Beach Thriller(28)
“You don’t know that family like I do. It’s not safe.”
Holly folds her arms across her chest like that’s the final word.
I scrunch my forehead. “I know the Carmichaels were pretty sketchy in Beach Thriller, but didn’t you say your book is fiction?”
“It was … it is,” Holly stammers.
“So what’s your problem with them? Did you ever work for them, like you wrote in the book?”
Her hands go to her hips. “No, I didn’t. But just because the story is fiction, it doesn’t mean they’re good people. I don’t know them well, but I know … things.”
I squint at her. “Didn’t you just say that I don’t know the family like you do?”
Holly’s words get stuck. “Yes, I did, but, it’s hard to explain—”
I straighten, emboldened. “Okay, soooo, you don’t know them well, but you know enough that I shouldn’t work there, is that right?”
Holly is realizing how persistent I can be, especially when challenged. But I get the sense she’s trying to protect me, so points for caring.
“How about you just trust me?” says Holly, her expression grim.
“Are you going to hire me instead?”
“I don’t have any money to pay you.”
I smile, victorious. “Then unless they’re serial killers hiding bodies in a wine cellar, I’m taking the job. Good talk.” I pat Holly on the arm and head upstairs before her useless objections turn into our first fight.
Holly calls up to me, her voice defeated. “I need to go to town to get something for my headache. I was going to pick up dinner, too.”
I turn around on the stairs and smile. Reaching into my pocket, I take out the bottle of Advil and toss it to Holly. She catches it, confused.
“Thanks, but I’m not hungry,” I say. “Conrad bought me a sandwich.”
Chapter 17
Holly
It was clear this young lady was as easy to redirect as an ocean liner. And now Conrad Carmichael was casting himself as Jean Valjean from Les Misérables—the redeemed hero? Please. Holly knew better.
She went upstairs, took three Advil, and lay on the bed. She’d had migraines on and off since Anna’s death, but she’d never experienced an aura before. That was likely what her strange experience had been when she was talking to Ethan. She would have to look it up on WebMD, though she always regretted going there—it was full of worst-case scenarios. For now, she needed rest.
In her room, she cracked open the window, closed the curtains, and lifted Chester onto the bed. Resting her head on the pillow and pulling the blanket over her shoulders felt incredible. But as she closed her eyes, the pain only intensified. Flashes of something like the aura struck her again, but these were different. Even with her eyes shut, she felt blinded by a bright orange light. No, not light—it was … flames. She could feel the heat scorching her skin.
Holly’s mind conjured the smell of burning wood and the chaos of police and fire crews shouting orders. People rushed around, trying to help. Sirens blared. Holly pressed a pillow to her ears, hoping to block out the noise, trying to escape it.
A familiar figure emerged from this netherworld, engulfed in flames. She bolted upright.
No, she told herself. Enough.
Rubbing her eyes, the images finally cleared, but her anxiety did not.
Thankfully, the medication was beginning to work, although her heart kept racing. She had hoped the comforting surroundings of her mother’s bedroom would calm her. Instead, her gaze fell to her old manuscript on the bureau: Beach Thriller—where it all began.
She couldn’t help herself. It was masochistic, but maybe it was exactly what she needed to do: face her past. She picked up the pages and continued to read from where she’d left off.
Beach Thriller
ii
Our intrepid princess returned to the party with newfound excitement. Moments ago, Anna had glimpsed her fate, or so she believed. The raw, unbridled energy coursing through her was unlike anything she had ever experienced. Somehow, some way, she was meant to be with Conrad Carmichael. She knew it in her soul. The when and how were details to sort out later.
Anna caught herself and laughed. What an idiot she was being. This was the man’s engagement party—he was going to be married soon. And she’d had a sense of foreboding all evening. How could she suddenly feel elated? Yet she couldn’t shake the visceral conviction that her life was meant to intertwine with Conrad’s. What on earth could explain this connection after only a few minutes of idle conversation?
The answer made her feel worse. Anna had grown up on a steady diet of romance novels, rom-coms, and glossy magazines. She was a natural-born dreamer who couldn’t resist visiting any psychic’s studio she passed, hoping for a quick glimpse into her future. What would the psychic foretell if she followed her childish heart? She could guess. Buckle up, sweetheart. It’s going to be a bumpy ride.
Anna filled her tray with more beverages—tall champagne flutes for the grand finale, the big toast of the night: cheers to the future bride and groom. At least she’d found her smile; Holly should be happy about that.
The setting could not have been more perfect—or more romantic, Anna lamented. The scent of salty ocean air mingled with fancy perfumes. Gentle waves lapped at the shore, a rhythmic lullaby beneath the cheerful notes of the jazz band. The tiki torches flickered in the breeze, bathing the beach in an air of mystery. To make the toast more festive, the staff handed out flowered Hawaiian leis to all the guests, their bare feet dusted with sand, turning the Barefoot Ball into a moonlit luau.