CHAPTER 5
The heat presses down on us this evening like a living thing that’s personally offended by our existence. Cats are materializing from everywhere, behind planters, under tables, from inside the broken pool filters, as if they can sense the drama stemming from the new guests and want front-row seats to the human disaster unfolding.
Voices start rising like the evening tide, overlapping and building on each other until it’s hard to tell where one argument ends and another begins.
Ruby launches into a story about ancient island curses and property developers that may or may not be based on actual Hawaiian lore. May waves her phone around, talking about corporate energy disruption and chakra imbalances while filming everyone without permission.
Nolan keeps showing his renderings of beachfront condos to anyone within arm’s reach, his voice getting sharper witheach dismissal from guests who dare to suggest his vision might not be welcome.
Savannah stands quietly in the center of it all, her flower arrangement wilting in the oppressive heat, looking like she’s considering whether violence might actually solve problems. She may not be wrong.
The resort seems to exhale around us with its creaking wood, rattling fans, the endless symphony of failing equipment that’s become the soundtrack to my new life. Another rooster crows, this one from the lobby, and I swear I can hear the building itself groaning under the weight of all this dysfunction and misplaced dreams.
I need air. I need space. I need to get away from the suffocating heat and the escalating arguments before someone actually does commit murder. Someone like me.
“I’m going to check the grounds,” I announce to no one in particular, though I doubt anyone hears me over the chaos of accusations and the roosters adding their two cents.
I slip away from the veranda and head toward the beach, where the trade winds offer the slightest relief from the crushing humidity. The sound of heated voices fades behind me as I walk, replaced by the gentle lapping of waves and the distant crow of what sounds like an entire poultry convention. The sky has gone from a deep orange, to lavender, to navy, and the trade winds are doing their best to move the balmy air around.
The beach in front of the resort is a generous stretch of sand bordered by lava rock, and I find a spot where I can sit and pretend I’m somewhere with functional air conditioning and guests who don’t actively threaten each other.
Above me, the first stars are starting to appear in the darkening sky, tiny pinpricks of light in the purple twilight that make me feel small in a way that’s almost comforting. I count them—one, two, five, twelve—letting the rhythm calm my frazzled nerves and remind me that the universe is bigger than one failing resort and the chaos magnet it seems to attract, starting with me.
Twenty minutes pass. Maybe more. Time feels slippery when you’re having an existential crisis on a beach in paradise. The heat finally starts to break, though “break” is relative when you’re still sweating through your clothes and wondering if you’ve made a terrible mistake that involves humidity and homicidal tourists. A small army of cats materialize around me, settling into the sand like emotional support gremlins assigned to monitor my mental breakdown. The largest one, a battle-scarred orange fluffball with one ear and the expression of a feline who’s seen some things, stares at me with judgment usually reserved for disappointing relatives.
“Yeah, I know,” I tell him because I’ve reached the point where I’m having heart-to-hearts with geckos and feral cats—but I draw the line at chickens. For now. “This wasn’t exactly Plan A. Plan A involved staying home and not running away from my problems. But here we are.” Plan B was so much better.
A rooster struts past us on the sand, unbothered by the fact that beaches aren’t typically rooster habitat. Welcome to Kauai.
The voices from the veranda have quieted to a low murmur. Either they’ve worked things out or someone is dead. Given the evening’s trajectory, I’m not optimistic about option one.
I should probably head back and make sure nobody’scommitted justifiable homicide. The resort needs all the guests it can get, even the obnoxious ones who threaten community gardens and accuse people of fraud in front of strangers.
I take the long way back, circling around to check the pool area because I’m a glutton for punishment and also because I should probably make sure nothing is actively on fire. The warm wind carries the scent of plumeria mixed with the unmistakable smell of our failing filtration system, which is becoming the olfactory signature of my new life. Cats scatter as I approach, disappearing into the shadows like furry ninjas who want no part of whatever fresh disaster is brewing.
The first two pools look their usual shade of green disappointment, primordial and vaguely threatening. But as I round the corner to the third pool—the one farthest from the veranda, the one that’s achieved the most impressive shade of an algae-rich ecosystem and possibly sentience—I stop dead.
There, floating face-down in water that looks like it could support plant life, and possibly has, is Nolan Nakamura. His expensive Hawaiian shirt billows around him like a designer shroud, and his phone rests on the pool deck, screen cracked but still glowing with his renderings of paradise lost and condominiums that will never be built.
I open my mouth to scream, but what comes out is more of a strangled squawk that sends every cat within a fifty-foot radius scurrying for cover and causes three roosters to crow in confused solidarity.
Paradise just got a whole lot more complicated.
CHAPTER 6
Nothing says welcome to paradise like finding your first dead body before you’ve even unpacked your sunscreen.
The scream that erupts from my throat could wake ancient Hawaiian gods and probably violates several noise ordinances in multiple counties. The sound bounces off the water, ricochets through the palm trees, and sends a rooster somewhere behind the kitchen into hysterical crowing that sounds like it’s having its own crisis.
The humid night air carries my voice across the resort like a tropical air raid siren, and I can’t seem to stop—my body has decided that continuous screaming is the appropriate response to finding a floating consultant in a pool that looks like it’s conducting science experiments.
“JINX!” Ruby’s voice cuts through my ongoing vocal performance like a lifeguard’s whistle. “What in the name of—OH MY GOODNESS!”
She appears around the corner of the pool deck at a dead run—poor choice of words—Lani is right behind her, and they both stop so fast I hear their flip-flops skid on the wet tiles. The sight of Nolan floating face-down in the algae-riddled water hits them like a homicidal slap, and suddenly we’re a three-woman chorus of horror.
“AHHHHHHH!” Ruby joins in, her voice harmonizing with mine in a way that would be impressive if we weren’t screaming over a corpse. Under different circumstances, we could probably start a band.
“Sweet mother of pearl!” Lani adds her voice to our impromptu concert, though hers sounds more like she’s scolding the dead man than mourning him.
