Page 24 of The Awful Truth

An hour later, she was on her way home with a new cell phone tucked into her clutch, her regular one sitting on the passenger seat of her little Honda. Luka had given it to her right after he polished off his meal and told her to keep it on at all times in case he needed her. This would allow them to stay in communication without any record of it that could get her into trouble. She smiled to herself, thinking of how thoughtful her boyfriend was. Boyfriend. That must be what he was to her now. After all, he just took her for supper (although, in her opinion, the food was mediocre at best. She’d had better cevapi at a street fair and the potatoes were slightly undercooked, not that she’d ever tell him). But the biggest sign that they were a couple was that he wanted to be in constant contact with her while he was away. Yes, it could be about the case, obviously. But right before he got in his car, Petra had told him she’s hoping this works out for him, and he said, “I’m hoping this works out for us.”

Us.

That word had her heart fluttering as she sang along to “Saving All My Love for You.” When she neared her street, she decided to skip her usual evening of scrolling on Facebook in favor of using the secret phone to search for any information she could find about celebrities or politicians who had arrived in the country recently. If she found anything helpful, she’d text it to Luka immediately to give him a leg-up when he got there. She turned into her parents’ driveway and parked the car, an awful thought coming over her. What if she had just accidentally sent Luka on a wild goose chase?

TWO DAYS BEFORE THE INCIDENT

“O, what a tangled web we weave when first we practise to deceive!” ~ Walter Scott

9:47 A.M.

OFF THE COAST OF CROATIA

ANTONIA

The regret came in waves as Antonia sat on the toilet late the next morning. Far too much booze. Far too much rich food. Far too loose with her lips. And now, it was as if her bowels were driving home the point Ted had been trying to make the night before. When she woke, she felt for him in the bed next to her only to find his side cold and empty. A metaphor for their marriage if ever there was one. But now she was glad he had sneaked away because she certainly didn’t want him in the suite at the moment.

Her head pounded, her eyes hurt, and her mouth was bone dry. But underneath that was a feeling of urgency that was beginning to bubble to the surface. Oh God, she had said Travis was a narcissist. An overt narcissist. The words made her cringe, then she was immediately hit with the memory of Charlotte speculating that Mercy was a killer—and her siding with Charlotte. Her face flushed as the reality set in. She had screwed up horribly. Ted’s angry expression flashed through her brain.

Letting out a groan, she felt a sense of urgency. She needed to find Winslow and Miguel and tell them she was talking nonsense last night. She also had to make a heartfelt apology to Oliver for speaking about him like he was a hearing-impaired gigolo. She’d need to get a sense of whether Oliver was going to tell his bosses what she had said. And she would have to do this as quickly as possible, before their hosts arrived.

Twenty minutes later, she had showered, dressed in a flowy white maxi skirt with enormous teal flowers and a matching teal cowl-neck, short-sleeved top with lots of ruching (so much ruching these days). She had blown her hair dry and applied some subtle make-up. Not too much, just a bit to even out her skin tone and blur the fine lines. The make-up artist on the show, Le Shawnda, had taught her that mature skin wouldn’t tolerate caked-on foundation. It would suck it up and display every year. She grabbed her sunglasses, slid her feet into a pair of raffia sandals, and hurried out to find the others. As soon as she stepped out onto the deck, she realized they were not docked anymore, but were now moving at a fast clip, the sails up and the bright sun bouncing off every polished surface on the boat—each one an assault to her senses.

Her stomach churned as she realized that it was too late. If they had pushed off, Travis and Mercy must be aboard. “Shit,” she muttered.

How had she—a fifty-three-year-old professional—allowed herself to act like an impulsive idiot last night? Ted would still be furious. Oh God, and she had tried to seduce him last night, only to get shot down. The humiliation made her skin burn. Rejected by her own husband. Although, he was right to do it with the state she was in. She would’ve passed out in the first couple of minutes anyway. Still though, her fuzzy recollection of the whole thing made her feel like an ogre. Something about the look on his face. Was it disgust or pity? Or maybe a blend of both.

She found her husband seated on the bench where she had been the night before, next to Miguel and Winslow. Mercy and Travis sat on the director’s chairs with their backs to her as she made her way to the table. Ted was too engrossed in the conversation to notice her walking toward them. Or maybe he was just ignoring her. He was wearing his workout uniform of a fitted black Helly Hanson dry wick t-shirt and matching shorts, meaning he’d already hit the gym while she had been nursing a hangover. The bastard.

Glancing around, she noticed that Charlotte wasn’t there, and she wondered if her assistant was hungover like her, or completely fine and madly working away on her laptop. A full breakfast spread filled the bar top, and Indira was serving this morning. She was as pretty as Oliver was handsome, her nearly-black hair swept up in a simple bun at the back of her head. Being good-looking must be a prerequisite for working aboard a yacht. The young woman smiled at Antonia and offered her a small bow, then continued cooking up something in a frying pan on the outdoor grill.

Ted threw Antonia a quick smile, lips only—his eyes were having none of it. “Ah, she’s alive.”

“Barely,” Antonia answered, shifting her focus to Mercy—who looked absolutely perfect in a white tennis dress that showed off every curve. Her stomach clenched as the word narcissist popped into her mind again. They gave each other rich women air-kisses while Mercy apologized for being unforgivably late. Then Antonia greeted Travis, who stood to fold her into a hug infused with the musky cologne he wore that made her feel nauseous on a good day. Today it was all she could do not to gag.

“Good morning, Dr. Dawson. You’re looking lovely, as always. I hear we missed quite the party last night,” Travis said in his big Texas drawl. He had his charm dialed up to maximum, which would normally mean he didn’t know anything about what was said the night before. But with someone like Travis, you’d never know. He’d lull you into a false sense of security, then pounce.

“Yes, your staff may have made us a little too comfortable,” she told him. “I haven’t drunk that much since before I had children.”

Travis chuckled and sat down. “That’s what I refer to as top notch hospitality.”

Antonia attempted a gracious smile, but it was entirely possible it was a grimace. Even her face hurt at that point. “I honestly would be happy with lower notch hospitality for the rest of the trip, if that’s a thing.”

“Not here, it isn’t. Have a seat, Antonia,” Mercy said, pointing to the empty spot next to Ted. “Let me get you the world’s best hangover cure.”

“I won’t say no to that,” she answered, sliding onto the bench. She leaned over so she could see Miguel and Winslow. “How are you two feeling? Please don’t tell me I’m the only one worse for wear.”

“We were both struggling this morning,” Miguel said. “But Mercy fixed us right up.”

“She’s an angel,” Winslow added.

Travis sniffed. “That she is.”

Antonia’s eyes moved from Travis—who looked like a middle-aged Dick Cheney, dressed in a faded yellow golf shirt that his ample gut spilled over—to his wife, who could still grace the big screen as a leading lady. She turned, carrying a plate of food in one hand and a mimosa in the other and floated across the deck. So far, it appeared as if they must not know about the conversation the night before. If so, surely they wouldn’t be nearly so hospitable toward her.

Setting the plate in front of Antonia, Mercy said, “Now, Travis here has tied one on in nearly every country on the planet, and this is the meal he swears by. It’s called Loco Moco. White rice and a hamburger patty smothered in gravy, all topped with a fried egg.”

“This is from Hawaii, isn’t it?” Antonia asked.