Chapter 8. Is Drowning the Worst Way to Die?
Is Drowning the Worst Way to Die?
I’ve been close to death before. I almost choked on a fish bone once. I nearly fell down a flight of stairs. In both cases, someone saved me before it faded to black.
Oliver.
He was the hero.
And as I fight to reach the surface as my lungs scream for air, his name is forefront in my mind.
Oliver. Oliver will save me.
And yeah, I know I’m supposed to be a feminist about this. I know I’m supposed to save myself. Find a way to kick whoever has a firm grip around my ankle in the face and twist out of their grasp. That’s the way I’d write it because that’s what the audience expects.
But that’s not what happens.
Instead, two firm, strong, male hands grab my shoulders and haul me out of the grip that’s trying to drown me, and the next thing I know, I’m on the side of the pool, the rough pebble of the concrete rubbing against my thighs as I cough out the water that’s accumulated in my lungs.
I look up. The person standing over me is partially blocked by the sun. But I’d know that outline anywhere.
It’s Connor.
Connor. Not Oliver.
Fuck.
“You all right?”
“Looks like I’ll live.”
His mouth curls into a smile as Oliver arrives next to me. “What happened?”
I look away from Connor. “Someone tried to kill me.”
I look down at my ankle. It’s rubbed red from whoever was gripping me, and there’s a small crescent moon from a nail.
“It was you,” I say to Sandrine. “You did it.”
“It’s a game, Eleanor. I was trying to win.”
“By drowning me?”
“I did nothing of the kind.”
I look over to Elizabeth. It’s hard to read her expression under her large hat. “What did you see, Elizabeth? Is dragging someone under allowed?”
“All’s fair in water polo,” Ravi says.
“Well, actually,” Connor says, “there are strict rules against what kinds of holds are permitted.”
I roll my eyes at Oliver and he smiles back. My breathing has returned to normal, and it’s hard to feel under threat soaking wet, under the bright sun, with a hundred people watching as they sip on their cocktails.
Would Sandrine try to kill me here, in front of everyone, and use water polo for an excuse?
No, right?
That seems silly.
Though I do know some of her deepest, darkest secrets. Some I might have threatened to spill when I texted her a couple of times when I couldn’t sleep after our breakup.
I’m not proud of it, okay?
Anyway, I’ve blocked her now, so I can’t do things like that anymore. And it was a while ago. She can’t know about me stalking her socials every couple of months to find out if she has a new book coming out. It’s not like LinkedIn, where people can see who looked at their profile.
Please tell me I’m right.
“Don’t be so dramatic, El,” Sandrine says.
“What are you talking about? I’m sitting here recovering from you trying to drown me.”
“See, that’s précisement what I’m talking about. Next thing I know, you’re going to do some Storytime about it on your TikTok.”
Stefano frowns. “I thought you said you don’t have TikTok?”
“I don’t,” I say, lying. “She’s … It’s just a jab at me.” I hold out my hand to Oliver. He pulls himself onto the deck and helps me up.
“Hey,” Connor says. “We have a match to play.”
“Match over,” I say.
“Who wins, then?”
“What does that matter?”
“There is a cup,” Elizabeth says. “A trophy of sorts.”
“Give it to Sandrine. She wants it bad enough.”
“I say,” Connor says. “Can we simply continue without Eleanor?”
“Go right ahead.”
Elizabeth looks around, a bit flustered, which is not something I’m used to seeing from her. “No, no, of course we will postpone the match. We can try again tomorrow.”
I close my eyes and breathe in.
Tomorrow. Someone can try again to kill me tomorrow.
Can’t wait.
An hour later, Oliver and I walk arm in arm through the complex to the British pub where the welcome cocktail is taking place with a sense of trepidation.
It’s been a hard launch into this conference. A body, unexpected guests, arguments, a near drowning. My stalker. This resort isn’t what I expected it to be, and I don’t just mean the peeling paint and mediocre food.
But the show, as they say, must go on, so I got changed into a light pink summer dress that—once again, sorry, Harper!—matches the coral linen shirt and chinos Oliver’s wearing.
I wish I didn’t have to go to this party or the dinner after it.
But since I do, I wish it was at the beach bar instead of inside.
The air tonight is soft in that way you only get in the tropics, and I love being near the water.
The ocean here is the blue of postcards and Instagram you-wish-you-were-here ads.
The sand is white and looks pillowy soft.
Tomorrow, after I teach my class, I’m plunking myself in a deck chair and burying myself in a book.
Or not burying myself … That seems like tempting fate.
You get what I mean. Do something to help me find my inner peace.
Maybe I’ll go to that sunrise yoga I saw on the schedule.
Ha ha ha.
For now, there’s this. Music is spilling out of the pub along with the clatter of party voices. There’s a sign on an easel outside welcoming us: GRAB A GLASS, SOLVE A MURDER!
Okeydokey, then.
A British pub is an odd thing to find in this warm clime, but I guess it’s in keeping with the colonial theme.
It certainly mimics the inside of a real British pub—wood on the walls, beer signs, triangular plastic flags hanging from the ceilings, and a mahogany bar with a brass railing.
There’s a bunch of British beers on tap, and the menu is classic pub food—fish and chips, ploughman’s platters, and cottage pie.
Not the kind of food I want to eat when it’s this hot, but the gin and tonic the nice Bahamian man behind the bar makes me hits the spot.
I rest my back against the railing and take in the crowd as Oliver spots someone he knows and goes to join them.
All of the main characters are here, along with the members of the various small groups. It’s noisy and everyone seems happy.
Except for me.
Okay, there are probably other people who aren’t that happy.
They’re probably doing a better job of hiding it.
“Having fun?” Vicki asks as she approaches with a glass of Prosecco in hand. Her English-rose skin already glows with too much sun. She’s wearing a pretty light blue wrap dress and looks happy and relaxed, a nice change from her perpetual half frown as she frets over her roster of authors.
“I was just thinking I wasn’t. But I should be.”
“What happened?”
“The usual.” I take a sip of my drink as I scan the room again. Elizabeth is sitting in a corner booth with Sandrine and Harper. She’s drinking a cocktail filled with citrus while Sandrine monopolizes the conversation.
Not that I can hear them from here. It’s just what Sandrine always does.
Which reminds me.
“Has Elizabeth said anything to you about a blurb I was supposed to give her?”
Vicki’s hand lowers slowly. “You forgot to blurb Elizabeth?”
“No. I mean, maybe?”
“Which is it?”
“Harper forgot to remind me.”
“Good Lord.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Has she said anything?” Vicki asks.
“No. Is it too late?”
She nods slowly. “We went to press last week.”
My heart thumps in relief. “It’s not like my blurb is important. I mean, she’s Elizabeth Ben! She doesn’t need me to sell her book.”
“Her sales have been soft lately.”
I almost choke on my drink. “What?”
“Her last two only sold ten thousand copies.”
“How can that be?”
“Tastes change. She’s not big on TikTok. Maybe marketing fumbled the bag. Take your pick.” She finishes her glass. “What did you think of the book?”
To be honest or not to be honest?
“I didn’t finish it.”
“Where did you stop?”
“About 20 percent in?” Okay, it was 11 percent. Yes, I remember looking at my Kindle earlier. Still can’t remember anything about the book, though.
“Can you be more specific?” Vicki says.
“Is this a test?”
“Humor me.”
“Honestly? I can’t remember anything about it.”
Vicki sighs. “That’s the problem.”
“What? It’s not just me?”
She leans closer. “I think it’s the end.”
“She’s dying?”
“Of her career. She just turned in Sandoval’s Last Case and it’s a mess.”
“She’s ending the series? That should make waves.”
“Not if no one cares.”
Ouch. Does that happen? Do people read book after book in a series and then stop caring about what happens to the characters?
Yes, yes. I know it does. But I write a series. Yep, making it about me again.
“There must be a way to save it.”
Vicki shakes her head. “I’ve tried to talk to her, but it’s delicate.”
“What about what Patterson does? Have her come up with the outline and have someone else write it.”
“I’ve tried that. I even hired someone to work with her. A nice young man with a fresh MFA looking to break in. Full of enthusiasm. But it didn’t make a difference.”
“So, what’s going to happen?”
“There’s an extremely uncomfortable conversation in my future.”
“I’m sorry, Vic.”
She drains her glass. “Comes with the territory. But I wouldn’t count on her blurbing you.”
“She never has. It’s fine.”
“She said she would this time. I sent her the book.”
I sink in my seat. “Oh, that makes me feel extra bad.”
She pats my hand. “You ready for your release?”
I give her a bright smile. “Of course. All I have to do is get out of here alive.”
“Do not joke about that.”
I bite my lip. “What about Oli?”
“What about him?”
“I know I shouldn’t ask, but are you going to make an offer on his manuscript?”
Her eyes darken. “No, you shouldn’t ask.” She motions to the bartender behind me for a refill. “El, I love you, but please don’t put me between you.”
“I’m sorry.”
“It’s all right. I know it must be … complicated for you.”
“He’s very supportive. He wants me to succeed.”
“You’re a very nice girlfriend.”
“What do you mean?”
“Something Borrowed, Blue, or Murdered? The one you owe me copyedits on?”
“That wasn’t a favor to Oli.”
She winks at me as she picks up her glass of Champagne. “Between us.”