Chapter 4
The scream that rips out of me is loud, ugly, and entirely unfit for polite society.
Moonlight filters through the coconut palms onto the rocks, where Coraline Starling lies sprawled, her body at an angle that makes my stomach drop.
The Mai Tai Madness Mix-Off is still going strong behind me—with ukuleles, blenders, and tourists who are too far into vacation mode—while the trade winds carry jasmine, salt, and the unmistakable warning that this night has gone very, very wrong.
My vocal performance sends every rooster within a five-mile radius into confused crowing solidarity, three cats scatter like furry ninjas, and what sounds like half the party guests pause their revelry to wonder if someone’s being attacked by wild boar or just discovered the true cost of resort cocktails.
“Sweet mother of pearl!” Ruby’s voice carries across the beach as she charges toward me, her bottle cap lei jangling like wind chimes having a seizure.
“Are you howling at the moon to summon your detective boyfriend? Because that’s either very romantic or it means you’ve completely lost your grip on reality! ”
Lani appears right behind her, wooden spoon clutched in her hand like she’s ready to battle whatever’s causing the disturbance.
“She’s probably just practicing her mating call,” she says with a dry wisdom that assures us she’s seen decades of questionable human behavior.
“Though the technique definitely needs work.”
“If you only knew,” I manage, pointing toward the lava rocks where our former celebrity judge has taken up permanent residence in the least flattering position possible.
Both women follow my gesture, and the sight of Coraline’s platinum blonde hair spread across black rock—accessorized with a crystal cocktail stirrer protruding from her throat and what appears to be a knife handle sticking out of her sequined chest—launches them into overlapping screams that hit all at once.
“AHHHHHHH!” Ruby hits frequencies that could shatter champagne flutes and probably communicate with dolphins.
“Oh my word!” Lani adds her voice to our impromptu Greek chorus of terror. “Someone really did not appreciate her judging technique!”
A dark shadow emerges from the beach path, and all three of us ramp up our vocal performance to levels that could trigger avalanches if we had any mountains made of actual snow instead of tropical vegetation.
“IT’S THE KILLER!” Ruby shrieks, grabbing onto my arm with claws that could rival our resident cats.
“MURDERER!” Lani yells, brandishing her wooden spoon as if she’s been waiting all night for a reason.
The shadow materializes into Detective Koa Hale, who manages to look devastatingly handsome even when being mistaken for a homicidal maniac.
His dark, wavy hair catches the moonlight filtering through palm fronds, while his bronze skin gleams against his perfectly pressed uniform that clings to a body built for both protection and serious distraction.
His molten lava dark eyes sweep the crime scene with professional intensity, though his perpetually serious expression suggests he’s carved from the same volcanic rock he’s now navigating with effortless ease.
Despite humidity that turns most clothing into damp surrender flags, he looks like he just stepped off the pages of a “Hot Cops of Hawaii” calendar, moving across the uneven lava with the sure-footed confidence of a man who grew up treating tide pools and tourist disasters as his personal playground.
He frowns my way. The long and short of it is, he doesn’t look impressed.
“Ladies,” he says calmly, as if finding hysterical women screaming over dead bodies is just another balmy night in paradise.
He quickly kneels beside Coraline to check for vitals that we all know aren’t there, and I take advantage of his distraction to conduct some rapid evidence assessment.
My eyes sweep the crime scene with a focused intensity because I know for a fact that clues have a tendency to disappear faster than mai tais at happy hour.
A small glass object catches moonlight near the rocks—an expensive perfume bottle cap, gold-trimmed and unmistakably upscale.
It’s nestled between two chunks of lava rock like someone either dropped it accidentally or placed it there very deliberately.
I head that way, and the scent of French sophistication still clings to it, which narrows down our suspect pool considerably.
A piece of torn fabric flutters from a sharp edge of volcanic rock, tropical print in vibrant colors that could belong to half the party guests or one mystery woman who made a dramatic exit after redecorating Coraline’s face with beverage accessories.
Wet sand footprints lead away from the scene toward the parking area, but the incoming tide is already erasing them with the efficiency of an accomplice destroying evidence. Nature is not going to make this easy for me.
Koa pulls out his phone. “This is Detective Hale,” he sighs into it. “I need the medical examiner and a full crime scene unit at Coconut Cove Paradise Resort. We have a homicide.”
The word “homicide” hangs in the tropical air like humidity, heavy and inescapable.
“Are any of you ladies hurt?” he asks, moving toward me with concerned brown eyes that catch the tiki torch light flickering from the distant party.
Before I can answer, he pulls me into arms that feel like the safest place in the world, which is saying something considering we’re standing three feet from a woman who just got turned into a human cocktail display.
I sink into his embrace with the boneless relief of a woman who’s just discovered she’s not going to become the next victim in what’s clearly becoming a pattern of paradise-related homicides. Let’s hope it stays that way.
“Did Jinx really have to resort to murder just to get you to show up at her party?” Ruby demands, swatting Koa’s shoulder with a righteous indignation only a true friend can show. “What’s the matter with you? A simple RSVP would have been sufficient!”
Lani swats Ruby in turn. “The woman isn’t even cold yet, and you’re making cracks about dating. Have some respect for the recently deceased!”
“I can’t help it. Death brings out my best inappropriate coping mechanisms,” Ruby says defensively. “It’s either dark humor, or I start stress-eating everything in the kitchen, and we all know how that ends.”
“With empty pantries and regret,” Lani confirms.
“I didn’t plan this,” I protest, staying right where I am in Koa’s arms because pulling away feels impossible and wildly wrong. “I was just following the cats when I found her!”
“Your investigative methods are definitely getting more creative,” Koa observes, but there’s warmth in his voice instead of the exasperation I probably deserve.
“Next time, just send the guy a text message like a normal person,” Lani says. “There’s much less paperwork involved.”
“Though you have to admit,” Ruby adds, “this is way more memorable than dinner invitations. It really shows commitment to getting his attention.”
I shoot them both a look for even going there.
Sirens wail in the distance, growing louder as they navigate the winding coastal road toward our little slice of homicidal paradise.
Red and blue lights begin strobing through the palm trees like a very ominous dance club, and I can already hear the sound of official vehicles crunching across the gravel parking area.
The Mai Tai Madness Mix-Off crowd starts gravitating toward our end of the beach with the magnetic pull of people who smell drama and free entertainment.
Tourists clutch their drinks and phones, probably already composing social media posts about their authentic Hawaiian murder experience, while local bartenders and restaurant staff exchange the type of looks that suggest this isn’t their first rodeo with dead celebrities.
“Oh no! Poor Coraline!” Breezy’s voice carries across the rocks as he approaches quickly. His face holds genuine shock and concern—either real or practiced well enough to pass.
“Who could have done such a terrible thing?” he continues, running a hand through salt-styled hair. “She was just trying to judge a cocktail competition. Sure, she had strong opinions, but murder? That’s crazy.”
“Mon Dieu! This is terrible!” Giselle materializes like an apparition with one hand pressed to her forehead in a gesture so dramatically French it could be choreographed.
Her earlier confrontation with Coraline seems forgotten in the face of actual mortality, though I notice she’s careful to stay well back from the crime scene as if she doesn’t want to be next.
“Such a tragedy,” she continues, her accent making even shock sound sophisticated.
“She was difficult, yes, but she did not deserve this.”
Both suspects express appropriately horrified reactions while I mentally catalog their responses for future reference.
Breezy seems genuinely upset, the sort of distress that’s hard to fake.
Giselle’s reaction feels more theatrical, but then again, she’s French—they probably learn dramatic gesturing in elementary school along with wine appreciation and sophisticated disdain.
I’ll admit, it’s a combination that works on her.
The lights from about twelve different cameras suddenly illuminate the crime scene as Coraline’s film crew materializes with the predatory instincts of people who smell a ratings goldmine. They wouldn’t be wrong.
“This is incredible footage!” one of them announces with far too much enthusiasm. “The drama! The authenticity! Our viewers are going to eat this up!”
“Shut it down,” I snap, channeling every ounce of managerial authority I’ve accumulated over the past few weeks. “This is a crime scene, not a documentary opportunity! Show some respect!” Although if they did keep their cameras rolling, I might get a clue or two.
“But the network will want—” the cameraman starts.
“The network will want you to avoid obstruction of justice charges,” Koa cuts in, his voice steady and impossible to ignore. “Turn off the cameras. Now.”
They comply with reluctance, though I catch at least one crew member still holding his phone in what he probably thinks is a subtle recording position.
Kauai’s finest swarm the scene with professional efficiency, establishing perimeter tape and evidence markers while Detective Hale transforms from concerned almost-boyfriend into extremely hot commanding law enforcement officer.
The transformation is impressive and slightly intimidating—suddenly he’s all business, issuing orders and taking control of the situation with an authority that makes even drunk tourists step back and behave themselves.
I scan the growing crowd, looking for the mystery woman from earlier—the one who decorated Coraline’s face with a mai tai before disappearing into the tropical night.
But she’s nowhere to be seen among the bartenders, tourists, and resort staff who’ve gathered to witness our latest addition to paradise’s body count.
“What exactly did you see tonight?” Koa asks, pulling out his notebook with a frown.
“Actually, I saw quite a few things,” I say, trying to sound helpful rather than like someone who’s been conducting unauthorized surveillance at a cocktail competition. “I can help kick off our investigation with enough details to require two notebooks, and maybe a cocktail napkin.”
His eyes narrow on me, and suddenly the tropical night air feels about twenty degrees hotter. “Our investigation?”
Before I can clarify that I was just being optimistic about our professional partnership, he moves closer. The scent of his cologne mixed with ocean air makes my brain forget how to process basic information.
“This is MY investigation, Jinx,” he growls, and there’s something primal in his voice that makes my spine straighten, and my pulse do things that should probably require a medical disclaimer. “Not ours, not yours—mine. Stay away from it.”
“But I can help—”
“You can help by staying safe,” he interrupts, those gold-flecked brown eyes boring into mine with an intensity that could probably melt lava rocks.
“There’s a killer out there who’s not afraid to make their point with a very sharp knife.
I’ll quiz you about what you saw later—I know where to find you. ”
He turns back to his investigation with a professional focus that leaves me standing there like someone who’s just been hit by very attractive lightning, and wondering whether Detective Hale has any idea what that growly voice does to a woman’s ability to think coherently. Okay, fine, he so does.
Koa may have killer looks, but I have a killer instinct.
This case not only happened at my resort, but I’m the one who found the body, and I know full well that lands me on the suspect list.
This might technically be Koa’s case, but as fate and my potential freedom might have it, it’s officially mine too.