Chapter 11. Is Time Really a Flat Circle?
Is Time Really a Flat Circle?
Have you ever been in one of those moments where time moves at an odd pace?
Like the last days of summer when you’re a child. How you milk every second out of the longer days, waiting for the sun to drain from the day, letting the mosquitoes feast on your legs because if you go inside, you have to go to bed, and then it’s one day less of freedom.
Or those Sundays when you’re an adult. How they can creep by when you’re on your own.
When you’re suffering from the heartbreak of waiting on someone to call.
How it all seems like an eternity. How you have to hide your phone sometimes to keep from checking it because you know there won’t be the message you’re waiting for, and that’s too painful to contemplate?
I’ve felt all those highs and lows and many more in my life, and I’m feeling them all at once at this dinner.
We’re in the Mediterranean restaurant. It’s another indoor/outdoor space that has frescoes on the cream-washed walls with scenes from the Italian Renaissance and an eclectic mix of French and Greek cuisine on the menu.
Classic green beans and tzatziki. Steak and lemon Greek potatoes.
Moussaka made with scalloped potatoes. I already know it’s not going to taste as good as it smells, but I pointed to something when the polite waiter asked. I doubt I’ll be able to eat any of it.
A hundred voices are clattering along with the silverware, but all I can hear is Officer Rolle’s warning to me to watch out for myself. Those were his parting words as I left the pool to come here.
I’m sitting between Oliver and Guy. Harper’s on the other side of Oliver. Connor, Sandrine, Ravi, Stefano the TikTok guy, and Vicki round out our table, because who else would I be sitting with at this point?
At least I can keep an eye on them.
We’re not at the main table tonight—I don’t care about that—but I’m not sure how Guy has gone from head of security to a guest.
I could just ask.
I’m asking. I promise.
But first, I’m going to down this glass of what I assume is grog because it tastes like those drinks they used to make at fraternity parties—a mix of every alcohol on hand and fruit punch.
It’s gross, but I honestly don’t care at this point.
Where was I?
Guy.
Officer Rolle raised some good questions. Questions I asked Guy not that long ago on this day that never seems to end. I accepted Guy’s earlier answers, but that was before I saw the photos from Brian’s room.
A web I can’t unsee. I’m caught in it and I can’t get out.
“What are you really doing here?” I say to Guy, leaning in close enough that I get a whiff of his aftershave. It’s strong and medicinal, and I can’t imagine it’s meant to attract anyone.
Not that I’ve ever seen Guy with a member of either sex in a romantic way.
Not that I’ve ever asked.
Is he Sandrine’s latest conquest? I’ve never understood why she doesn’t just get divorced, but maybe her husband doesn’t care what she gets up to. He’s a nice, unassuming man who must know exactly what Sandrine’s capable of.
But back to my interrogation.
“Cough it up, Guy. It’s time.”
Guy takes a sip of his water and puts it down. He’s wearing his trademark black T-shirt and pants, the only color in the vibrant tattoos on his arms. “Am I not allowed to eat dinner?”
“You’re not part of the conference.”
His brown eyes turn to mine with a small sigh. “I thought I should keep an eye on things, given everything.”
“So, you’re working.”
“What else would I be doing?”
“Why always so hostile, Eleanor?” Sandrine says, leaning across Guy. She’s got a sneaky smile on her face like she’s plotting something, and maybe she is.
My murder? My downfall? To steal my peace?
Mission accomplished. That doesn’t mean she doesn’t have a point, though.
I am generally hostile. It’s something I don’t like about myself.
“I … I’m sorry,” I say. “You’re right. I received some disturbing news right before dinner and it’s getting to me.”
I feel Oliver tense next to me. “What?”
Me and my stupid mouth.
“I’ll tell you later.”
He reaches under the table and takes my hand. “What is it?”
I try to speak quietly so only he hears me, but it’s loud in here. “The guy who died in our room had a crazy wall about me.”
“A what?” Harper says, her fork clattering against her plate. “Seriously?”
“Officer Rolle showed me a photo.” I turn to Guy. He doesn’t seem surprised. “You knew about this?”
He turns his hands over to show me his palms. “I was there when they examined his room.”
“Is it as bad as it looked in the photo?”
“It wasn’t good.”
“Fantastic.”
“I’ll keep you safe,” Guy says in a reassuring voice.
“Wait. Is that why you’re sitting next to me?”
He tilts his head to the side but doesn’t say anything. Guy isn’t sentimental, but he’s also never been my enemy. Not that I know of.
“Should we be worried?” Oliver asks Guy.
“Obviously, yes, Oli.”
“I mean immediately. Tonight. Is there a threat against Eleanor?”
Guy frowns. “I haven’t heard anything specific. But given that whoever killed Brian is still on the loose…”
“Wait, what?” Harper says. “Killed?”
“Did I not tell you that?” I say.
“No. You arrived, sat down, and started drinking.”
That tracks.
“Sorry. Officer Rolle just told me. Well, Inspector Tucci said it first, but you know how that goes. Anyway, here’s what I know…”
I fill them in on what I learned from Inspector Tucci and Officer Rolle, and I don’t have any trouble capturing their attention. Everyone hears what I have to say, each of their conversations stopping as silence descends on our table.
I’ve always been good at telling stories.
“Why would this man be stalking you?” Connor asks when I finish. He’s wearing a white linen shirt, the first three buttons open, revealing a tawny thatch of chest hair. He’s at his most attractive when he’s showing concern for someone other than himself.
Which he knows.
“I have no idea.”
“Have you ever been to the Bahamas before?” Connor says.
“No.”
“Did the man look familiar?”
“Again, no. But it was hard to tell in the circumstances…”
“It can’t be a coincidence that he died in your room.”
“Obviously.”
“Something is afoot,” Connor says. “And if he was killed, then that means a murderer is on the loose.”
That stops all of us. Someone here is a murderer.
And by the looks of it, they want to kill me.
The note, the body, the crazy wall, surrounded by enemies, almost drowned. A carousel of fear that I try to push away, but who are we kidding?
Who is it? Who, who, who?
I’ve spun this roulette wheel before, so I can eliminate some people right off the bat.
It’s not Harper. Even if she knew I was about to fire her, that’s not a reason to murder me. And she wouldn’t do it here. Harper’s great at executing detailed instructions, but coming up with plots is not her strong suit. It’s why her books don’t sell.
Ugh, I know, okay, I know. But it’s not my fault. And she can’t hear me right now. I’m telling you.
So it’s not Harper.
Or Oli.
I hate how I always have to exclude the people I love the most from the list of people who want me dead.
But now that that’s over with, let’s move on to the real suspects, shall we?
Connor. Sandrine. Guy. Ravi. Cathy. Stefano. Who’s said not one word since he joined this table, just stalked everyone with his eyes like he’s researching his next TikTok.
That’s how you make TikToks, yes?
He seems unlikely as someone who wants to kill me, though.
If he ended up dead, then I’d be a suspect.
Though I did cut off his NetGalley access from a major publisher.
Which is catching. Once you’ve been banned by one publisher, the others soon find out (don’t ask me how, they just do), and his entire business model depends on his ability to get early (free) copies of books, so maybe he has more of a motive than I originally thought.
So keep him on the list.
You’re keeping a list, yes? No? Start one. I’ll wait.
Ready? Let’s continue.
Anyway, as much as I hate to admit it, Connor is probably out, too.
Though if I died, I’m sure my books would see a huge surge in sales and he still gets a cut of the money those titles make.
But no. He makes his own money now. He got a major deal for his books. Plus sold the movie rights. He doesn’t need to kill me to make money.
He does like planning crimes, though …
No, no, it’s not him. He has a good life. There’s no reason to put that in jeopardy by killing me and Brian.
I mean it could be him, but I’d put him in the last spot, just below Stefano.
Besides, there are much more obvious suspects.
Like Sandrine. She can plot something like this and she hates me. And I have threatened to reveal her secrets in the not-too-distant past. Before I blocked her and put us both out of our misery.
And Ravi threatened me a couple of hours ago, if today is still today.
And Guy is here on some flimsy made-up excuse, so what is he up to exactly?47
“El?”
I turn to Oliver. He has that look on his face that he reserves for when he’s worried I’ve gone completely off the deep end.
“You okay?”
“Probably not.”
He squeezes my hand. “I’ll keep you safe.”
“I know you’ll try.” I sigh. “Why does this keep happening? Am I that bad of a person?”
“Maybe it isn’t about you,” Connor says.
“What’s that?”
“Just a theory I’m working on.”
“Someone wants to kill me, but it’s not about me? How?”
“It could be a strategic move.”
“Explain.”
He picks up his napkin and wipes a small dot of sauce from the corner of his mouth. “The man who died—he wasn’t acting alone. So it’s a conspiracy. And in all conspiracies, some calculations are made that aren’t always apparent to those outside the conspiracy.”
“You should know,” Harper says, and part of me wants to clap.
“Exactly,” Connor says. “I do know. So if you’re trying to puzzle this out, Eleanor, which I know you’re going to try to do, my advice is, don’t.”
“Just sit here and wait for the phone to ring, then?”