May nods enthusiastically, her spiritual composure restored now that she’s no longer being mugged by farm animals, and her followers can’t see the cat hair on her leggings. “Absolutely wild. I mean, I’ve experienced some intense energy shifts during my retreats, but nothing quite like that.”
“Energy shifts?” Lani repeats, and I’m starting to recognize this as her tell—she repeats things when she thinks they’re baloney. “Is that what we’re calling murder now?”
“Well, I mean, we don’t know it was murder,” May says quickly, too quickly, like someone who’s been thinking about this exact question. “The poor man could have just... you know... had too much to drink and taken an unfortunate swim.”
“In that green lagoon?” I raise an eyebrow because this theory requires a level of intoxication that would make medical history. “I wouldn’t swim in that water if you paid me. In fact, I wouldn’t swim in that water if you threatened me.”
“Maybe he was confused,” May offers, taking a careful bite of her replacement cinnamon roll. “Or disoriented? The island energy can be very intense for newcomers who aren’t spiritually prepared.”
The one-eared tomcat jumps onto our table and begins eyeing Ruby’s cinnamon roll with professional interest, like he’s casing a bank before a heist. Ruby breaks off a piece and tossesit to him with the casual ease of an island resident who’s made peace with enabling criminal behavior.
“Please don’t feed the wildlife,” May says automatically, in a tone you’d use to recite a mantra. “It disrupts their natural foraging patterns.”
“Honey,” Ruby says. “This cat could teach a master class in natural foraging. He just stole your entire breakfast in front of a live internet audience and probably has better reviews than you do.”
May’s phone buzzes with what sounds like approximately seven hundred notifications, the sort of sound that suggests either she’s gone viral or her followers have discovered something she’d rather they hadn’t. She glances at the screen and winces.
“Popular post?” I ask innocently, channeling every bit of fake sweetness I learned from dealing with my mother-in-law.
“My followers seem to be very engaged,” she says, shoving the phone into her designer fanny pack like it’s radioactive. “They have strong opinions about authentic experiences and about cat theft.”
The morning heat is starting to press down on us like a weighted blanket made of humidity and the collective breath of every tourist who’s ever complained about the weather being too hot after booking a trip to a tropical island. I can feel my shirt beginning its slow surrender to the moisture in the air, clinging to my back in a way that’s neither comfortable nor attractive.
“So,” I say, settling back against the picnic table, “are you ready to talk about what really happened last night?”
May takes a careful bite of her replacement cinnamon roll,her eyes darting among the three of us like she’s calculating odds, and nods with enthusiasm as if she’s found solid ground after a morning of livestock-related chaos and public humiliation.
What she doesn’t know is that solid ground in paradise is just volcanic rock waiting to crack.
CHAPTER 10
The art of gentle interrogation takes on new dimensions when your target is simultaneously covered in powdered sugar and wearing the expression of a person who’s been personally betrayed by baked goods and possibly the entire concept of breakfast.
The mid-morning sun beats down on our picnic table with the relentless enthusiasm of a personal trainer who’s had too much coffee. Sweat beads on my forehead despite the shade from a coconut palm that keeps dropping fronds like it’s commenting on our conversation, offering its own quasi-lethal editorial opinions. The air shimmers with heat waves and the competing scents of frying oil, tropical flowers, and that particular aroma of humidity that makes everything smell slightly fermented, like the island is slowly pickling us all.
“So,” I say, settling back against the wobbling picnic table, “let’s talk about Nolan.”
May Leilani takes a delicate bite of her replacement cinnamon roll, her composure fully restored now that she’s no longer being mugged by poultry, and her follower count has probably skyrocketed from the cat heist footage. “Poor Nolan. Such a complicated man.”
“Complicated how?” Ruby asks, leaning forward with intensity because she obviously lives for gossip and might just consider it a valuable life skill, too.
“Well,” May begins, her voice taking on that breathless quality reserved for sharing deeply personal revelations. “We actually knew each other from California. He was helping me with my wellness retreat center—you know, business advice, marketing strategies, that sort of thing.”
“Business advice,” Lani repeats, her tone suggesting she’s heard that phrase before and it rarely means what people think it means, usually involving money and broken promises.
“He was very generous with his time,” May continues, oblivious to Lani’s skepticism. “Always trying to help me find my true path, connect with my true purpose. Sometimes maybe a little too helpful, if you know what I mean.”
The one-eared tomcat jumps back onto our table, having spotted crumbs. A gecko skitters across the umbrella above us, followed by two more, like they’re staging their own little parade.
“Too helpful how?” I ask becausetoo helpfulis usually code for something way more interesting and potentially illegal.
May sighs dramatically, the type of sigh that suggests a deep spiritual burden and possibly catastrophic student loans. “He had very strong opinions about my retreat approach. He keptsaying I needed to be more realistic about my business model, more grounded in actual wellness practices. He just couldn’t understand that spirituality can’t be measured in spreadsheets.”
“The horror,” Ruby murmurs, and I have to bite my lip to keep from laughing.
“Exactly!” May says, missing the sarcasm entirely or choosing to interpret it as genuine support. “He was always questioning my methods, suggesting I needed to be more transparent with my clients about my background. Like, why does it matter where I learned my healing techniques? The universe teaches us in many ways.”
A rooster crows from somewhere behind the purple fusion food truck, and three cats—the gray tabby, the calico, and a new arrival with tortoiseshell markings—position themselves around our table like they’re expecting a show or possibly another opportunity for theft.
