5
DESPITE BEING IN his car with the door shut, headlights on, and engine purring, Hayden doesn’t speed away until I’m in my car with the door locked.
Maybe he actively doesn’t want me to get murdered on a dark country road out by the marsh, or maybe it’s just coincidence, but I’m choosing to be positive.
He can’t be as bad as he seems. And even if he is, it’s not like we’ll be spending time together.
I roll my windows down and pull away from Margaret’s house, listening to the soothing hum and murmur of a Georgia night.
Briefly, I consider calling my mom to let her know the news. But it’s after ten, and she’s always been an early bird. Besides, it’s probably best to wait until I see how things shake out. I’ll let her know I’m close by for work, schedule a time to visit her, but wait to divulge anything else until I know which way the scales are tipping.
I glide back onto the mostly empty four-lane road that connects the mainland to Little Crescent and slow to a stop at a red light. Hayden’s in the next car over. He notices me too. I wave. He frowns.
The light turns green and we both pull through.
It feels like we’re both trying to not drive side by side, but the stoplights keep foiling us. We pass Little Croissant and the other shops, and I get into the lane behind him so at least we aren’t taking turns passing each other anymore.
At the Main Street intersection, I follow him through a right turn back toward tourist town and into the parking lot of the Grande Lucia Resort.
He turns left down an aisle, so I turn right. In the end, we wind up parking three spaces apart.
He takes the same staircase that I’ve been taking to and from my room.
I slow my pace, but surprisingly, he pauses halfway up the first set of steps when he realizes I’m behind him.
Not only does he pause, he actually turns toward me and makes eye contact. Huge progress for us. Friendship bracelets incoming, surely.
“Monday, Wednesday, Friday,” he grunts.
“Good days,” I say.
“Or,” he says, “Tuesday, Thursday, Saturday. You choose which you want. You’ll be able to spend Friday or Saturday evening with her that way, if you want, and we’ll either alternate Sundays or take them off, depending on what she prefers.”
I stop on the same step as him, considering the plan. “When would we start?”
“I plan to get all of this”—he lifts the paperwork—“wrapped up tomorrow. Friday and Saturday can be our first research days.”
“How did you find her?” I ask.
His brow knits at the question. “I’m not telling you that.”
“Really?” I ask. “Why?”
“Because you don’t need to know,” he says.
“I’ll tell you how I found her,” I say, dangling the offer like a carrot.
“I’m not interested.” He resumes climbing, and I follow.
We reach the first-floor landing and both keep going. “You’re already here,” I point out. “Knowing how I got here doesn’t do you any good. Just like you telling me how you found out about Margaret wouldn’t give me any kind of edge.”
“I really don’t see why you care,” he says.
“I’m curious,” I say. “It wasn’t easy figuring this out.”
He casts me a suspicious sidelong glance as we reach the second landing. “So you’re impressed,” he says dryly.
I ask, “Is that so hard for you to believe?”
He snorts and goes back to staring straight ahead as we climb. “You’re doing it again,” he grumbles without looking over at me.
“What?” I ask.
“The maniacal smiling,” he says.
That surprises a laugh out of me. “I’m not sure how you can tell. You’re not even looking at me.”
That earns me a dart of his eyes to mine. “And yet I see now I was
right.”
“It’s just exciting,” I say.
“This breakneck race up the stairs?” he deadpans.
“Working with Margaret,” I reply. “You have to be a little excited, somewhere inside that block of marble.”
“I wouldn’t call not getting a job exciting to me, personally, no,” he
grumbles.
“But you’re in the running,” I say.
“Yes,” he says. “And so are you.”
“Right,” I say. “Thus the excitement. Can you imagine the stories she has to tell? She’s met everyone. She’s been everywhere. This is the job of a lifetime.”
“I’m aware of that,” he says. “Thus my irritation at being strung along for a month before even finding out whether I have it.”
We reach the third of four floors, and he hesitates a moment, waiting to see which way I’m going. I step off the landing onto the walkway. With a sigh, he follows.
“What are the odds?” I say as we fall into step, side by side.
He doesn’t seem amused. That’s okay. I’m amused enough for the both of us.
He pauses at one of the pale blue doors, something like relief seeping into his bold features. “This is me,” he says.
“Ah,” I say, walking past him to the very next door. My room.
“You’re kidding,” he says.
“I’m not,” I say. “Sorry in advance. I’ve been told I snore.”
He shakes his head, muttering to himself, “Of course you do,” as he fishes his room key out of his back pocket.
“Tuesday, Thursday, Saturday,” I say.
His eyes slice back to me, his hand stilling on the doorknob.
“If it really doesn’t matter to you,” I begin, “I’ll take Tuesday, Thursday, Saturday.”
He looks at me silently for another moment, then gives one slow nod.
“In case I don’t see you again, then…”
“It was nice meeting me?” I guess.
The corners of his mouth twitch downward. “Enjoy your stay, Alice,” he corrects me.
It’s the first time he’s said my name, and for some reason it feels like a win.
As he steps into his room, I can’t help but call out, “Sweet dreams, Hayden! Use a white noise app!”
His only reply, as the door swings shut, is a grunt.
Or maybe…surely it wasn’t a laugh.
I unlock my door and go inside, ready to scour my list of furnished rentals.
For Hayden Anderson’s sake, I’ll shift my search far away from the Grande Lucia Resort.
At least, as far as you can reasonably go on a six-square-mile island.
• • • I SLEEP BADLY and wake up early. It’s dark out, but I can’t seem to grab hold of the tail end of sleep as it escapes from me, so I might as well get up and fill my body with coffee.
I pull on shorts and a tank top, then grab my laptop bag and step out into the deep blue morning, my arms and legs prickling from the sea breeze.
The roads aren’t as empty as they were last night—there are locals heading into work and tourists driving down to stake their claim at the beach before things get too hectic—but the world feels quiet and still, and
when I pull into the little enclave of shops back toward the mainland and Margaret’s street, the lot is sparsely populated. Most of the shops on the left are shut tight. All the restaurants on the right, aside from Little Croissant, also sit dark and empty, the striped umbrellas over the patio tables snapped closed.
There’s only one customer in front of me, a man with a horseshoe pattern of white hair around an otherwise bald head. The back of his salmon-pink T-shirt reads I Got My Sea Legs at FISH BOWL LITTLE CRESCENT ISLAND, complete with the street address, in smaller font, just below it.
“Captain Cecil?” I say, recognition hitting me.
The older gentleman turns around, revealing a gap-toothed smile. “Well, hi there!”
“I’m glad I ran into you,” I tell him. “I wanted to thank you for the
drink the other night.”
“Pretty tasty, huh?” he asks.
“Extremely,” I agree.
The barista waves the good captain up to the window to order, but I head him off. “Let me get this for you.”
His wispy, curly gray brows pinch together. “Now, why on earth would
I do that?”
“To make a visitor very happy?” I say.
He chuckles. “Well, can’t rightly argue with that.”
“I should hope not.”
He steps up to order: “One large iced brown sugar and cinnamon latte with whipped cream on top, please.”
The barista nods and scribbles CAPN on one of the to-go cups, before turning to me.
“Same thing,” I say, “but no whipped cream, please.”
“I’ll take hers,” Cecil puts in.
“Oh! And a large iced green tea,” I add on a whim.
“You got it,” the barista tells us, and I hand my card over to pay, punching the tip into the tablet when he swivels it toward me.
“So,” Cecil says as I step back to join him. “What’s a gal like you doing
flying solo on our little island?”
“I’m here for work,” I tell him.
He frowns at this. “Work? This is the wrong place for that!”
“Well, I love my work,” I say. “So it’s also kind of for pleasure.”
“And what is it you do?” he asks. Then: “Actually, who is it you are?
You seem to know my name, but I don’t recall yours.”
“Oh! Sheri told me who you were,” I say, holding my hand out to shake his. “I’m Alice. And I’m a writer.”
“Charmed to meet you, Alice the Writer,” he says, pumping my arm
twice before dropping my hand.
“Same to you,” I agree.
“And what is it that you write? Is our fine home to be the locale for a murder mystery?” He seems delighted by the thought.
“No, no. At least not one written by me. I’m a journalist.”
He whistles through his two front teeth. “How about that. An article about Little Crescent. Finally getting our due.”
I don’t correct him. I gave the NDA a quick read last night before sending it off to my lawyer (read: friend from college, who is now a lawyer), and while I’m not confident I understand the full scope of it, I am fairly sure Margaret wouldn’t appreciate having her presence on the island revealed before she’s even agreed to do the book.
“We had one once, you know,” he says. “Travel journalist from Rest and Relaxation. But frankly, she wrote more about her travel companion than she did about us.”
“Two iced brown sugar cinnamon lattes,” another barista calls from the next window over. “One iced green tea.”
Cecil and I step up to collect our respective drinks. “You extra thirsty?” he asks, eyeing the tea. “Or are you meeting someone?”
“Meeting someone,” I say, then add, “maybe. I’m not sure.” If Hayden happens to run past again, I’ll give it to him. If not, I’ll drop it by his room after.
Cecil frowns. “Alice! If you have to wonder whether he’ll show, he’s not worth it! That’s my two cents, not that you asked.”
I feel myself smiling. He’s way older than my dad was, but there’s still something in this man that reminds me of my father. The confident but relaxed posture, or the barrel chest.
I appreciate the little ache that sends through my throat, the reminder of how lucky I was to have my family, how lucky I’ve always been. “I’ll definitely keep that in mind.”
“Well, I’m afraid I’ve got a long day ahead of me,” Cecil says, fishing his wallet out of his pocket. “But if you need anything while you’re around, here’s my info.” He tucks a business card between my fingers and the cup of coffee.
“Thanks! I really appreciate that,” I tell him.
He waves me off as he heads toward the steps down to the dirt drive.
“And, Alice?” he shouts over his shoulder.
“Yeah?”
“Don’t wait too long.” He juts his chin meaningfully toward the green tea.
I lift it in salute to the captain, and he chuckles as he shuffles off.
I carry both cups down to the stone patio off the side of the platform, setting them on a wrought iron table nestled between a bunch of lush potted plants. A matching wrought iron gate rings the patio, ivy and kudzu crawling over it to give the space an enchanted feeling.
A couple of women in workout gear chat over croissants at a table in the far corner, and once I set my laptop up, I go back to the window to order two myself.
The coffee shop has decent Wi-Fi, so I pull up all of my bookmarked Margaret Ives sites as well as my preliminary notes document as I nibble on the pastry, dividing up the almond center bits so that each bite is the perfect ratio of buttery to sweet.
Assuming my lawyer friend and my agent both give their approval in the next two days, I should be able to start interviewing Margaret by Saturday, and I want to be prepared.
I also fire off an update to my group chat, Itchy Bitches, with my closest friends from The Scratch. The last message was from Priya, last night, a blurry bar selfie, her raven hair twisted into a topknot and a guy sitting behind her with the caption Does he look like Pedro Pascal?? (I’ve had five beers.)
The message came in after two a.m., and no one’s replied, though both Bianca and Cillian thumbs-upped the picture in apparent approval.
His face is barely visible, I point out, but I can tell he has a certain je ne sais quoi.
Then, in a separate message, I add, BTW M agreed to give me a shot. One month audition, basically.
HELL YEAH, Bianca writes a few minutes later. Though you should probably tell your editor…
Putting it in a formal email rn, Ms. Ribeiro, I write back, then pull up my inbox on my computer. I type bribeiro@thescratch.com into the To field to make my formal request. I’ll still be working here, just mostly on stories that can be done remotely, by phone and email. Nothing too intensive.
After I send the email, I go back to the group chat.
Unfortunately, I say, there’s another writer auditioning too. Hayden Anderson.
Priya sends a picture of herself still in bed, squinting, last night’s makeup blurred around her eyes. Someone tell my editor I’m too sick to come into work today.
Should’ve thought of that before you sent the five beers text to her, Bianca points out.
Cillian replies to my text: I’ve met him. Rather unpleasant sort, isn’t he?
I frown. Rather unpleasant sort? Didn’t realize I was texting a regency era gentleman.
What? Cillian says. He IS unpleasant. Hot though. SAD.
I don’t think he’s that bad, I reply.
LOL, Cillian replies. Duh.
Meaning? I say.
You like everyone, Priya says.
I take a long sip of my latte. Once again, Cecil didn’t steer me wrong.
It’s delicious. I’m just saying, I type out, he probably has his reasons for being the way he is. People usually do.
Bianca and Cillian both like the text, and Priya says, Hot people are usually somewhat unpleasant. They don’t have to play by the rules.
Hotness is wasted on the hot. Like me!
As a pleasant hot person, Cillian says, I’m offended by this.
Putting you on Do Not Disturb to get some work done, but love you all. I silence my phone, put my head down, and pore over my notes, adding thoughts as I go.
After about thirty minutes, though, my laptop battery is on its last legs.
By then the sun is all the way up, the back of my neck beginning to sweat and tingle with an oncoming burn, so I pack my stuff up and head back to the hotel. Late last night, I managed to book a place for the month, but it’s not available until tomorrow, so I’ve got one more night at the Grande Lucia.
One more night as Hayden Anderson’s neighbor, which I’m sure he’ll be relieved to know.
Rather than interrupt his morning by knocking on his door, I leave his green tea and the paper bag with his croissant outside his door, then let myself into my own room.
I plug my computer in to charge, then take a scorching shower, mostly because my bangs are too greasy for dry shampoo to have any shot.
Afterward, I towel dry my hair, my bangs falling into messy pieces across my forehead, and slather myself in sunscreen before getting dressed.
Since this is, ostensibly, one of my last free days before I dive into work, I decide I might as well do something fun. Like go to the beach or rent a bike and ride around the island. I put on my bathing suit, just in case, and pull on a floral yellow-and-pink romper with a sixties-style collar, along with the Simon Miller platform sandals Priya gave me for my birthday.
If my mom could see this outfit, she’d faint. When I was a teenager, she’d insisted that, because I was tall, everything looked shorter on me than
on other girls, and while she was very likely right, I’d always so desperately wanted to be allowed to dress like the other girls I went to school with, which is probably why I still style myself, in Bianca’s words, like a little scamp, or as Cillian put it, like a 1990s animated Nickelodeon teenager.
Both compliments, in my opinion.
I leave my laptop behind but slide my notepad into my bag along with my sunglasses before stepping out onto the walkway.
I’m already past Hayden’s door when I notice the green tea and croissant still sitting there.
I backtrack, check the time on my phone. Surely he’s up by now.
For a second, anxiety spikes through me. I check the long-dormant impulse to panic. For the most part, I’m grateful for the things my childhood gave me—optimism, empathy, an appreciation for life—but the unease that still comes from a shut door isn’t one of them.
The urgent ping of did something happen, and the thought that always follows: What if I’m too late this time?
I shake myself. Hayden is not my sister. I have no reason to suspect he might not be okay, and furthermore, no reason to feel responsible for his well-being.
Still, I find myself knocking on his door, needing to be sure he’s all right.
When there’s no immediate reply, the anxiety deepens.
Never mind that he could be out running, or at lunch, or anywhere else on the island.
I just have a feeling he’s the sort to stick to the same basic schedule every day, and if that’s the case, he should’ve been back from his run by
now.
I pound again. “Hayden?” I shout.
I hear a muffled grunt from deep within the room, and instantly something in me relaxes.
I mean, for all I know, he’s duct-taped to a chair inside, but that sounded like a fairly typical Hayden grunt, from what I’ve witnessed so far.
“Grunt twice if you’re okay!” I shout.
Instead, I hear the rattle of the dead bolt, and then the door swings open.
“Is there a fire?” he asks.
I can’t answer immediately. I’m focused on prying my eyes off the bare expanse of chest at face level to look up into Hayden Anderson’s very nonplussed expression.
