“Thanks, Mom. I don’t mean to be ungrateful. I know you’ll do anything for me. It means a lot to me.”
"Come on," I said, gently drawing her up and guiding her away from the edge of despair. "Let's head back."
Together, we walked along the stone path back to the bungalow, side by side, yet feeling like we were traversing separate universes. Each step was filled with the weight of doubts and the murmur of dark possibilities.
There was a murderer on this island, and we were all stuck there until it was discovered who it was.
Chapter14
Later,I pushed open the hefty mahogany door of the main house, the hinges silently yielding to my entrance. I had left Olivia at the bungalow, not wanting her to be around people who were treating her like a pariah.
The air was thick with tension like a heavy curtain that refused to sway even as the breeze from the ocean teased its edges. Guests huddled in clusters, their murmurs ebbing and flowing with the secrets that Paradise Key Private Resort seemed to swell with.
"Ms. Beatrice," I called out, my voice slicing through the low hum of conversation as I approached her solitary figure by the grand bay window. Her posture, a column of icy detachment, remained unaffected by the collective anxiety of the room.
"Agent Thomas," she greeted without turning, her gaze fixed on the horizon beyond the glass.
"Enjoying the view?" I asked, matching her coolness note for note.
"Always," Beatrice replied, sparing me a glance now, her eyes sharp and assessing. "Though one wonders if there's more to see than meets the eye."
"Speaking of which," I leaned in, lowering my voice just enough to be conspiratorial, "I can't help but notice your sister’s… let's call it disinterest in your friend Emilio."
"Is it that apparent?" She turned fully toward me, an eyebrow arching with practiced control.
"Only to a trained eye," I said. "Care to share why?"
"Does an aversion need justification?" Beatrice countered, her lips twitching into a half-smile that didn't reach her eyes.
"Maybe not, but it could be important," I pressed on.
"Then let's say she and Emilio have different ideas about a lot of things," she offered, her words measured, her tone laced with something unreadable.
"Could you be more specific?" I asked.
“Some subjects are more controversial than others."
"Controversial enough to kill for?" I watched her closely.
"Agent Thomas," she sighed, finally facing me again, "one hopes that in the world of civilized beings, we can resolve our differences without resorting to barbarism."
"Yet here we are," I pointed out, "on an island where civilization seems to have taken a back seat to murder."
Beatrice’s gaze slipped past me, landing on a distant point of the room.
"Human nature is complex."
She paused, selecting her next words with surgical precision. "Aesthetic disagreements can be… let’s say about the color of one’s skin."
"Emilio’s skin?" I pointed out.
"Indeed," she said smoothly. "My sister has a… let’s say… aversion to anyone bringing dark-skinned people into the family."
“I see.”
I pocketed her cryptic hint like evidence and shifted my focus across the room. Victoria, Mark's mother, was engaged in a fiery exchange and flicked her hands in sharp gestures. Her voice pierced the hum of conversation, each syllable spiked with venom.
"Can you believe the audacity?" she spat, unaware of my approach. “Bringing him here?”
