The question hangs in the air between us like humidity, heavy and impossible to ignore. Because the truth is, looking at this woman who’s spent decades nurturing a community,teaching people, protecting the vulnerable—I wouldn’t suspect her of hurting a fly, let alone a human.
Which is exactly what makes her so dangerous.
“You need to turn yourself in,” I say.
“Do I?” she asks, taking a step backward.
“Detective Hale will figure it out eventually. He’s already suspicious about the oleander. It’s only a matter of time before he comes knocking at your door.” Like tonight, but I leave that time-sensitive information out of the conversation for now.
“Time.” Savannah nods thoughtfully, continuing to back away from me. “Yes, time is the important thing, isn’t it? Time for the garden to establish deeper roots. Time for the community to organize against future development threats. Time for people like May to build new lives and people like you to save places that deserve saving.”
“Savannah—” I start, but she’s already turning away.
“You’re a good person, Jinx,” she says over her shoulder, and there’s genuine warmth in her voice that makes this whole thing even worse. “You see the best in broken things, try to fix what others would throw away. That’s a rare gift. Don’t lose it.”
“Like how you saw the best in May?” I call after her, my voice sharper than I intended. “Helping her build a new life while you were planning to use her as a scapegoat if anyone figured out what you’d done?”
Savannah stops walking. Her shoulders tense like I’ve struck a nerve.
“You protected her just enough to make her look guilty,” I continue, the pieces finally clicking into place with sickening clarity. “You helped her get settled so people would know she had secrets, spread just enough rumors to make her looksuspicious, and made sure everyone knew she had a motive. But you never actually gave Nolan anything concrete he could use against her because you needed her scared enough to look guilty, but not desperate enough to run. You were setting her up from the beginning, weren’t you? She was your insurance policy in case the investigation got too close. I bet if we do a little more digging, we’d find out there was nothing wrong with your plumbing the night you came to stay at the resort.”
She turns to face me, and the warm, nurturing expression is gone, replaced by something harder, colder. “Okay, fine,” she says, her voice tight with barely controlled anger. “I killed him. But he deserved everything he got! That man was pond scum. It was only fitting he ended up in a puddle of it, too.”
“Oh, Savannah,” I groan, my heart sinking because hearing her actually admit it makes it real in a way it wasn’t before. “You need to tell Detective Hale exactly what you just told me.”
“The hell I am,” she growls, her whole demeanor shifting from gentle garden coordinator to something fierce and cornered. “And if you know what’s good for you and this cheesy resort, you won’t say a word either. I’m taking off for good. Give me until morning, and you won’t ever see my face again.”
She turns to leave, walking quickly toward the parking lot with purpose.
“Savannah, wait—” I start after her, reaching out to grab her arm.
She yanks away from me with surprising strength, and I do the only thing I can think of—I stick my foot out.
Savannah trips, stumbling forward, and lets a string of curse words fly that would make a sailor blush. But instead of goingdown, she catches herself and whirls on me with eyes filled with fury.
“You stupid girl,” she hisses, and suddenly we’re grappling, sand flying as we struggle.
For someone who spends her days gardening, Savannah fights like she’s had practice, her grip iron-strong as she tries to push past me. I grab onto her muumuu, she grabs my arm, and for a few seconds we’re locked in the world’s most awkward standoff.
She finally breaks free with a violent shove that sends me stumbling backward into the sand, and takes off running—not toward the parking lot this time, but straight for the dessert table at the luau.
“Oh no, you don’t!” I shout, scrambling to my feet and taking off after her in flip-flops that were not designed for high-speed pursuit of murderers, or anything else, really.
Savannah, despite being in her late fifties, moves through the party like someone who’s spent decades outrunning plant diseases and aggressive weeds, and maybe the cops. She leaps over a cooler, dodges her way around startled guests, and somehow manages to clip the corner of the dessert table on her way through the melee.
Guests scream.
Chickens squawk.
A few cats yowl at the moon.
The entire buffet goes down like a sugary avalanche. Cinnamon rolls the size of dinner plates roll across the sand, haupia pudding splatters like edible confetti, and malasadas bounce with the resilience of deep-fried rubber balls.
The sound of our feast hitting the beach sends every cat andchicken within a five-mile radius into complete chaos. Spam appears from nowhere and launches himself onto Savannah’s back with the precision of a furry missile, his claws finding purchase in her muumuu while she tries to shake him off without breaking stride.
“Get off me, you ridiculous cat!” Savannah shouts, spinning in circles while Spam rides her like a very small, very determined rodeo cowboy. And something tells me he’s done this before.
Ruby and Lani materialize from opposite sides of the beach, moving with the coordinated precision of women who’ve clearly discussed emergency protocols for situations exactly like this.
