Chapter 9
It took all night to convince Koa to pretend he’s my favorite boy-toy and that he has a beef with me.
Okay, fine. It took a better part of the morning, too.
Let’s just say this went on for hours via both texts and phone calls, with me presenting increasingly desperate arguments and him shooting them down with a patient logic that made me want to throw my phone into the ocean.
“Pretend boyfriend with relationship problems,” I’d corrected. “There’s a difference.”
“Is there?”
“The first one is romantic. The second one is investigative.”
“Jinx—”
“Please? Ruby and Lani already have fake boyfriends. I can’t show up alone. It’ll blow our cover.”
There’d been a long pause. “Ruby and Lani have fake boyfriends.”
“Yep.”
“Who are these fake boyfriends?”
“I have no idea. But knowing Ruby, she’s probably already recruited them from somewhere—or she’s about to.”
Another pause. “This is the worst undercover operation I’ve ever been part of.”
“You say that like you’ve been part of better ones.”
Koa had to work late at the station, or I’m sure he would’ve told me no to my face, which is significantly harder to argue with than telling me no over the phone.
But this afternoon, as Lani, Ruby, and I are loading ourselves into Pele, Koa shows up looking lean and mean in dark jeans and a fitted black T-shirt that makes every woman in the parking lot forget how to breathe.
His whiskey-colored eyes meet mine with a mixture of resignation and something that looks suspiciously like amusement.
“I can’t believe I’m doing this,” he mutters.
I hand him the keys to Pele. “You’re driving.”
“Why am I driving?”
“Because Pele is out to get me, and I think she respects you more.”
He looks at the rusted, sun-faded van like he’s being asked to operate heavy machinery blindfolded. “This thing runs?”
“Occasionally. And with great reluctance.”
Ruby pokes her head out of the van’s sliding door. “Koa! Perfect timing. We need to make a quick stop.”
“Ruby—” I start.
“I need to visit the food trucks,” she says before I can formulate a sentence. “They’re just up the street. It’s sort of an emergency.”
Ten minutes later, we’re parked outside a cluster of food trucks in Hanalei, and Ruby disappears into the small crowd with the determined stride of a woman on a mission.
She returns five minutes later with two older Hawaiian men in tow, both looking slightly stunned but more than happy to play the part of anyone’s love interest for the afternoon.
The first man is maybe in his late seventies, with skin the color of koa wood and a smile that says he’s seen everything and found most of it amusing. He’s wearing a faded aloha shirt and board shorts, and has his silver hair cropped close to his head.
“This is Kimo,” Ruby announces, beaming. “He’s my boyfriend.”
Kimo grins. “For a hundred dollars and the promise of malasadas, I’m anyone’s boyfriend.”
Wonderful. At least he has standards.
The second man is shorter, rounder, probably pushing eighty, with a shock of white hair and laugh lines so deep they look like they were carved by decades of joy. He’s wearing khaki shorts and a tank top that says Kauai: Where the Beer is Cold and the Stories are Tall.
“And this is Lopaka,” Ruby continues. “He’s Lani’s boyfriend.”
Lopaka climbs into the van with surprising agility. “She also promised we could see her—”
“MALASADAS,” Ruby interrupts loudly. “I promised you could see the malasadas at the wellness center. Which are legendary. Very famous. Nothing else.”
Lani’s eyes widen with horror. “Ruby, what did you promise these men?”
“Snacks!” Ruby is quick to shout. “I promised them snacks! And maybe a fun story to tell at bingo night.”
Koa slides into the driver’s seat, his shoulders shaking with silent laughter. “This just keeps getting better.”
I climb into the passenger seat, and that’s when I spot the orange furball curled up on the dashboard.
“Spam!” I reach for him, and he opens one eye, utterly unimpressed by the chaos around him. “How did you get in here?”
“He’s been there since we loaded the van,” Lani says. “I think he’s claimed shotgun.”
“Well, he can’t have it.” I scoop Spam into my lap, and he immediately starts purring like a diesel engine. “I call dibs on him. I’ve always wanted to be in a love triangle.”
Koa gives me a look. “You’re in a love triangle with a cat?”
“He’s better company than most men.”
“I’m sitting right here.”
“I said most men. You’re in the minority.”
Spam settles into my lap, smug as a cat who always gets his cute, furry little way, as Koa coaxes Pele to life. She sputters, coughs, and finally roars into something resembling cooperation.
We pull onto the road, and Kauai unfolds around us in shades of green that don’t exist anywhere else on earth.
Mountains rise in the distance, their peaks shrouded in clouds that look painted on.
The ocean gleams to our right, endless blue meeting endless sky, and everywhere, absolutely everywhere, there’s red dirt.
It stains the roadside. It coats the leaves of plants brave enough to grow near the pavement.
It turns white cars rust-colored and makes every pair of shoes a permanent casualty.
The red dirt of Kauai is persistent, unapologetic, and as much a part of the island as the ocean itself.
I’d given up trying to keep anything white. Kauai had decided it knows better—and I know better than to argue.
Kimo leans forward from the back seat. “So what’s this couples therapy about? You kids having trouble already?”
“We’re investigating a murder,” Ruby says far too cheerfully.
There’s a long, somewhat horrified pause.
“She’s joking,” I say quickly. “We’re just working on our communication skills.”
“By pretending to have boyfriends and infiltrating a therapy session,” Koa adds, deadpan.
Lopaka nods sagely. “Ah, yes—modern romance.”
The driveway to Pua Lani Wellness Sanctuary winds through fields of sugarcane and clusters of wild ginger, climbing gradually into the hills above Princeville.
The scent of plumeria grows stronger as we ascend, mixing with something sweeter, jasmine maybe, or night-blooming flowers getting an early start.
We pull into a small gravel parking area shaded by monkeypod trees, and the sanctuary reveals itself like a secret the island’s been keeping.
Gates wrapped in passion fruit vines mark the entrance, and beyond them, a path of smooth stones leads through gardens so lush they look like they’ve been growing since the beginning of time.
The waterfall is visible from the parking lot, a gentle cascade maybe twenty feet high, spilling over dark lava rock into a pool so clear I can see fish darting near the bottom. The sound is peaceful, more lullaby than roar, and ferns drape from every surface like nature’s curtains.
“This place is gorgeous,” Lani breathes.
“This place costs money,” Koa mutters, eyeing the manicured gardens and the covered pavilion overlooking the water.
We pile out of Pele. Kimo and Lopaka move with the careful precision of two men long past trusting their own joints, and we make our way through the gates.
A small reception desk sits just inside, attended by a young woman with flowers in her hair and a serene expression that says she meditates daily and isn’t faking it.
“Aloha,” she says, smiling. “Are you here for the couples retreat?”
“That’s us,” Ruby chirps. “Six couples, ready to play the blame game with the best of them.” Lani nudges her hard. “And heal!”
“Wonderful.” The woman doesn’t even blink at the fact that half our group looks like they were recruited from a food truck parking lot ten minutes ago. “Just sign in here, and you can head to the main pavilion. We’re serving refreshments before the session starts.”
We sign in, with Ruby giving wildly creative fake names that include Lola Moonbeam and Kimo Casanova, and follow the path toward a large tent set up near the waterfall.
Koa falls into step beside me, with Spam still cradled in my arms like a furry security blanket.
“You know this is insane, right?” he says quietly.
“I prefer to think of it as creatively investigative.”
“You brought a cat to couples therapy.”
“I had no idea he was along for the ride. Besides, Spam wanted to come. Who am I to deny him personal growth?”
Spam blinks at me from my arms with the bored superiority of a creature that has done his own therapy, written his own self-help book, and is here strictly to observe the lesser species struggle.
Koa’s mouth twitches. “And what exactly is our relationship problem supposed to be?”
I think for a moment. “You work too much. I’m too impulsive. Classic opposites-attract situation with communication issues.”
“That’s actually pretty accurate.”
“I know. I’m good at this.” A little too good.
We step into the tent, and I’m hit with the scent of fresh coffee, fried dough, and tropical flowers.
The interior is spacious, with cushioned mats arranged in a large circle and a refreshment table along one side that’s already under siege by chickens who’ve decided malasadas are worth fighting for.
Pies of every variety line the table—coconut cream, haupia, lilikoi, chocolate mac nut, and there’s a coffee station that smells like heaven brewed in paradise.
The Spice Girls are already here, sitting with their husbands in a cluster near the back.
Cozy waves when she sees us, and her smile looks genuine but tired.
Doreen nods politely. Bubbles bounces in her seat and vibrates with nervous energy, and the vacant look in her eyes suggests she’s in another world entirely.
Either that or she’s plotting a murder—perhaps her second on the trip.
In other words, Bubbles is every bit herself.
We take seats nearby as Kimo and Lopaka settle in with the grace of men who’ve attended stranger events than fake couples therapy, and Ruby immediately starts loading a plate with malasadas.
If anything, Ruby Figgins keeps her word.
And that’s precisely what makes me nervous, considering her earlier promise to show them her coconuts.
Or at least that’s all I hope she’s about to show them.
A woman steps to the center of the circle, and the chatter quiets.
She’s maybe in her sixties, with short gray hair and warm brown skin, wearing flowing clothes in soft blues and greens.
She has at least six leis draped around her neck, plumeria and maile, their scents mixing with the jasmine drifting in from outside.
Her smile is the kind that makes you want to tell her your secrets, the kind that says she’s heard it all and judged none of it.
I make a mental note to avoid eye contact, because I have a feeling she could pull a confession out of me with one well-timed nod. Sort of like Koa.
“Aloha,” she says, her voice low and soothing. “I’m Aunty Leilani, and I’ll be guiding you through this afternoon’s journey into deeper connection with your partners.”
Ruby elbows me. “Another Leilani. It’s a sign.”
“A sign of what?”
“I don’t know yet, but it’s definitely a sign.” She glances at her bestie. “On second thought, it might just be a sign that one of them is a killer.”
Lani rolls her eyes, which I’ll admit is much better than giving her the finger.
“Relationships are like the ocean.” Aunty Leilani continues, her hands moving gracefully as she speaks.
“Sometimes calm, sometimes stormy, always changing. Today, we’ll explore the tides of your connection.
We’ll practice vulnerability, honesty, and physical intimacy as pathways to deeper understanding. ”
Physical intimacy?
Oh no.
I glance over at Koa and his lips twitch my way.
Who am I kidding? Oh yes.
Aunty Leilani guides us through a series of partner exercises—mirroring each other’s posture, sharing one thing we admire about our partner, holding hands while looking into one another’s eyes for sixty seconds without speaking.
Koa and I are alarmingly good at the staring exercise, which Aunty Leilani points out approvingly while the Spice Girls cackle in the background.
The husbands look like they’d rather be undergoing root canals. Some of the other couples giggle their way through the prompts, while Cozette, Doreen, and Bubbles get more and more animated by the minute. Forty-five minutes pass in what feels like ten.
“And now for our final exercise,” Aunty Leilani says. “We’ll work on sustained intimacy. Turn to your partner. Look into their eyes. Don’t speak. I just want you to really see each other once again.”
Koa turns to me, and those molasses-brown eyes lock onto mine with an intensity that makes my stomach flip.
This is a terrible idea. His lips curve with devilish intent. On second thought, this might just be the best idea I’ve ever had.
“Now,” Aunty Leilani continues, “place your hand on your partner’s heart. Feel their breath. Match your breathing to theirs.”
Koa’s hand settles over my heart, warm and solid, and I place mine on his chest, feeling the steady thump beneath my palm.
“Good,” Aunty Leilani says softly. “Now lean in. Touch foreheads. Close your eyes. Breathe together.”
We lean in, and Koa’s forehead presses against mine, and suddenly we’re in this tiny bubble of shared air and synchronized breathing, and I can smell his woodsy cologne and feel the warmth radiating off him, and—
“Now kiss,” Aunty Leilani says.
Wait, what?
But Koa’s already moving, his mouth finding mine in a kiss that starts gentle and quickly becomes something else entirely. Something that makes me forget we’re pretending—even though we’re sort of not—forget we’re investigating, forget that there are other people in this tent watching us.
The murder investigation? Also forgotten. Possibly permanently.
A bell rings somewhere in the distance.
“Time for a break,” Aunty Leilani announces cheerfully.
But Koa and I can’t stop. His hand slides into my hair, and I’m gripping his shirt, and somewhere in the rational part of my brain that’s still functioning, I hear Spam meow indignantly and bolt from my lap.
Ruby’s voice cuts through the haze. “Okay, lovebirds, save it for later. It’s time to shake down a killer.”
Koa pulls back, his eyes dark and unfocused, and we’re both breathing hard.
“That was...” I start.
“Investigative,” he finishes.
“Right. Very professional.”
“Extremely professional.”
But neither of us moves, and I’m starting to think this fake relationship might be the most real thing I’ve felt in years, which is a problem, because somewhere in this garden of healing and malasadas and chickens stealing pastries, there’s a killer who thinks they’re safe to confess their sins.