“Professionally? She was sharp—and territorial. She managed Candy’s brand like a kingdom and treated the wedding like premium content she owned.”
Spam materializes from the beach vegetation, conducting his own surveillance of our conversation. He settles nearby like a furry intelligence officer on surveillance duty.
“Territorial how?” I ask.
“Client poaching, undercutting bids, spreading rumorsabout other coordinators’ reliability. Standard industry warfare, but she took it personally instead of keeping it professional.”
“It must have been frustrating dealing with that kind of competition.”
“Frustrating enough that I considered several creative solutions for handling the problem,” Halea says with a casual honesty that makes my detective instincts sit up and pay attention. Okay, so I’m more of an amateur sleuth. Same principle.
And on that note, it’s time to stop dancing around the subject like it’s a delicate tropical flower requiring special handling.
“Halea,” I step in close. “Did you kill Alana Kapahu?”
The accusation hangs in the salt air like smoke from a badly timed firework. Halea’s expression shifts from happy-go-lucky to shocked and offended faster than tropical weather patterns change direction.
“Are you seriously accusing me of murder?” She takes a step back and examines me from head to toe. Suddenly, my little black dress feels woefully inadequate against her judgmental stare. “At a wedding I just coordinated? This is completely insane!”
Her voice carries sharp indignation, deeply personal and impossible to miss.
I shake my head. “Someone killed the woman, and you had professional motives?—”
“Professional motives, maybe, but I’d never go near abackstabbing homewrecker like Alana,” Halea interrupts with vehemence that suggests this goes beyond business rivalry. “I don’t respect women who try to steal other people’s men.”
The comment lands hard, and suddenly everything clicks. This isn’t about wedding planning turf or stolen clients—this is about romantic betrayal and relationship sabotage. Wait…is that right?
“What do you mean by steal other people’s men?”
But Halea is already stalking back toward the party, clearly offended by my accusation and unwilling to continue a conversation that’s ventured into murder investigation territory during what should be a professional victory for her.
The waves roll in, steady and loud, while Spam settles at my feet as if to comfort me. I stare out at the water, replaying Halea’s words, and the picture sharpens in ways I don’t love. Alana didn’t just step on professional toes—she crossed lines that had nothing to do with business.
A rooster crows from somewhere near the reception, announcing that crucial evidence has just been revealed through strategic social confrontation.
The puzzle pieces start rearranging themselves in my mind like a tropical jigsaw, finally finding the right configuration. If Alana were involved with someone’s romantic partner, that would change everything about motive, opportunity, and the type of person angry enough to commit murder in paradise.
I pull out my phone and start scrolling through social media with the determination of a digital detective conducting crucial research. Photos, posts, comments, timeline evidence—social media is basically filled with information people share without realizing they’re creating evidence trails for future murder investigations.
The digital breadcrumbs stack up fast—couples playing happy online, comments that don’t quite match, photos that reveal more than intended about who was spending time with whom.
The evidence snaps into focus, forming a clear picture of romantic betrayal, jealousy, and a personal motivation that drives people to murder when love goes wrong in paradise.
A gecko does a tiny push-up near my foot, agreeing with my investigative conclusions based on digital evidence and superior reptilian judgment. Or at least I’d like to think so.
I glance up from my phone as a thought settles into place that I’m not quite ready to trust. If Alana’s death wasn’t about business or money or professional territory, then it leaves something far colder—and far messier—lurking underneath.
The waves continue their endless rhythm while boisterous music drifts across the beach, and somewhere in the celebration, a killer is dancing the night away and thinking they’ve gotten away with the perfect crime in paradise.
It’s time to prove them wrong.
CHAPTER 21
The reception has gone from tropical dream to tropical derangement, and Erwin is the master of ceremonies when it comes to chaos.
He waddles up to the mic with purple custard smeared across his chin and shouts, “Looks like Candy and I aren’t the only ones getting lei’d tonight!”
Oh, good grief.
