The guilt descended on me, heavy and heavier, as I stripped out of my dress and splashed water on my face.
I had watched a man get murdered.
Not justaman, but the one I had thought would be mine one day.
I had watched him fall to his death and had donenothingabout it.
I hadn’t tried to save him. I hadn’t told anyone.
How was I supposed to go on, when his body would be found at any moment? Questions would be asked. The truth—that I had been there, that I had seen everything—would come out.
I understood on a superficial level that there was no bringing him back. But was there still a way to save myself? My gut said no, but I couldn’t trust it. I could never trust it when it came to Dorian.
I grabbed my phone. Tapped nine and one before I remembered that I was in a different country. How did you call the police here? Would I need a lawyer now? What was the French word for murder? And what about the fact that I was supposed to fly home tomorrow?
So maybe I couldn’t call, but I needed to do something. I slipped on a pair of black pants and my last clean top, then jumped into my ballet flats and grabbed my key card on the way to the door. In the hallway, I could only hear the sound of the waves as they crashed against the yacht, Dorian’s lifeless body sinking into the blackness of the midnight sea. But then a door opened, and a face popped out.
“Connie!” Laila whispered. “I hoped it might be you.”
I froze. I wasn’t sure what I’d planned to do. Maybe go downstairs and tell someone about what had happened. Urge them to go looking for Dorian.
“Are you coming back from somewhere?” Laila said.
She frowned, clearly confused by the fact that I was walking away from my room, toward the elevator, when it was nearly dawn.
“No,” I said. “I mean yes.”
“Are you okay?”
There was no answering that, obviously. I couldn’t talk to anyone about the party until I’d spoken to the police.
“Because I’m not,” she added, her voice shaking.
Laila opened the door to her room. There were two large suitcases open on her bed, almost fully packed.
“You’re leaving now?” I asked.
She nodded sadly. “My boss wants me back in New York ASAP. Something happened, and he’sreallymad. He’s an asshole on the best of days, so I’ll let you imagine…”
I stared ahead at the elevator, my plan already running away from me. I couldn’t tell the police anything. Not without implicating myself. And definitely not when I still had all the Clapard jewelry I’d stolen from Laila’s room.
“Have a drink with me?” she pleaded. There was a stack of miniature liquor bottles on her bed. “My flight’s in three hours. Please!”
I’d always had every intention of giving the jewelry back, and it was now or never.
“Sure,” I said, with as much enthusiasm as I could pull from deep inside. “I just need a minute, okay? I’ll be right back.”
If I was going to talk to the police, things might go much better for me if I didn’t have the evidence of a crime in my possession.
I ran back to my room, to the safe, and shoved its contents into my cross-body bag. The pieces barely fit and I couldn’t do up the clasp, but it was so late into the night—or so early into the morning—I had to hope that Laila’s mind wasn’t all that switched on either. I also had to hope she wouldn’t realize that I suddenly had a bag with me. It was a lot of hoping for someone who deserved none.
As I spun around to leave, my gaze landed on the room phone. There was someone at the front desk twenty-four-seven. I could tell them that something had happened on the yacht. I didn’t have to share the details. But then, I’d leave a trace. One way or another, it would come back to me, the woman who had found the time to go back to her room and change her outfit before worrying about the logistics of reporting a murder.
What kind of person does this?
A guilty one.
Sweat tickled my hairline by the time I knocked on Laila’s door, but she didn’t seem to notice.
