Chapter 18 #2
I don’t want to think about the opportunities Viv is promising.
That is almost scarier than the video itself.
Could she…be right? Now that the truth is out there, will people listen to what I have to say?
Or will Sage’s family come at me with a team of lawyers and destroy the rest of my life?
The idea of marketing myself the way Viv is describing tastes sour in my mouth, but I can’t help but consider the merit of what she’s saying.
I didn’t want the connection between me and Sage public and known.
Especially after her death. But now that it is, what if something good could come from this?
My desire to write has withered away since the betrayal, but that doesn’t mean I won’t have another idea someday in the future.
Maybe that’s why my imagination is in overdrive right now, showing me things that aren’t real—perhaps my subconscious is finally ready to write again.
“Why be sneaky?” I finally ask. “Why not tell me your plan?”
“Because I knew you wouldn’t let me do it.
You had to see results first. I know you don’t trust me, Char.
But now, hopefully, you will. You’ll see I know what I’m doing.
When the internet comes back on, check your emails.
Check your DMs. If there isn’t an opportunity waiting for you, I’ll give you anything else you want.
” Her voice changes, getting husky and low.
She slides forward. Her breasts push up against the rim of the tub, spilling through the gaps in her robe.
Viv wants me to trust her? Not a chance. Especially not when her words are laced with innuendos she has no intention of making good on. I know queerbaiting when I see it. But time away from the internet will give me the space to process this new development and formulate a plan of response.
I wanted to move on from Sage and the stolen manuscript. I wanted a new career and a different life. Yet Viv is implying that maybe things are salvageable. Her video was insane, yes, but if I can use this to my advantage, it might be worth it. All isn’t lost.
“It was a snake move,” I tell her.
She must hear the heat leave my voice because she smiles, as silky and flimsy as her robe.
“This is going to be your niche. Books, sure. Writing, if you want. But more importantly, authenticity. Honesty. Reality. A normal, average girl living in a luxurious, glamorous world. You make us seem more approachable. More relatable. We needed someone like you.”
And it suddenly makes sense. Why she ignored huge accounts with drop-dead gorgeous people and chose a smaller, less “sexy” niche like bookstagram; why she picked someone like me, who would definitely stand out among the other girls in an obvious, perhaps not-so-flattering way.
“Oh,” I say slowly. “You’re using me to make the brand seem more human and less like a bunch of stuck-up rich girls.”
Viv rolls her eyes and licks her lips again even though there’s no wine on them. “I mean, I wouldn’t put it that way, exactly. But, yes. Listen, Char, you’re going to get everything you want. You need the money. You need followers. And you need options. This is going to do that for you. I promise.”
“What happened to Elena?” If I’m hoping springing the question on her out of the blue will knock something loose, betray something in her expression, I’m disappointed.
Viv squints slightly, the corners of her mouth turning down, but otherwise she doesn’t flinch. “She quit. I told you.”
I think of the phone I found. The fingerprint on it. Something tells me it would be monumentally stupid to reveal that to anyone on Empress without knowing exactly what happened to Elena, but I can’t help pressing Viv.
“Where is she now? She hasn’t posted online in a while.”
“Peeping on her page, huh?” Viv asks, unsurprised. “I don’t know where she is; she blocked me, remember? Your guess is as good as mine. Why do you care so much about Elena?”
“Just wondering.” I can’t meet Viv’s eyes. “I had my own friendship betrayal, as you know.”
Biting the inside of my cheek, I try to stay calm. I should have called someone when I had a chance, but even if I did, how would they have gotten here? The storm sounds like it’s getting worse. The police are probably busy or evacuating.
Something bad happened to Elena, I feel it in my guts. But would someone really do such a half-assed job of hiding Elena’s phone if they hurt her? And if Viv was involved, would she really send me down to the crew area, knowing I might snoop and find the phone?
Not being able to trust my own brain is infuriating.
Viv stands up, suddenly, wine sloshing out of her glass and splattering on the floor of the tub, droplets landing on her perfectly painted toenails. “Do you still want this job, Charlie?”
We are both silent for a moment. The rain slams fists against Viv’s gigantic windows, begging us to pay attention to it.
The wind is growing lower in tone, guttural and frightening.
Everything is dark except for the brightly lit bathroom, Viv standing in the middle of the tub like an actress on a stage.
Do I still want this job?
The truth is, I don’t know. Something isn’t right here.
Besides the whole missing influencer thing.
If Viv is secretly recording my trauma and posting it online within days of knowing me, I can’t imagine she gets better from here on out.
The other girls are almost beholden to her, but I don’t want to get twisted up in the life of yet another toxic woman.
And who’s to say Viv didn’t do something horrible to Elena that put her bracelet in the water and her phone in the belly of the boat?
Maybe it’s not her, a small voice in the back of my head says. Too obvious.
I’ve read enough mysteries, enough thrillers.
But this is real life, not a book. And something is wrong with Viv.
The more pressing issue is that I am trapped on a boat in a hurricane with a group of people I know next to nothing about, and I don’t think it’s a great idea to make any waves. Literally.
Especially now that I don’t have service and I might be trapped with a murderer.
The smartest thing is for me to play along until this storm passes. Keep my discoveries about Elena to myself. Then when we’re safe, I can call the authorities and get out of Dodge. One problem at a time.
“Yes.” I break the silence. “I want this job.”
“Good.” Viv smiles, her face lighting up. She drains the rest of her wine in one giant gulp. “Come here. Help me out of this thing. I should get a damn step stool.”
I reluctantly walk over and offer my arm as Viv clambers over the side and drops to the floor next to me. I try to surreptitiously examine her from the corner of my eye.
Could she really be involved with Elena’s disappearance?
She said they were close, but there’s something metallic about Viv, like the scent of blood in the air.
Yet she’s also petite. She’s almost a full head shorter than me, although she appears taller because of the heels she likes to wear and the energy she exudes.
I can’t see Viv being able to overpower someone.
She’s got an Instagram model body, not real brawn.
My mind flashes to Piper, her rippled muscles, the ease with which she brought me to the surface when I had the wind knocked out of me underwater.
Piper, who handed me the bracelet and directed me to Elena’s Instagram page.
“Come on,” Viv says, not noticing my slack arm as she presses her empty wineglass into my free hand.
“Hold this for me while I pull on some clothes, ’kay?
If the internet is truly out, we need to talk to the others.
Might be time to get some Coast Guard reinforcements in here. No point in staying if we can’t post.”
I’m barely listening. I can’t stop thinking about Piper. Had she known the bracelet was in the water? And if she was responsible for whatever happened to Elena, why did she want me to know about it?
In the thrillers and mysteries I’ve read for my social media, it’s never the obvious suspects who are the killers.
Piper’s behavior has been sketchy as hell, but so has Viv’s.
By bookstagram standards, that would rule them out.
Maybe I should be looking at someone like Rachel or Fiona instead, someone I’m not very suspicious of.
Except it’s never really the innocents who are the bad guys either, is it?
It’s usually someone floating around in the middle, hidden by a red herring. Ashley? Trey? Carl?
I shake myself, irritated by the spiraling. This isn’t an ARC I’m trying to review—it’s my life, and a real woman might be dead.
Maybe all the novels I’ve read are working against me. Maybe there is a reasonable explanation, something that makes sense and explains away the creepy shit I’ve seen and the bizarre behavior of the people on board this boat.
There could be nothing wrong at all, and I’m reading into everything because of trauma from Sage’s death and my own overactive imagination.
Except deep down, I’m not sure I believe that.