Constance
Pictures of Dorian’s last moments flashed in my head, clutched at my throat.
The guilt descended on me, heavy and heavier, as I stripped out of my dress and splashed water on my face.
I had watched a man get murdered.
Not just a man, but the one I had thought would be mine one day.
I had watched him fall to his death and had done nothing about it.
I hadn’t tried to save him. I hadn’t told anyone.
How was I supposed to go on, when his body would be found at any moment? Questions would be asked. The truth—that I had been there, that I had seen everything—would come out.
I understood on a superficial level that there was no bringing him back. But was there still a way to save myself? My gut said no, but I couldn’t trust it. I could never trust it when it came to Dorian.
I grabbed my phone. Tapped nine and one before I remembered that I was in a different country. How did you call the police here? Would I need a lawyer now? What was the French word for murder? And what about the fact that I was supposed to fly home tomorrow?
So maybe I couldn’t call, but I needed to do something.
I slipped on a pair of black pants and my last clean top, then jumped into my ballet flats and grabbed my key card on the way to the door.
In the hallway, I could only hear the sound of the waves as they crashed against the yacht, Dorian’s lifeless body sinking into the blackness of the midnight sea.
But then a door opened, and a face popped out.
“Connie!” Laila whispered. “I hoped it might be you.”
I froze. I wasn’t sure what I’d planned to do. Maybe go downstairs and tell someone about what had happened. Urge them to go looking for Dorian.
“Are you coming back from somewhere?” Laila said.
She frowned, clearly confused by the fact that I was walking away from my room, toward the elevator, when it was nearly dawn.
“No,” I said. “I mean yes.”
“Are you okay?”
There was no answering that, obviously. I couldn’t talk to anyone about the party until I’d spoken to the police.
“Because I’m not,” she added, her voice shaking.
Laila opened the door to her room. There were two large suitcases open on her bed, almost fully packed.
“You’re leaving now?” I asked.
She nodded sadly. “My boss wants me back in New York ASAP. Something happened, and he’s really mad. He’s an asshole on the best of days, so I’ll let you imagine…”
I stared ahead at the elevator, my plan already running away from me. I couldn’t tell the police anything. Not without implicating myself. And definitely not when I still had all the Clapard jewelry I’d stolen from Laila’s room.
“Have a drink with me?” she pleaded. There was a stack of miniature liquor bottles on her bed. “My flight’s in three hours. Please!”
I’d always had every intention of giving the jewelry back, and it was now or never.
“Sure,” I said, with as much enthusiasm as I could pull from deep inside. “I just need a minute, okay? I’ll be right back.”
If I was going to talk to the police, things might go much better for me if I didn’t have the evidence of a crime in my possession.
I ran back to my room, to the safe, and shoved its contents into my cross-body bag.
The pieces barely fit and I couldn’t do up the clasp, but it was so late into the night—or so early into the morning—I had to hope that Laila’s mind wasn’t all that switched on either.
I also had to hope she wouldn’t realize that I suddenly had a bag with me.
It was a lot of hoping for someone who deserved none.
As I spun around to leave, my gaze landed on the room phone.
There was someone at the front desk twenty-four-seven.
I could tell them that something had happened on the yacht.
I didn’t have to share the details. But then, I’d leave a trace.
One way or another, it would come back to me, the woman who had found the time to go back to her room and change her outfit before worrying about the logistics of reporting a murder.
What kind of person does this?
A guilty one.
Sweat tickled my hairline by the time I knocked on Laila’s door, but she didn’t seem to notice.
“Come in,” she said with a smile, all traces of upset gone.
She sat on her unmade bed and gave me one of the tiny bottles of Grey Goose. Then she checked her phone, her focus pulled away by the screen.
“What?” I said.
She shrugged. “Just checking the latest on Cannes. I’d love this job if my boss wasn’t so horrible.”
“What’s wrong with him?”
Laila was a smart woman. She understood people.
There was a very real possibility that she knew exactly what had happened and was seconds away from confronting me.
I may have just walked into a trap. I glanced at my bag, which I’d left on the desk.
I needed to find the right moment, and I needed to find it soon.
Laila shrugged. “He’s a grumpy little man.” She gulped down the rest of the miniature bottle. “Do you like working for yourself?”
“It has its ups and downs.”
“I admire you, Constance.”
I thought she was joking. Call it the fact that I’d just experienced the most distressing event of my life or that I needed to figure out a way to slip that jewelry into one of her suitcases while I was in the room with her.
But mostly, it was because I still remembered what she’d said to me, about my terrible taste in men and how I was throwing my life away for the promise of a good fuck.
Everyone else could see what was wrong with me, and yet I could never manage to save myself from it.
“No you don’t,” I said, sounding lighter than I felt.
“I do. I know where you started. And I see where you are now.”
Laila turned her phone to me. On it was a picture of the yacht party from an Instagram account I didn’t recognize. In the background, you could clearly see me talking to Dorian Fisher and Carly Wolf.
Right there, evidence. I would not escape this.
“I better be invited to the wedding,” Laila said deadpan.
She saw the shock on my face and laughed.
“Kidding! Men like him don’t get married. But you’ll get your moment of fame and you’ll make the most of it. Won’t you, Connie? This will be good for you if you don’t overthink it. Because how can you be this serious at this time of night? Or is it morning yet?”
She glanced out the window.
It was as good a chance as there would ever be.
I’d only taken a tiny sip from my bottle and tipped the rest of its content onto her lap.
“I’m so sorry!” I said, jumping to my feet.
I went to the bathroom to get a towel. When I came out, Laila was calmly extracting a new pair of pants out of a suitcase. I just needed a few seconds. I could do this. I had to. But she started to undo her pants right in front of me. Her thong was lace, completely sheer.
I gave her a pointed look, but since she was (at least) three vodkas in, that might not be enough. I patted the bedlinen dry.
“Laila, sweetie, you don’t need me to tell you that you’re one of the most beautiful women I know, but you might have to buy me dinner first.”
She scoffed. “You see much more at work every day.”
She had a point. “Exactly. I’ve been working nonstop and you’re making me feel like I’m on the clock. Next you’re going to ask if these pants look good on you.”
“Oh please. I know that. Fine, I have to pee anyway.”
Laila disappeared into the bathroom. The relief was so intense I felt like I might pass out.
But there was no time for that, obviously.
I opened my bag and emptied it straight into the corners of one of the suitcases, pushing the black velvet pouches to the bottom so they would blend in with all the ones already in there.
Laila had packed the Clapard jewelry loose among her own clothes.
Hopefully, she’d never know it hadn’t all been there to begin with.
I’d just sat back down when she emerged.
“My ass does look amazing in these.”
“It sure does.”
I got up.
“Don’t leave,” she pleaded.
“I don’t want to make you late for your flight.” And I don’t want you to notice the ugly guilt all over my face. “And screw your boss! He’s probably just jealous that you don’t even need to work.”
She made a funny face, like she couldn’t decide if this was meant to be supportive or a jab at her inherited wealth. Truth was, it was the latter disguised in the former.
File under: how to sound passive-aggressive without really trying.
I’d enjoyed seeing Laila these last few days, but I was tired of pretending that she hadn’t started ten paces ahead.
She’d never understand what it was like to be me, to have no choice but to own up to your mistakes.
To have no one to rely on, ever, to just keep working and hoping that you could pay your bills, that you might meet a decent man one day, that it won’t always feel so freaking hard.
Or maybe I was just trying to justify my crime.
Did Laila’s boss know about the missing jewelry? If so, how much trouble was she in?
For the first time since I’d gotten off the yacht, I also thought about Odetta Olson. Where was she now? What was she thinking? Feeling? Maybe she’d surrendered herself to the police already. Or maybe she thought she could get away with it. In this moment, anything was possible.
Laila and I hugged goodbye with promises to catch up the next time we were in the same city. I forced myself not to look at her suitcases as I closed the door behind me.
In the few steps it took to enter my room, I took exaggerated deep breaths. Maybe I should try to sleep, though the idea that I might actually get some rest was absurd.
And it wasn’t going to happen anyway.
There was a small envelope on the carpet. It must have been slipped under my door while I was with Laila.
The note inside was all of two lines.
Le Suquet Market
7 am
I didn’t recognize the handwriting. I had no idea whether it was safe to go.
But considering I’d just witnessed a violent murder—of a man I’d threatened just an hour before—it might be just as dangerous not to.