I nod her way in hopes to prod it out of her.
“Yes, he was cheating on me,” she says with a vehemencethat makes nearby chickens take a step backward. “What kind of an idiot is he? I’m the whole package! Two million followers, brand partnerships, endless content opportunities! And with that mouse of a woman? It was an insult.”
Spam has the rest of the cats position themselves in a semicircle around us like furry jury members observing a confession proceeding, while the chickens conduct their own surveillance from strategic positions near the rocks.
“You couldn’t let it be known that you were being played for a fool,” I say, understanding the motive with crystal clarity. “Someone had to go.”
Okay, there’s still a slim chance that Erwin is guilty of a homicide.
“Exactly!” she blurts. “I had to kill her!”
Well, that answers that. Still, Erwin could do some serious time—if not as the killer, then at least as an accessory.
“And Erwin knows you did it,” I insist. Please, let him know.Please.
“No, he doesn’t know anything!” She looks incensed by the thought. “The man is an idiot.”
Drats. And she chooses now to demonstrate how smart she is?
“My reputation, my brand, my entire influencer career—everything would have been ruined if people found out I was being cheated on with some nobody.” Candy shouts with fervor, finally getting to share her logical reasoning.
“Oh,geez,” I pinch my eyes closed. “You killed the wrongperson! You should have offed Erwin!” Okay, so I may have shouted that into the night a touch too aggressively. But still, the point remains the same.
Candy shrugs with an indifference that makes my skin crawl. “I’m planning on it. Tonight. Of course, the world won’t know it was me who stabbed him through the heart. Not when there’s a bitter ex on the premises to take the fall.”
I gasp at the thought. How diabolical. How very convenient. Howingenious.
Not only does she have a killer instinct, but she has more than a few brain cells floating up there. Not many, but still…
She flashes a wicked grin that transforms her manufactured sweetness into something considerably more dangerous. “But I’ll just have to resort to plan B since you won’t be alive to take the blame. I think I’ll frame Bertha or my annoying sister. At least that way I’ll never have to listen to her sing again.”
“Oh, for Pete’s sake, Bertha is the only reasonable choice in that equation,” I grouse, because evidently, I maintain my sense of humor even during death threats. I am kidding, aren’t I? “But then you always seem to be making mistakes,” I hiss at her. “I’m not going anywhere.”
“The heck you’re not!”
Candy launches herself at me, furious that her careful planning just lost out to amateur detective work and inconvenient evidence. We slam into the sand in a chaotic struggle for tropical justice while cats and chickens offer loud, unsolicited advice.
She’s stronger than she looks and meaner than her social media presence suggests. We roll toward the water with the momentum of people who have absolutely committed to poor decisions while waves crash around us.
Candy rolls me straight into the ocean and shoves me under.
AndGAH!
Icy water slams into my chest like a Mac truck. My lungs seize, my body locks up as if it’s forgotten how breathing works—rude, considering how attached I am to the concept.
Salt water fills my mouth while I struggle against her surprisingly effective drowning technique, relentless, efficient, and far too practiced for someone who claims to make inspirational content for a living.
Just as I’m starting to think that dying in paradise might be the ultimate ironic ending to my amateur detective career and my life, the most unlikely rescue team in Hawaii history comes to my aid.
Cats—actual cats—leap into the water with a heroic determination usually associated with dolphins who save drowning sailors. They swim toward us with surprising efficiency while chickens pace the shoreline, providing what sounds like tactical encouragement for aquatic rescue operations.
Claws are out, yowls are screamed so loud, they could hear it on Mars. About six different cats seem to have attached themselves to Candy’s body, and by proxy, mine.
Candy thrusts herself out of the water. “Get them off of me,” she screams into the night.
The distraction gives me the leverage I need to reverse our positions and get Candy in a headlock, drag her back toward shore, and pin her face down in the sand while she struggles and shrieks about ruining her wedding dress and her life.
“Jinx!” Koa’s voice slices through the beach as he charges toward us, gun drawn, clearly done with my freelance detective phase.
