Poppy
So why does she feel so afraid? Like she’s spiraling out of control?
Why are the old iterations of herself cracking through the walls she’s built so carefully to compartmentalize and contain them?
Suddenly clamoring to get out are all her previous selves: the lonely and pudgy little girl; the bullied child; the awkward fat tween; the grieving teen, the vulnerable, insecure young woman who so desperately needed to be wanted and loved that she allowed herself to believe Paz was kindhearted.
Who dared hope Paz would treat her right.
Until he didn’t. Again and again. Until she ran completely out of hope. And no one came to save her.
She bangs louder, more desperately, on the Elysium suite door. “Lillith? Are you in there?”
Silence.
Poppy glances at her watch. They were supposed to meet for breakfast. Lillith never showed. No texts or calls. Could she have gone ashore already?
Should she go look for her on Crete?
Or what if she’s inside—ill, passed out . . . or worse?
She frowns at her watch again. They’re supposed to be on a bus to Chania in twenty minutes.
Maybe Arrabella told Lillith she killed Paz, and Lillith is ghosting her. The thought makes Poppy’s stomach clench. Arrabella has been gunning for her from the get-go—now she’s won.
Or what about Hendrick? What if he’s a con artist, preying on old widows? Maybe he’s done something to Lillith. Or maybe A.G.—the mystery necklace gift giver—did he do something? Or the as-yet-unknown person who sent the cocktails that spooked her?
She pounds the door. “Lillith!”
Silence.
Enough. She fishes out the spare key card, unlocks the door, and edges it open cautiously.
“Lillith? Are you here?”
No reply.
She steps inside. The door swings quietly shut behind her.
The suite is empty.
However, the bedcovers have been pulled loosely over the bed, awaiting room service. It’s proof Lillith did return last night, get into bed, and get up this morning. The bathroom door is open.
“Lillith?”
She’s not inside.
Poppy crosses to the dresser. No sign of Lillith’s purse or phone anywhere. She left without telling Poppy.
Arrabella definitely must’ve told her. About the murder.
A silent scream begins in her skull. She taps her temple repeatedly, desperate to stop the noise in her brain, struggling to breathe. She inhales deeply, holds for four counts, exhales slowly. She repeats this a few more times. Panic gradually ebbs, clearing space for thought.
Focus.
She notices the copy of Exit Strategy: A Guide to the Gentle Art of Dying Well is still on Lillith’s nightstand. The bookmark has been moved deeper into the paperback.
She turns slowly, sees the closet door is ajar. The door of the safe inside is also open. Her pulse kicks—there’s something inside.
Poppy hesitates, listens. No footsteps. No voices coming. She’s alone. She moves to the closet and inches the safe door open wider. She reaches for the zippered pouch she can see inside.
She opens the pouch. It contains Lillith’s strand of beautiful blue-black pearls. Two gold chains. Rings. She zips the pouch up, replaces it, and reaches for a flat notebook at the bottom of the safe.
On the stiff cover are words:
Companion Workbook to the Gentle Art of Dying Well
She sits on the edge of the bed and opens it.
On the first page is a quote.
Nothing sharpens one’s focus quite like the news of one’s imminent death.
Beneath the quote is a bullet point list written in Lillith’s hand.
She’s titled it The Death List.
Several items on the list have already been checked off.
She reads the first bullet point entry.
Sort it out with Angus.
The entry has been checked off.
So have the next several items:
Locate Poppy in Brighton.
Travel to Brighton.
Engineer a way to meet PB / strike up a conversation.
Engage in a relationship / build trust / find a way to bring PB to Scotland. Perhaps a travel companion? Memoir help? Offer her some job she can’t refuse.
Poppy’s stomach turns to liquid.
The silent scream reawakens in her brain, growing louder, louder, making her vision blur. She scrunches her eyes shut, shakes her head. Stay focused. Don’t panic. Panic kills.
She reads on.
Tie off legacy details.
Initiate Black Orchid Plan.
Travel with PB to Greece.
Get rid of Arra . . . sort out Patrick.
Deal with A.G.
Her skin prickles with sweat. With mounting dread, she turns the page. The item on the top line reads:
Give Poppy her due.
End it with Poppy.
RIP.
Her heart whumps. Her mouth is dry. She looks up, brain spinning. Nothing makes sense. She flips the page back.
Locate Poppy in Brighton.
Brighton—where she thought fate had crossed her path with the enigmatic widow sitting on a bench. It wasn’t a chance meeting?
Emotion burns into her eyes. Lillith was purposefully waiting for her on that bench with her camera in her lap?
When she asked Poppy if she could take a photo, it was planned, a way to strike up a discussion?
When they met later at the bandstand for gelato, it was part of some scheme?
Some lure? Why? Poppy cannot understand.
She thought she’d been hired as a stroke of freaking good luck, that her fortunes had finally changed.
But it wasn’t fate.
It was intentional. She was lured. To Scotland. Into Lillith’s castle. And now onto this boat.
Is this some kind of game? Or worse? Is she still going to be punished for all she’s done? Was Lillith connected in some bizarre way to Paz, or to his extended family? Or to his organized crime affiliates?
She glances nervously around the room, confused, dread rising in her gut. She has absolutely no idea how to fit the pieces of this puzzle into a picture that makes any sense.
All she knows is that she needs to get off this boat. Now.
But as she surges to her feet, her phone chimes.
Poppy freezes.
It’s the special tone for texts from Lillith.
It chimes again.
She scrambles to find her phone in her tote, and she reads the text.
So sorry, Poppy. Early spa appointment ran longer than anticipated. I’m on my way down the hall. Almost at the suite. Come meet me in my room—we can go ashore together.
Panic whips across her chest. Her gaze flares to the door.
She hears the steady click and thump of Lillith’s cane growing louder as she approaches outside.