Was this how Amber had felt when she’d left that message? Was this the way she felt when she held on to pills “just in case”?
If so, maybe I understood. Partially.
The difference was the feeling didn’t make me want to die. It made me want to march back up to the house and figure out what I needed to do to start living, to stop feeling alone. To seize the beauty. It was a new emotion, one based in action rather than reaction. Was I turning into someone who didn’t just let things happen to me? Like Amber?
If so, that was new too.
A glint of gold on the ground nearby caught my eyes. It was partially covered with grass, so I’d missed it at first. I bent down to look at it now and found a plaque buried in the ground engraved with Missy Mataya’s name, birthday, and day of death.
My pulse slowed as I realized what this place was – it was the cliff Missy had fallen from. The rocks below, the security railing that looked to be fairly new. Even the foliage that had grown over the path, as though it had been a trail neglected in recent years. It all fit.
I stood back up. Being there where she’d been and feeling the way I’d imagined Amber felt, I wondered for the first time if Missy’s death had been a suicide. Jumping off the side into nothing would be a very thrilling and tragic way to end things. Like flying.
Maybe that was too dramatic. She could have just as easily fallen. If the railing hadn’t been there, in the dark and if she’d been drunk or high or upset or all of the above.
Or someone could have pushed her, relying on the probability that her death would be ruled an accident.
Reeve had told me he hadn’t been anywhere near her when it happened. He’d been on the beach, making sex tapes. There was proof that that was where he’d been. But there were still pieces of Missy’s death that felt unsettled. Things Chris Blakely had mentioned that didn’t have an answer in the story Reeve had told me.
Rustling leaves interrupted my reverie and drew my focus to the path behind me. The glimpse of white moving through the trees told me someone was coming. A few seconds later, Reeve emerged into the clearing. And, as though the sun had just moved from behind the clouds, my world got abruptly brighter.
I watched as he approached, feasting on him with my eyes for the first time in days. His casual island look somehow made him seem more dangerous than usual. Gray drawstring linen pants were paired with leather sandals and a cream button-down shirt that he’d left open, and damn if he wasn’t devastatingly attractive.
I turned away, unable to stare at him any longer without feeling physical pain. It pissed me off that he looked good. And that he was intruding on my privacy. And that he looked so good intruding.
“Why are you here?” I asked, not bothering to hide my irritation.
He cocked his head. “Why am I here on my property?”
I gave an exaggerated sigh not unlike the teenager-style sighs Amber had given me earlier. “Why are you here where I am when I’m here? The whole island is your property. You don’t need to be where I am.” I glanced back at him.
He seemed to debate between a few responses then finally responded with a question. “You want the honest answer?”
I wasn’t sure I did.
He took a few steps toward me, his hands in his pockets – damn, why did he always look so hot when he did that?
“The honest answer,” he said casually, “is that I saw you come down here, and it made me uncomfortable.”
He stopped several feet from the security rail. “I’d be considerably more comfortable now if you’d back away from the railing.”
His discomfort bothered me, but I didn’t move. While I believed that my proximity to the edge caused him anxiety, I didn’t necessarily believe that his telling me so was without ulterior motive. Like, mostly he wanted to be sure I knew he still cared. It might not have counted as making an advance, but it had the same effect on my psyche. It pulled at me, made my heart pinch, made me consider possibilities I’d already put to bed. I’d accepted that I wouldn’t stop caring about him anytime soon. But it would be so much easier if he’d stop caring about me. Or, at least, if he let me believe he’d stopped.
I was bitter. I wanted him to be bitter with me. Curiosity and the urge to bicker prompted my next question. “Was Missy killed because she knew your family was mob?”
“No. A lot of my girlfriends knew my family had mob ties. That wasn’t unusual. Move away from the ledge, Emily.”
I paid no attention to his request or to the fluttering in my belly that accompanied his worry. “But were all your girlfriends talking to Interpol about it?” It was the first I’d asked him about Interpol. I’d forgotten about that detail when he’d told me his family story on the plane.
His brow pinched in surprise. “Where did you hear —?” Understanding dawned across his features. “Chris Blakely?”
“Does it matter?” It had been Chris. He’d told me he’d overheard Missy and Reeve arguing on the night of her death. She’d mentioned Interpol, and Chris had speculated that she’d been killed to keep her from testifying against Reeve and his Mafia relatives.
But I didn’t want to think about Chris. I definitely didn’t want to imagine that was the information that very likely had gotten him killed. I did, however, want to know. “Could you just answer the question?”
“No. Missy wasn’t talking to Interpol. I was.”
I didn’t bother to hide my surprise. “But why?”
“Do you want to sit and talk about this? Preferably over there.” He nodded to the seating area. “A safe distance away from the railing.”