Eliza had said I was welcome to sail with them any time I wanted, and I wonder if that’s still an option now. Maybe I don’t have to go back to Hawaii with Nico after all.
Robbie said that the island was cursed, and for the first time, I’m starting to believe there’s some truth to that. Those dead sailors back in the 1800s, the overgrown airstrip, the skull, the abandoned building I found this morning … for a place full of natural beauty, it also seems full of horrible history.
I’m craving another drink, but the cooler on deck is empty, so I slide open the cabin door and stick my head in. “Eliza?” I call, even though I know she’s not down there. Still, it feels a little strange to be creeping around the boat on my own.
Unlike our cabin on the Susannah, the interior of the Azure Sky is bright and open, with white furnishings, chrome accents, and shiny teak floors. I let myself imagine what it would be like to sail to Bangkok on a boat like this.
I open the stainless-steel refrigerator and pull out a twelve-pack, thinking that I might as well refill the deck cooler for Eliza while I’m at it. But my hands are sweating, and one of the bottles slips through my fingers, crashing onto the floor in a spray of broken amber glass and foam.
“Fuck,” I mutter, stepping back from the spreading pool as the smell of yeast and hops fills the cabin.
I look around for a towel, anything to clean up the mess, but the whole minimalist thing they have going on means there’s nothing at hand except for more metal and glass, and that’s not exactly helpful right now.
I open the cabinet underneath the sink and there, next to a bottle of Windex, I find a neat pile of white towels.
There’s also a lumpy black bag, its zipper partially opened.
Wonder what all they got on that boat, I hear Robbie say, remembering his crooked smile and hard eyes.
Robbie’s bag. The one he’d thrown on shore that day. It had been black like this. Canvas, the zipper broken.
I feel like Bluebeard’s wife as I pull it out into the light.
As soon as it’s in my lap, I breathe a sigh of relief. It’s not the same bag. This one is too new, branded with the Tumi logo, and when I try the zipper, it slides open just fine.
God, this place is making me paranoid.
I’m closing up the bag again when I notice an oddly shaped piece of plastic protruding.
Whatever is in the bag is heavy, and I have to use both hands to pull it out.
It’s cash.
A lot of cash. Stacks of it, tightly bound together, and wrapped in plastic. American dollars, euros, British pounds, the colorful face of the queen smiling genteelly up at me.
My heart is pounding as I shove the money back in the bag, only to realize there are more plastic-wrapped parcels inside. One is cash, but two are thicker, heavier, and I realize, in numb disbelief, that they’re bricks of hash.
So: not just cash, but drugs, too.
Nico had asked Jake and Eliza what they did, how they made a living, and Jake had been vague enough that I’d just assumed he was another rich kid with inherited wealth—he didn’t have to actually make money, it just existed for him. And after hearing that they grew up together, I figured Eliza was the same.
But clearly, there’s more to it than that.
Is that why they’re here, on this deserted island? Are they running from the law?
Suddenly, I realize just how little I actually know about Jake or Eliza, or Brittany or Amma for that matter—or fuck it, maybe even Nico. These people are basically all strangers to me, and I am alone with them in the middle of the Pacific Ocean. My head feels like it’s stuffed with cotton, and my mouth has gone dry, and all I can think is I have to put all this shit back, exactly as I found it, quickly shoving it into the bag like the canvas will burn me.
That’s when I hear footsteps on the stairs leading into the galley.
I turn to see Eliza standing there, looking down at me.
Smiling.
“So,” she says, folding her arms, sun-bronzed and beautiful and remarkably calm. “Now you know our little secret.”
TWENTY-ONE
“You’re gonna be cool about this, right?” Eliza asks after a long pause, and I nod almost automatically.
This is something Eliza is good at, I realize: phrasing a statement as a question, so that your only option is to agree with her.
Stepping forward, she leans down and takes the bag from me. “It’s not that big of a deal,” she goes on. “It’s just some pot. We don’t deal in the scarier stuff, you know? Just the fun shit.”
She flashes that sparkling smile, and I nod robotically.