me anything—through centuries of wars and revolutions, conspiracies and cover-ups—it was this: the version everyone agrees on usually hides the truth.
And I didn't trust their story about Michael—not yet.
I drifted into uneasy dreams where explosions echoed. The smoke obscured faces I needed to see while something vital remained beyond my reach. It was something that might make sense of a day that had begun with intimacy and ended with suspicion and separation.