Rain slams itself against the side of the boat, drumming out rhythmic patterns against the window and hull. My breath hurts, thorny and tearing at my lungs.
Carefully, I place Elena’s phone back on the end table. This is evidence, and my hands have been all over it. My stomach sours as the magnitude of what this means begins to crash over my head. On my own phone, I tap through some of Elena’s other posts, wondering what happened. She clearly meant to step away from her account, but did that happen before or after she leftEmpress? Viv said Elena quit and it was contentious, but did she actually make it off the yacht? Did someone hurt her? Or was there an accident, like with Sage? But if it was an accident, why did I find Elena’s phone hidden under a crew bed, stamped with a bloody print?
My stomach cramps, and I shudder. No, Elena’s disappearance and the others’ reticence to talk about her doesn’t bode well. Were they all lying? Only some of them? Did someone on this boatkillElena?
My fingers are like frozen twigs as I tap through Elena’s defunct page. I don’t consider myself a prude, but Elena is the most sexually open person I’ve ever seen online. She has posts detailing sexual positions, ways to fully experience the female orgasm, dating disaster stories from her younger years, and sponsored posts with a ton of different sex toys.
There is noEmpress-related content on her feed, but therearea handful of pictures of Elena and Viv. Their faces pressed together, taking a selfie; posing on the roof deck in matching white bathing suits; the two of them tangled together on the upstairs L-sectional, laughing and drinking margaritas. Odd that Elena would keep those up if her departure fromEmpresswas so fraught. One photo in particular catches my eye: a full-body shot of Elena standing on the top deck, next to Viv. Viv is looking down, toe pointed, martini glass tipping forward. Elena is wearing an orange cutout bathing suit and a large straw sun hat. Her head is tilted back, mid-laugh, both hands reaching up to take hold of either side of the hat’s brim. The ocean is their backdrop, sparkling behind them. You can almost feel the sun and spray of waves by looking at the picture.
These women look happy, healthy, enviable.
But what catches my attention is Elena’s right arm. Snugly wrapped around her wrist is a chunky golden cuff bracelet.
My throat is not working correctly. I keep trying to swallow, but my breath hangs there in the back of my mouth like a balloon trapped in a revolving door.
Gasping, I get up and once again sprint over to the bathroom, turning on the faucet and cupping my hands underneath a stream of cold water. When I can finally swallow and my heart stops racing so much, I glance down.
Sparkling innocently on the marble counter is the gold bracelet Piper fished out from the ocean. My phone is in my hand. I tap on the photo of Elena again and zoom in to her wrist. Slowly, I bring the screen down so it’s right next to the bracelet and compare the two.
They sure look the same.
And okay, it’s possible that it’s a coincidence. It’s possible someone else had the same bracelet, maybe a partygoer, and they lost it overboard. It’s also possible Elena herself dropped the bracelet or even tossed it over.
But this doesn’t look good.
Dread creeps over me with silent fox feet, nocturnal eyes glowing as it watches my panic grow. I should call the cops while I still have service. Report this. Dosomething. Right?
Should I? I’ve been seeing things,I admit to myself. Things that seem so real but aren’t. What if this is part of it? Maybe I’m jumping to conclusions. I used to be an author. What if I’m writing a story in my head that doesn’t exist?
A wave knocks into the side of the yacht, the slapping force startling me so much that I drop the phone. It clatters to the sink next to the bracelet, and I pick it up in time to see a banner notification pop up at the top of my Instagram page—someone has direct messaged me. I can see the first sentence:
You are so brave to tell the truth. I can’t believe…
The message trails off; I’ll have to tap it to read the whole thing. Distracted, I whisper, “What the hell?”
I haven’t posted anything in days, definitely not anything that would inspire someone to message me out of the blue and call me “brave.”
My fingers start tingling as I swipe back, navigating away from Elena’s page and back toEmpress’s. I’m about to tap over to my home page when I notice the video pinned to the top of theEmpresspage that I missed earlier.
The words “Charlie’s Truth: Meet Our Newest Influencer!” adorn the Reels cover.
“No. No, no, no,” I whisper.
Mouth dry, I tap on the volume and play the video.
I recognize myself; I recognize the love seat I was sitting on this morning. I recognize my oversized sweater, my pale face, my pixie cut.
My voice pours out from the speaker:“Sage stole my idea. Wrotethe book I was going to write. And then sold it for six figures. She got a movie deal and people were already talking about awards and sequels. But it wasn’t hers. She went behind my back and took everything I had worked on.”
Fuck. Oh my God, fuck.
I can tell by the angle of the camera that it was Viv who recorded this. I remember how she clutched her phone, easing toward me after Rachel prompted me to share my story.
Viv filmed my admission. Then sent me to the crew quarters so I wouldn’t see the post until it had a chance to garner some attention.
I look droopy and slumped in the video, a flower that’s been baked too long by the sun. The clip doesn’t end after my speech; the girls offer their condolences. I explain why I didn’t bother taking legal action against Sage. As if through a filter of white noise, I vaguely realize that whoever has edited this video together has cut out the part when Ashley called Sage a bitch. The video ends with Viv’s breathy voice:“We understand. We understand completely. You’re safe here. We’ve got you now.”
The caption below the video proclaims:
