Chapter Seventeen
Now
I'm awake early the next morning, but for the first time in a long time, I actually feel like I slept. Whether it's catharsis from talking about Greg or just sheer exhaustion, I don't really care. Either way, I have energy and a clear mind. I've already taken a shower by the time the menu slides under my door, and I take a glimpse at it while I braid my hair. Graciela comes to the door just as I'm about to walk out.
"You look chipper this morning," she says. "Did you sleep well?"
"I did," I tell her, but looking into her wide almond eyes makes my mood sink down just slightly. "I'm sorry if I was too personal with you about that guy."
She smiles at me and shakes her head.
“You weren't,” she says. “Here, try the juice this morning. It's my favorite blend.”
She pours me a glass of juice, and I take a sip. It's delicious, and I finish it before handing her the glass back.
“Thank you,” I say. “I think I'm going to go take a swim before the pool is overrun by beautiful tourists.”
Graciela laughs as I dramatically swing a towel over my shoulder and head out of the room. Her simple dismissal of my prying into her relationship makes me feel a little better. Maybe I misinterpreted what I saw off the balcony. It doesn't change that she lied about talking to the man, but it's possible the conversation was innocent, and she just didn't want it to be overblown out of fear of consequences from management. I'm not completely convinced, but I'm willing to put it aside for now.
The harsh hit of emotion that came from looking down at that water affected me more than I would have thought. Just like I told Bellamy and Eric as we were standing there on the cliff, I need to get it off my mind. At least for now. Being here on the island is a chance to disconnect from all of that and just enjoy the relaxation.
And that's exactly what I intend to do.
Walking out onto the brick path, I lower my sunglasses over my eyes and look around at morning coming up around the resort. I'm clearly not the first person awake. A woman jogs past me in meticulously matched workout clothes that coordinate right down to the streak of color across her shoes and the thick retro scrunchie around her ponytail. Ahead of me in the grass, a small group goes through a slow sequence of yoga poses. I look forward to swimming a few laps in the pool, then maybe venturing into the ocean later. I'm not sure if I can hope for Bellamy’s agreeing to such a slow and leisurely day, but I'm willing to dig my heels in against whatever agenda she's put together for the day.
A wrenching scream tears through the serenity. What had felt like a gentle, slow watercolor of morning rips into sudden glaring speed. I'm running toward the sound before I realize what I'm doing, and by the time I get to the pool, the jogger is clutching the wooden post at the gate and sagging towards the ground. One hand covers her mouth, barely muffling sobs.
“What is it?” I ask, placing my hand on her back.
She shakes her head, curling down further against her thighs. Her scream has jostled more people, and several come toward me from the beach and down the path.
"You need to tell me what's going on. Are you hurt?” I ask.
She shakes her head again and manages to lift one trembling hand to point toward the pool. I run to it, and my feet skid to a stop at the edge, my towel sliding down my arm to the concrete. Forget Bellamy's agenda. Right along with any chance of relaxing.
The body floating in the pool will be taking precedence.
A few people rush up behind me into the pool area, and I turn sharply to them. Law enforcement instinct kicks in, and I stand my ground firmly, holding up my hands to stop them.
"Stay back," I bark. "You can't get any closer."
"What's going on?" a young man asks.
"I want to see," a woman around my age says behind him. "What happened? Is someone hurt?"
She takes a step, but I press my hand closer to her.
"I'm sorry, but you're going to need to stay behind the gate."
"Who the hell do you think you are?" another man shouts, shoving his chest toward me. "You can't tell me what to do."
"Emma Griffin, FBI. And yes, I can tell you what to do, and you're going to shut up and do it."
"Where's your badge?" he demands, his lips screwing up and his eyebrows lifting as if he thinks he's being incredibly smart.
He doesn't know the answer to that question is that my badge is in my luggage because I don’t make it a habit of accessorizing all my outfits with it when I’m not on duty. He also doesn’t know that technically, since we’re on a private island in international waters, the FBI doesn’t have jurisdiction here. But he doesn't need those details. Instead of offering them to him, I look down at myself, then back at him incredulously.
“It doesn't go with this suit,” I tell him flatly. “Someone needs to go to the lobby and get resort security. Right now.”
“Emma!” I hear Bellamy shout from the path. “What's going on?”
She and Eric push past the small cluster of people now blocking the gate.
“Let them through,” I say. “They're law enforcement.”
Bellamy looks at me strangely as she jogs across the concrete deck.
“Is that applicable right now?” she mutters.
“Unfortunately, yes,” I say, tilting my head sideways toward the pool.
"What happened?" she asks.
We walk over to the edge of the pool and look down at the body floating across the surface. The water around her is tinted a light red from a visible wound in the side of her head. I
