She pauses, then says, “Poppy. Poppy Buchanan. That’s who I am.”
She scurries off, and Carter grins. He’ll call herPoppy Poirot.
Poppy
Poppy knocks lightly on Lillith’s door.
Poppy Buchanan—that’s who I am. My old skins have been shed, over and over. That’s growth. This is the new me. Poppy. Just Poppy. The past is irrelevant.
So why does she feel so afraid? Like she’s spiraling out of control?
Why are the old iterations of herself cracking through the walls she’s built so carefully to compartmentalize and contain them? Suddenly clamoring to get out are all her previous selves: the lonely and pudgy little girl; the bullied child; the awkward fat tween; the grieving teen, the vulnerable, insecure young woman who so desperately needed to be wanted and loved that she allowed herself to believe Paz was kindhearted. Who dared hope Paz would treat her right. Until he didn’t. Again and again. Until she ran completely out of hope. And no one came to save her.
She bangs louder, more desperately, on the Elysium suite door. “Lillith? Are you in there?”
Silence.
Poppy glances at her watch. They were supposed to meet for breakfast. Lillith never showed. No texts or calls. Could she have gone ashore already?
Should she go look for her on Crete?
Or what if she’s inside—ill, passed out ... or worse?
She frowns at her watch again. They’re supposed to be on a bus to Chania in twenty minutes.
Maybe Arrabella told Lillith she killed Paz, and Lillith is ghosting her. The thought makes Poppy’s stomach clench. Arrabella has been gunning for her from the get-go—now she’s won.
Or what about Hendrick? What if he’s a con artist, preying on old widows? Maybe he’s done something to Lillith. Or maybe A.G.—the mystery necklace gift giver—did he do something? Or the as-yet-unknown person who sent the cocktails that spooked her?
She pounds the door. “Lillith!”
Silence.
Enough. She fishes out the spare key card, unlocks the door, and edges it open cautiously.
“Lillith? Are you here?”
No reply.
She steps inside. The door swings quietly shut behind her.
The suite is empty.
However, the bedcovers have been pulled loosely over the bed, awaiting room service. It’s proof Lillith did return last night, get into bed, and get up this morning. The bathroom door is open.
“Lillith?”
She’s not inside.
Poppy crosses to the dresser. No sign of Lillith’s purse or phone anywhere. She left without telling Poppy.
Arrabella definitely must’ve told her. About the murder.
A silent scream begins in her skull. She taps her temple repeatedly, desperate to stop the noise in her brain, struggling to breathe. She inhales deeply, holds for four counts, exhales slowly. She repeats this a few more times. Panic gradually ebbs, clearing space for thought.
Focus.
She notices the copy ofExit Strategy: A Guide to the Gentle Art of Dying Wellis still on Lillith’s nightstand. The bookmark has been moved deeper into the paperback.
