"Dead things have a way of resurfacing, sister," Beatrice countered, her tone as cold as an arctic chill.
“Like you. I never could get you to stay away. And now you come here and bring… him with you? The last person I ever want to see again on this island?”
"Enough," Beatrice said with a snort. "This discussion is over."
Victoria's mouth twisted, but she clamped it shut, burying whatever retort threatened to escape.
I edged closer. My ears pricked up as fragments of their heated exchange drifted to me—whispers of disloyalty and clandestine affairs.
"It’s been twenty-six years," Victoria spat, "and still you torment me."
"Because twenty-six years ago, you—" Beatrice's voice cut through like a knife, but the rest was muffled by a sudden swell of music from the grand piano across the room.
I leaned in, desperate for more, but Beatrice caught my gaze. Her eyes narrowed for a fraction of a second before she doused the fire in them, replacing it with ice.
"Good evening, Agent Thomas," she said, every syllable crisp as if plated on silver. She turned her back then, signaling the end of their quarrel with a sharp pivot that dismissed me as effectively as it did her sister.
"Beatrice." I stepped forward, my voice low. "Mind telling me what that was about?"
She faced me again, her expression smooth, unreadable. "Oh, just ancient history."
"History has a way of repeating itself." I held her gaze, trying to peel back the layers of her composure.
"Doesn't it just?" A half-smile played on her lips—a masterstroke of deflection.
"Especially on this island," I pressed, hoping to steer her toward disclosure.
"Agent Thomas, you flatter me with your interest," Beatrice replied, her tone laced with a hint of amusement, "but really, it's nothing."
"Nothing doesn't usually spark such… passion." I gestured vaguely in the direction Victoria had disappeared.
"Passion is often wasted on the trivial, don't you think?" She tilted her head, assessing me with those steel-gray eyes.
"Depends on your definition of trivial," I countered.
"Touché." Another smile, this one acknowledging our little game. "But I'm afraid I have to see to our guests now. If you'll excuse me."
"Of course," I acquiesced, watching her glide away, the very picture of grace under pressure.
As she merged with the crowd, a voice in my head whispered, Not so fast, Beatrice. There were secrets buried here; I could feel them pulsing beneath the surface. And I intended to dig them up.
I hovered at the periphery of the room, the clinking of glasses and muted conversations creating a backdrop to my silent surveillance. Beatrice had retreated to an alcove, her back turned, but the tension in her shoulders betrayed her calm exterior. I approached, careful to keep my footsteps light.
"Beatrice," I said, injecting just enough warmth into my voice to seem nonthreatening. "I have a sister of my own, and we can get pretty heated sometimes, too."
She turned, and a semblance of composure snapped back into place. "Eva Rae, so you understand how families are. Emotions run high."
"Victoria seemed pretty upset."
"Victoria is passionate," she conceded, her lips tight. "It's her nature."
"Or maybe it's what the conversation was about?"
"Speculation isn't becoming of an FBI agent." Her gaze was steady, but her fingers twitched, betraying a frayed edge.
"Sometimes speculation leads to answers." I leaned in slightly, letting silence stretch between us.
"Perhaps." Beatrice's eyes narrowed. "But not today, Agent Thomas. Leave us be, please. We just lost one of our own, and the police don’t seem to be doing much to provide us with answers. It’s only natural that emotions run high."
