“I guess,” I said.
One of the staff members approached him and asked him a question.
“If you’ll excuse me,” he said and left.
“Of course.”
I walked to the buffet and got a plate of scrambled eggs and sausages while thinking about what Mr. Harrison had told me. I sat down, a lot going through my head.
Marcus Cole, who was this guy? This morning, I received an email from Agent Simmons telling me Marcus had recently been released from prison. I couldn’t stop thinking about it. The questions darted through my mind. It could be him again. Marcus had reason enough: revenge, perhaps, or a twisted homecoming. With its isolation and luxury, the island presented the perfect stage for either.
Slipping away from the whispering voices and clinking silverware, I made my way toward the bungalows. The breeze tousled my hair, whispering secrets as I passed. Each step was light, a dance with danger on this island masquerade.
"Going somewhere?" A voice sliced through my focus like a knife. It was Michelle. I had walked right past her, caught up in my thoughts.
"Just getting a quick breath of fresh air," I said without breaking stride. My heartbeat thrummed in my ears, a steady rhythm pushing me forward. Michelle gave me a strange look like I was up to no good, but I didn’t let it bother me. In front of me loomed the bungalows like pearls on a string. There were thirty-four of them, but only twenty-eight were being used for this event. Six of them remained empty.
Compelled by curiosity, I walked toward the empty ones.
The first bungalow loomed, its door ajar. I paused, listening, then slipped inside. The room was dim, curtains fluttering slightly. I scanned for disruptions, for anything out of place. My hand grazed the bedspread—crisp, untouched—then moved on.
Second bungalow, same routine. Nothing.
But the third… something felt off. No ransacked drawers or scattered belongings. Yet there it was—a small backpack on the floor, a silent scream in the silence. I picked it up. There were a couple of T-shirts and some underwear in it.
Men’s underwear.
Stepping out of the bungalow's shadow, I nearly collided with Jason, one of the resort's gardeners. His hands were dark with soil, and a gentle smile played on his lips.
"Ms. Thomas, beautiful day, isn't it?" he greeted, tilting his head.
"Yes," I replied, my eyes not meeting his but darting past to the thickening foliage around us. "You've been here all morning?"
"Since sunrise," he nodded, wiping his brow with the back of his hand. "Keeping paradise perfect."
"Anyone… out of the ordinary cross your path? New faces, maybe?" I kept my tone light, almost idle.
"Here?" He chuckled. "Guests come and go, but today, no new footprints in my gardens."
"Footprints, you say?" I arched an eyebrow, feigning curiosity.
"Metaphorically, Ms. Thomas. Everyone stays on the paths, as they should." He gestured to the neatly outlined walkways.
"Of course," I murmured. My gaze fixed on a crushed frangipani flower by the path—a misstep gone unnoticed.
"Anything else, ma'am?" Jason asked, ready to move on.
"Nothing. Thank you," I said, watching him return to his pruning.
I turned away, every sinew taut, every nerve firing. The backpack, the crushed flower. Something was up.
"Olivia," I whispered to myself, reminding myself of my silent vow to protect her at all costs.
Chapter21
I wason my way back to the bungalow when I heard something. A twig snapped. My head whipped around, eyes narrowing as I scanned the bushes bordering the path, then followed the rustling of leaves under stealthy movement. I held my breath.
"Hello?"
