Chapter 20 #2
My brain immediately jumps to the obvious suspect, the pieces clicking together like a puzzle that’s been waiting for this information.
“Savannah would know about oleander. She deals with plants all day, teaches people about traditional Hawaiian flora, probably knows more about plant toxicity than anyone else on the island...”
“She would,” Hale agrees, but his tone implies he’s not as convinced as I am.
“So she’s our killer!”
“The easiest solution isn’t usually the right one, Jinx. Someone could be framing her. Someone who wants us to think exactly what you’re thinking right now.”
“But who else would know about plant toxicity?”
“Anyone with internet access. Anyone who’s lived on the island long enough to pay attention.
Anyone who’s taken a basic botany class or watched a nature documentary or gotten curious about the pretty flowers growing by the resort pool.
” He leans back in his chair. “The knowledge isn’t rare.
It’s the willingness to use it that narrows the field. ”
“And the opportunity to actually poison him.”
“And the opportunity. Which means we’re looking for someone with access to oleander, knowledge of its properties, and the ability to get close enough to Nolan to poison his food or drink without him noticing.”
We eat in comfortable silence for a few minutes, watching the last tourists pack up their beach gear while the tiki torches create pools of golden light on the sand, and I try to process the fact that someone I’ve probably talked to is a calculating killer.
“Tell me about your family,” I say because I need to think about something other than poison and death. “The construction brothers who may or may not be competent enough to save our resort from its slow collapse into the ocean.”
His expression shifts, becomes more guarded. “There are three of us. I’m the middle child, which explains the law enforcement career—classic peacekeeping syndrome.”
“And the other two?”
“Kaleo, who goes by Shaka, is older, more responsible, and probably should have been the cop. Kaimana, who goes by Loco, is younger, more reckless, and definitely should not have been the one handling client relations.”
“What happened with their reputation?”
“They got hired to renovate a luxury resort on the South Shore. The client turned out to be running a money laundering operation through construction contracts. When it all went south, the brothers got painted as either accomplices or idiots. Neither was true, but the damage was done, and the island has a long memory.”
“That’s awful. So they lost everything because someone else was a criminal?”
“Island justice. When something goes wrong, everyone assumes the locals were either corrupt or incompetent. Sometimes it’s easier to believe that than admit the system failed.”
“But you think they can handle the resort?”
“I think they need a chance to prove they’re neither corrupt nor incompetent. And I think you need their help more than you’re willing to admit. That place is held together by duct tape and optimism, and optimism has a limited structural capacity.”
“Ouch.”
“The truth usually stings a little.”
“And the truth is usually right,” I say, tipping my drink his way.
The waitress appears with dessert menus, and I snatch one up with glee, because let’s face it, I’ve had an emotionally exhausting day and deserve sugar.
“The warm chocolate lava cake with vanilla bean ice cream,” I read aloud. “Or the lilikoi cheesecake with macadamia nut crust, or—oh my word—warm soft fudge cheesecake.”
“That last one,” Hale says, looking up from his own menu.
“The fudge cheesecake?” I stare at him. “I was literally just about to order that.”
“Great minds,” he says, his mouth quirking into a smile.
“Two of the warm soft fudge cheesecakes,” I tell the waitress, who looks delighted by our synchronized dessert preferences.
When they arrive—generous slices with fudge that’s still warm and gooey—I take my first bite and actually close my eyes because it’s that delicious.
“Okay, that’s unfairly good,” Koa says, and when I open my eyes, he’s watching me with an expression that makes the excellent cheesecake suddenly feel less important than whatever’s happening across this table.
“This should probably be illegal,” I manage.
“If dessert this good was illegal, I’d have to arrest the chef. And then where would we eat?”
Where would we eat? I swoon a little at how that actually made us sound like a couple.
We indulge and moan our way through the best fudge cheesecake known to man.
Before we know it, we’re driving back to the resort in comfortable silence punctuated by a sexual tension that’s ignoring all posted warning signs.
The warm wind holds the scent of night-blooming jasmine through the open windows, and the radio plays something soft and Hawaiian that makes everything feel like a movie scene.
“So,” I say as we pull into the resort parking lot, trying to keep my voice steady, “what’s next? You know, in our investigation partnership thing.”
He frowns hard, his hands tightening on the steering wheel. “It’s my investigation, Jinx. You can’t insert yourself into it anymore. You’ll—” He motions vaguely at me.
“I’ll what?”
“Jinx it.”
“Very funny.”
“I’m serious. This is getting dangerous, and you have a talent for being in the wrong place at exactly the wrong time with exactly the wrong level of self-preservation instinct.”
“That’s not fair.”
“It’s accurate. You’ve been here less than a week, and you’ve already set fires, flooded kitchens, and gotten yourself invited onto boats with a potential killer.”
He parks the truck and turns to face me, and suddenly we’re very close in the confined space. Close enough that I can see the gold flecks in his eyes, close enough to catch that scent of ocean air and dangerous competence that makes my brain forget how to function.
“Jinx,” he says quietly, and my name in his voice sounds different than it ever has before.
“Yeah?” My voice comes out breathier than intended.
He leans closer, and I can feel my heart doing things that could lead to it stopping entirely. His hand moves to cup my face, thumb brushing across my cheekbone, and I’m pretty sure I’ve forgotten how to breathe.
The moment stretches like taffy in the humid air, perfect and electric and absolutely inevitable—
WAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHH!
An alarm splits the night air with the enthusiasm of something that’s been waiting decades for this exact moment to ruin everything.
The sound is so loud it probably wakes the dead on neighboring islands, and every chicken within a five-mile radius starts crowing in confused solidarity as if they’re announcing the apocalypse.
“What in the name of—” I start, my heart still racing for entirely different reasons now.
“Resort fire alarm,” he says, already moving with the efficiency of a hot detective whose romantic moments are frequently interrupted by emergencies. “Defunct system that goes off whenever it feels neglected or wants attention.”
We scramble out of the truck, both of us heading for the main building where the alarm box is mounted beside the eternally half-open doors like a mechanical chaperone. Hale reaches it first, yanking open the panel and hitting switches until the wailing stops with one final protest.
The sudden silence is almost as shocking as the noise was, leaving my ears ringing and my heart still pounding.
“Well,” he says, straightening his shirt and looking like someone who’s just been reminded that paradise comes with rather loud boundaries. “I’d better leave before this place finds new and creative ways to interrupt the evening. Locusts might be next.”
“More like a plague of chickens. Go ahead and make a run for it.”
“It’s self-preservation.” He sheds a quick smile. “Try not to burn the island down while I’m gone. And for the love of everything holy, stay out of trouble.”
“Famous last words.”
He climbs back into his truck, and I watch him drive away with the distinct feeling that the universe has a twisted sense of timing and perhaps a personal vendetta against my love life.
I head toward my storage closet of a room and discover I have a welcoming committee waiting for me.
A gecko the size of my thumb sits on my door handle, appointed as my personal greeter.
Spam, my new favorite orange ball of fluff, lounges on my windowsill like he owns the place, and ten chickens have arranged themselves around my door in what can only be described as a feathered honor guard.
“Well,” I tell my assembled audience, “at least somebody around here knows how to make a girl feel welcome.”
The gecko does a tiny push-up and skitters inside ahead of me, clearly claiming squatter’s rights in paradise.
And despite everything—the murder, the failing resort, the almost-kiss that got interrupted by a fire alarm from hell—I can’t stop smiling.
Because Detective Koa Hale thinks I’m trouble.
And I’m pretty sure I’m falling for him anyway.