“If I’m caught in a suite—”
“If you’re caught, come up with an excuse. You have a hundred reasons to be in a guest suite. Being caught is nothing compared to what’ll happen if those bugs are found first.”
Panic grips her. “But you said Avi Galev already found—”
“He’s not going to the authorities. Trust me. But hewillsearch for others. Trust me on this, too. We can’t have him trace the cams back to us. At any cost.”
“What the hell, Theo?” she whispers. “Why wouldhefind the others—why would he even go look in the Elysium? Or the—”
“They’re connected.”
Before she can reply, he kills the call.
Roshaan stands frozen, pulse hammering. Sweat prickles over her whole body.
Another message echoes over the PA.
“Final call for guest Arrabella Fairfax. The gangway is now closing. Guest Fairfax, report immediately. This is the last opportunity to rejoin the vessel.”
Maxine’s voice sounds again in her earpiece, curt and angry now. “Roshaan—report back. We can only hold the ship a few more minutes. After that we must hand her passport to port authorities and sail without her.”
It’s Criminal:
The Mystery of theBlack Orchid
A Trinity Scott & Gio Rossi True Crime Production
Reenactment—EXT. Agios Ammos—Small Sandy Cove Near Chania
A young married couple from Denmark sit at a small taverna table drinking wine. The taverna perches high on a slope overlooking a quiet cove. Steep stone steps wind down to the sand. Pink oleanders climb the bank, their blooms partially obscuring the view of beach below.
The sun sinks toward the horizon, glazing the sea in a soft peach light.
The woman leans forward to reach for a plate of black olives. As she does, more of the beach comes into her view—she notices a flash of red at the shoreline. She peers at it, squinting, and says to her husband, “What’s that down there?”
He rises and looks over the restaurant railing.
“My God,” he says in Danish. “I—I think it’s a woman.”
“She’s not moving,” says his wife, standing up to see better. “She’s just lying there, almost in the water.”
The couple can now see the woman on the beach is wearing a red halter top and white shorts. Her limbs are pale. Limp. Her red hair is wet. Small waves lap at her body.
“Go get help!” the husband shouts as he runs to the restaurant exit and makes for the stone stairs.
Back home in Copenhagen he works as a paramedic. He might be able to help. He rushes down the steep stairs.
The wife cries out to the restaurant staff. “We need help!” She points to the beach. “Can someone call for some help?”
The manager phones for an ambulance.
The wife hurries down the stairs to her husband.
By the time she reaches the beach, he’s doing CPR.
He glances up, and his eyes meet hers as he pumps the patient’s chest. His face is grim.
The victim is not breathing. Her lips are dark purple. Her eyes have rolled back—the conjunctiva veined with burst capillaries. Her mouth hangs open, and her tongue protrudes, grotesquely swollen.
