Chapter 13. Can I Break My Fast Without Someone Trying to Kill Me?
Can I Break My Fast Without Someone Trying to Kill Me?
“Any updates?” I ask Harper thirty minutes later, after I’ve eaten my way through a tall stack of pancakes drowned in maple syrup and gone back for seconds.
And yes, I had some fruit, too, okay. Geez.
“How would I have updates you don’t?”
Okay, tone. But we’re all on edge so I’m not going to call it out.
Just to you.
“I mean on John Hart.”
Harper’s eyes shift guiltily. “Oh.”
“I have a lot of questions.”
She puts her fork down. “Go ahead.”
“Why didn’t you tell me about any of this?”
“Because I knew you’d tell me not to involve myself. To stay out of it.”
“And that would’ve been good advice.”
“I didn’t want to take it, though. You don’t understand. I didn’t get the trial.”
“You think I should’ve let you go? You were sixteen.”
“No, that was the right decision. I was too young. But I needed that closure.”
“How is going to a parole hearing closure?” I ask.
As she looks at me, her eyes fill with tears, and I feel like a jerk for bringing this up at all. “I wanted to see what he looked like. What he sounded like. If he was going to say anything about being sorry.”
“And?”
“He’s just a man in his fifties. Unremarkable.”
“And did he say sorry?”
“No.”
“And now he’s getting out? I’d rather not know that.”
Harper bites her lip. “Fair enough.”
“And you told Connor about all of this?”
“Is that why you’re upset?” She glances at Oliver, who’s also on his second helping of pancakes because, as he said earlier, he’s never said no to a meal, and these pancakes are delicious.
“You don’t have to worry about talking about Connor in front of him.”
“I don’t?”
“No, apparently he’s Zen about Connor now.”
“Really?”
“Yep. And also, in case you were wondering, we’re not talking about the fact that our bed was strewn with rose petals in a heart-shaped pattern last night.”
Oliver’s fork drops to his plate. “I…”
“It’s fine. It was the hotel, apparently. So Oliver says anyway, but I’m not sure I believe him.”
Harper narrows her eyes at me. “Are you drunk?”
“It’s eight a.m. Absolutely not.”
“Something’s up.”
“I haven’t slept, and two people are dead. There’s half a serial killer on the loose.”
“What in the hell?”
“Sorry,” I say. “I’m just very, very tired and a little terrified.”
“That, I buy.”
“So tell me about Connor.”
Harper reaches for her coffee. “What about him?”
“Have you been … hanging out. Again?”
One of the things I can’t erase from my brain is that Harper hooked up with Connor last year. She was feeling low, and I know she regrets it, but I don’t think we’ve ever really processed what it means between us that she slept with one of my exes.
“Not like that. But what does it matter?”
“You know why. Guy is dead. Who else would want to kill him?”
“I have no idea.”
“Exactly. Except Connor.”
“I don’t think so.”
I grip the edge of the table. “So it’s just a coincidence that Guy and the other dead guy, Brian, arrived here at about the same time, and now Connor’s here, and they’re both dead?”
Harper shrugs. “Did Connor know Brian?”
“He could have. He used to live in the US. He only arrived in the Bahamas recently.”
“You have evidence of a connection between them?”
“Well, no, but…”
Harper looks up as Connor walks toward the buffet. He waves to her, then rolls his eyes. She smiles, then looks away.
“This is what I’m talking about,” I say. “You and Connor, what is up with that?”
“Nothing, we’re friendly.”
“And you’re working for him again?”
“I’ve been working on book two with him, yes.”
Harper worked as a beta reader for Connor on his first manuscript. I hadn’t asked for the details about their arrangement when I found out, probably because I was jealous she was using her editing time on anyone but me.
But like so many things I ignore in my life until it’s too late, now that I am looking at it, something occurs to me. There was a certain familiarity to Connor’s book, and not just because it followed the tried-and-true rom-com formula.
It was well written. Like Emily Henry–level written. Too well written for it to be Connor.
“Wait, wait, wait. Are you writing his books?”
Harper’s eyes slide away from mine. “Why would I do that?”
Oh. My. God. She didn’t deny it.
Plus, if someone answers your question with a question, they’re covering something up.
“I don’t know, but it makes more sense than Connor writing a good rom-com.”
She still won’t make eye contact, but her cheeks are turning pink like they do when she’s pleased. “You read it?”
“I did. It was surprisingly good.”
The corner of her mouth turns up, then down again.
Holy shit.
I knew it.
Okay, I didn’t. But a lot of things make sense now.
“You underestimate him, El.”
“Please. I think I have his full measure. But you haven’t answered the question.”
She finally looks at me. “I didn’t write it. I just edited it. Like I do for you. That’s what I’m good at, El.”
And she is. She’s very good at finding the weakness in someone else’s work.
And yet I don’t believe her. But she doesn’t want to tell me the truth right now, which is kind of freaking me out.
Maybe, if she did write it, Connor got her to sign an ironclad legal agreement with a confidentiality clause.
Connor loves his binding legal agreements.48
I change topics. “Why did you tell Connor about John Hart?”
Her cheeks turn redder. How many secrets does she have from me? No. I don’t want to know the answer to that. Everyone has secrets.
Even me.
“He helped me do some research into Hart.”
“What kind of research?”
“His life. What he was doing that night.”
“Why do you want to know that?”
Harper’s voice rises in anguish. “Because we know nothing about him. The only thing is that he killed Mom and Dad. And he never said anything about it. He didn’t say it was a mistake.
He said he couldn’t speak about it at the parole board.
He’s spent all that time in jail, and he can’t come up with a good answer. ”
“What is there to say? He was drunk. He ran a light. He killed two people.”
“I tried googling him and nothing came up except articles about the case. And he wasn’t even from LA.
There’s no explanation of why he was in town.
And then I found this article about how there was a passenger in his car, a woman, but she’s not in the arrest papers, and I can’t find anything else out about her. ”
“This was a long time ago, Harper. Maybe he didn’t have a digital footprint. It happens.”
“And the woman?”
“If she was the passenger, she didn’t do anything wrong. I’d want to keep my name out of it, too. I can’t imagine being put in that situation, can you?”
Harper turns her eyes down to the table. I look at Oliver. He’s stopped eating and is listening but is wisely staying out of this. Because it’s between me and Harper. And if I’m being honest,49 I’m pretty mad at her right now for bringing John Hart back into my life.
“Connor agrees with me,” Harper says. “That it’s suspicious.”
I take in a slow breath. “Leave it alone, Harper.”
“Why?”
“Don’t we have enough drama right now?” I motion around us. “Why go looking for more of it?”
Harper slumps down in her seat. “You’re right.”
I stare at the remnants of breakfast. I’ve lost my appetite.
“Did Connor ever say anything to you about Guy?” Oliver asks Harper.
Harper blinks rapidly. “Like what?”
“How they met? What their business was? If they’ve been in touch? Why they fell out?” He pauses, then smiles. “For starters.”
“I know they met in Europe, but not much more than that.”
“Does it say anything in Guy’s book?” I ask. “It must.”
“I never read it,” Harper says.
“Me either.”
“I’m sure we can get a copy on or something, right, Vicki?” Oliver says.
I look up. Vicki’s approaching our table with an overfilled plate in one hand and a mimosa in the other. She’s wearing a white cotton midi-dress today, with an orange sweater tied over her shoulders. Her outfit says relaxation, but her face is a different story. “A copy of?”
“Guy’s book,” I supply.
“That poor man. I’ve never had one of my authors die right in front of me before.”
“It’s not your fault. But we don’t need to read his book, we have you, right, Vick?” I say. “You edited it.”
Her lips form a thin line. “I did.”
“Not good?”
“Not my decision. Capitalizing at a corporate level. You get it.”
Capitalizing on me, she means. And my success. Which was fair game, of course. Only it never sat right with me.
“Sure, but do you remember it?”
“Some.”
“Does it say how Guy and Connor met?”
She puts her plate down, then takes a sip of her mimosa. I feel a slight longing for one and check myself. I do not need to add alcohol to the exhaustion I’m already feeling.
“Ask Connor?”
“He’s not a reliable witness.”
“I wouldn’t count on Guy being one either. He was so difficult to fact-check we almost couldn’t publish.”
“What was the story he was pushing, then?”
“They met in Europe. Connor had just started his detective agency. He needed muscle. Enter Guy.”
“So Connor was a detective?”
Vicki laughs. “That’s what your books say.”
“Sure, but that was me making him the hero. Reality is different.”
Especially where Connor is concerned.
“I think that part is true. Not sure what they specialized in. Guy alluded to some close-to-the-line cases. They were based in London. Then Italy.”
“Which is weird, right? Like why are two Americans operating in Italy?”
“Guy is from Montreal,” Harper says.
“Canada?”
“Is there another Montreal?”50
“So Guy is French?”51
“He’s Canadian.”
“You know what I meant.”
Harper rolls her eyes. “He had a francophone father, English mother.”
“He speaks French?” I feel like my voice is rising with each one of these questions.
“Spoke,” Harper says.
“You know what I meant.”
“He spoke multiple languages, I believe,” Vicki says.
“Curioser and curioser.”
“Anything else?” Vicki finishes her drink and signals to the waiter to bring her another.
“A bit early for that, no?”
“I’m stressed.”
“We all are.”
“Not about … Yes, that is stressful. It’s these meetings in New York.”
“What meetings?”
She takes another sip of her drink, finishing it. “The powers that be. They’re meeting with the VC. Rumors of cuts are afoot.”
“VC?”
“Venture capitalists. They bought the company two years ago.”
“They’re not cutting you, are they, Vicki?” Harper asks.
“Only time will tell.”
“But you have all the bestselling authors,” I say.
“And the not-so-bestselling authors.”
“Sorry, Vick,” Oliver says.
“Oh, Oliver, I didn’t mean you.”
He nods and looks away. Vicki and I share a glance.
I feel bad that I didn’t know this and also some panic for me.
I’ve never worked with another editor. Vicki knows me.
My highs and lows and how to cajole me when she needs to.
She’s also a memory palace for the characters in my books.
I literally don’t know what I’d do without her.
“Anyway,” I say quickly, “I’m sure they’re not stupid enough to get rid of you, and if you want me to call Glenda, I will.”
Glenda’s Vicki’s boss.
“That is not necessary. Did you have more questions about Guy?”
“I’m sure there are a million I’m forgetting.”
“Did he talk about any enemies in the book?” Oliver asks.
“Not that I recall. But they solved a lot of cases. Put some people in jail. Broke up a lot of marriages. Maybe someone waited till now to take their revenge.”
“They’d have to know he was working here,” Oliver says. “And it must be one of the attendees because it happened at dinner.”
“Or one of the staff,” Harper points out.
“Another member of the staff who just started working here?” I say.
Oliver nods his head. “Resorts are transient places. I’m sure it’s not hard to get a job as one of the waitstaff.”
“But then who killed Brian? That wasn’t some random waiter.”
“True.”
“We don’t even know if Guy was killed, though,” Harper says.
“He definitely was.”
“How?”
“Probably poison,” I say. “It was sudden … Maybe it was in his food?”
“So it was one of the waitstaff?” Harper says.
“No, I agree with El,” Oliver says. “But the lights were off. Anyone could’ve dropped something into his plate or drink.”
“Yes!” I say. “Sorry, that was loud. But I did feel someone near me in the dark. I just remembered.”
“You should tell Officer Rolle,” Oliver says.
“I will.” I push my plate away. “None of this makes any sense.”
“It never does in the beginning.”
“Are we at the beginning? Two people dead? Feels like we’re in the second act to me. And we’re just going on with the conference as if nothing is wrong.”
“The financial repercussions of canceling are too great,” Vicki says. “And no one at the conference has been harmed.”
“Not yet.”
“I bet half of the participants think it’s a stunt,” Harper says. “Look at Stefano.”
We follow where she’s pointing. He’s near the buffet, talking into his phone. Has he moved on to suspect number two yet? I should check his TikTok, but that feels like a distraction.
Like this.
Everything we’ve been discussing. Maybe it’s a distraction.
“It does feel like that,” I say.
“What do you mean?” Oliver says.
“I can’t explain it. But something feels off. Different but familiar.”
“You’ll figure it out,” Vicki says, patting my arm. “You always do.”
I appreciate the vote of confidence, but why, though? Why do I have to figure anything out? Why can’t I just go somewhere nice and not be plagued by unhappiness and murder? What did I do to deserve this?
Okay, okay, I know. I’m making everything about me again. And right after I decided that it wasn’t about me, but about Guy and Connor.
But I am the star of my own life. We all are. And I have this feeling in my chest. This tight feeling that makes me think something is going to happen at any moment.
I tense up, waiting for something to go BOOM.
But instead, all that happens is Crazy Cathy appears wearing a garish summer dress with lemons all over it.
“Eleanor! Up, up, up. You’ll be late for class.”
Oliver puts his hand on my back. “I’ll go with you.”
“You have your own class to teach.”
“We could combine them?”
“No, it’s all right. I’ll be all right.”
But how many times does one have to say that to make it true? Is it like Beetlejuice?
Am I the curse or the cure?
Guess we’ll find out eventually.