Chapter Fifty-One
Jules squints into the morning sun as it glistens off the blue water of the Atlantic Ocean.
The photographer on this shoot is an intense American who is too old for the tight-fitting shirt and cowboy hat.
He rants about losing his sunrise. Some college kids—probably on the tail end of their night out—keep screwing around on the beach, distracting everyone, ironically doing that dumb Macarena dance, and generally making a ruckus.
The photographer gives only limited direction, which he repeats over and over: “Turn in profile. Chin up. Make your neck longer.”
Annie Leibovitz, he isn’t.
Why he needs the perfect sunrise or sunset to sell cheap suntan oil is a mystery.
But once he loses his morning light, Jules will have the afternoon free.
The breaks between sunrise and sunset are ideal for the only reason Jules took this job: The middle of the day is the perfect time for a home break-in.
That’s what she originally thought anyway. But by early afternoon, on a quiet street in the Hope Town area of the Bahamas—dressed in a baggy shirt and baseball cap and looking nothing like a fashion model—Jules isn’t so sure. What if he has an alarm system? What if he has a dog?
She’s been plotting this—the break-in—since she was offered the gig for the suntan oil shoot. The pay isn’t great—they always lowball when the location is desirable. For her it was location, location, location.
She considers abandoning ship, coming to her senses. But instead she’s now prowling around the house looking for an unlocked door or window.
She unlatches a gate, heads to the backyard. It’s a stunning vacation home. Palm trees, tiki bar, hammock, infinity pool. A beachfront view fit for her dumb suntan oil campaign.
It’s not fair what money can buy. Trent Vanderman—school counselor who quietly resigned amid allegations of inappropriate relationships with students—gets to disappear to a life on Fantasy Island.
Jules flashes to the day last November when Jack sat her down at the coffee shop when he was in New York to run the NYC marathon (of course!).
“There’s no evidence that Vanderman had anything to do with Clare’s disappearance.
” Jack held her gaze for a long moment. Jack has intense brown eyes.
He’s one of those people who make you feel like you’re the only person in the room, on the planet.
If he wasn’t so proper, so decent, one could mistake it for flirting.
But Jules knows he just wants her to feel seen.
“How can you know? I talked to Rod,” Jules said, not caring that the junior agent on the task force will get flak for speaking out of school. “He told me the profilers think May Day is likely a white male, high IQ, probably with strong social skills. Vanderman fits.”
Jack frowned. “Rod’s an idiot. And he shouldn’t be sharing—” He stopped himself. “I know because it’s my job.”
“Your job. How’s that going for you so far?”
He frowned again, but otherwise ignored the jab.
“Why are you so sure?” she prodded.
“Jules, we’ve been through this.”
“You say Vanderman isn’t May Day, I get that. But what if Clare’s abduction was a copycat to make it look like it was him. Or what if—” She stopped short, knowing from experience that debate was futile.
If the authorities wouldn’t look into Vanderman, Jules decided she would.
She tracked down Vanderman’s ex-wife, but the woman told her to fuck off.
She went so far as to call Todd—Miranda’s a-hole brother, a county cop—to see if he had any information.
Todd tried to lure her out for a drink, but when it was clear that wasn’t gonna happen, he told her about an anonymous tip that Vanderman had a collection of Polaroids of underage girls.
That the family brought in high-powered lawyers who basically shut down the investigation.
That Vanderman resigned and moved to his family’s vacation house in the Bahamas.
Jules has learned that serial killers are creatures of ritual, that many keep personal items of the victims as trophies.
The profilers call it “tokenism.” So if he had photographs of his victims, he wouldn’t have destroyed them.
If he’s working with May Day—if he has Jules’s old driver’s license and those of the other victims—then Vanderman would keep them forever. That’s what she’s here to find out.