Into the Blue: A Virgin Islands Mystery

Author’s Note

I first moved to St. Thomas in 2006. I have a specific sense of nostalgia for that era—and not just because I was in my mid-twenties and seemingly impervious to hangovers. My first stint on a tropical island had a certain charm. Smartphones had not been introduced yet, and social media was still in its infancy. In fact, Facebook was something only college students did. Even when the iPhone was introduced a year later, only a few people had one. Almost nobody thought we’d need smartphones at all, let alone to the level we’ve come to rely on them.

I’ve chosen to set this novel in 2009 to capture this era and its idiosyncrasies. I see this as the first of several Lizzie stories, which will move closer to present day. However, for now, I want to show you the St. Thomas where we knew people’s first names and what they did—Peter who works at Budget Marine, Joseph from Iggie’s, etc. It was also the era before Google Maps. You were told to turn right at the tree in the middle of the road or left after the Bridge to Nowhere. If the landmarks didn’t appear as promised, you just wandered until you found the right place. Sometimes, you drove down a road only to discover it was someone’s driveway. It was all a part of the experience.

I’m also very cognizant that this book represents a single viewpoint: that of a white person of privilege, born in the continental U.S. It has limitations for telling the full story of this island, but it is also a viewpoint I know well. I hope you find Lizzie Jordan’s lens interesting. That said, there are many other lenses with which to view St. Thomas, those of resettled down islanders, native Virgin Islanders, some of whom are direct descendants of slaves, ancestral Virgin Islanders whose families have birthed new generations on the island and many more. The more I learn about the history of the Caribbean and its diverse islands, the more I realize that the echoes of conquest, colonialism and slavery are still reverberating today, some quite loudly. I hope someday to be able to do them full justice in print. For now, I offer this novel as one slice of life in the US Virgin Islands in the early 2000s.

Finally, this book is a work of fiction. I’ve drawn inspiration from real life. However, nothing in this book happened quite the way it’s described, and I’ve bent some features of island life to accommodate my storyline.

Or, as Lizzie would say, I changed some stuff about St. Thomas to make the story better. Don’t get yourself all twisted up about it.

1

Bring everyone back alive.

The first rule of working a tour boat in the Caribbean is pretty damn simple.

I thought following that rule was going to be an easy task today.

I stood on the back deck of the charter boat I work as first mate, sipping a fizzy Diet Coke. The sun was warm on my face, and the clear blue water of the British Virgin Islands lapped invitingly around the swim platform.

We had reached the quietest point in my twelve-hour day. The captain had nosed the 50’ white whale of a powerboat to a mooring, where I tied her up. I passed out snorkel gear, and my guests, adults of all shapes and sizes with a sprinkling of kids, scattered to explore Diamond Reef.

The reef had supposedly gotten its name when a woman got pissed at her fiancé and pitched her huge diamond engagement ring into the water. Of course, the ring has never been found. Cue mysterious music.

Who knows if the story is true? It’s dubious, but it’s also fun to tell. I get to make my most theatrically enigmatic face at the end of the tale. Although, for the record, I do cringe inwardly when Larry, one of the other captains I work with, layers on a joke about maritime law requiring that you split all findings with the crew. Hilarious.

Putting up with captains’ humor. It was all part of this glamorous gig.

Now all I had to do was make sure that no one died. Oh, and stop obsessing over Dave—also known as the guy who’s not my boyfriend—and why he’d been such an ass last night.

It sounded so simple.

The family of four from Texas had found a sting ray. Mom had gotten in the water without one word about smearing her makeup—and there was a lot of it. The male halves of the two couples from San Diego sat on the back deck dangling their feet in the water, their sculpted shoulders flexing as they lifted their cans of Heineken to their mouths. Their girlfriends—only one of whom was California blonde, thank you very much—snorkeled to my left, their tanned and toned derrieres floating primly above the surface. A few more guests lay scattered across the boat’s cushioned benches like seals on the beach. The rest floated calmly in front of me, snorkels peeking out of the water, fins flapping lazily.

It had been a good day so far. Uneventful, in other words. No one had gotten themselves lost during my tour of the Baths on Virgin Gorda. You’d be surprised how many people separate themselves from the group while meandering through the house-sized granite boulders. Enough to give me a few mild heart attacks, for sure.

Next, all twenty-two of our guests received the cocktails and entrees they ordered at the restaurant on Marina Cay, which was not always a given. The island-style service on Marina Cay was alternatingly delightful and frustrating. We’d caught them on a good day.

Then, I’d solicited a few oohs and aahs by pointing out the photos of Sidney Poitier on the walls. His movie, Our Virgin Island, was based on the story of the couple who had owned the tiny island for a time.

And, as of this very moment, I still hadn’t broken that first golden rule. All twenty-two guests were alive and well. Several of them were even starting to develop a nice afternoon buzz from our open bar.

It was going to be easy to bring this group back to the United States Virgin Islands intact—and hopefully happy enough to tip us well.

But as I scanned back across the reef, I saw something that made my breath catch: a set of bamboo pole arms flailing above the water line. They conveyed the universal gesture that translated as, This snorkeling may turn out to be the last thing that I do.

Shit. Shit. Shit.

All the safety training around scenarios like this urges you to stay calm above all. I set my Diet Coke down gently on the gunwale. To be honest, I wanted to chuck it behind me with a scream and dive into the water like a pig on fire. Instead, I settled for a calm call to the captain as I gathered my fins, mask and snorkel.

My heart, however, didn’t get the memo. It thumped in my chest, its pace and strength increasing with a second sighting. The arms—and the person attached to them—were making a beeline for the exact place we’d told them NOT to go: the edge of the reef. There, a sly current was waiting to give the owner a fast-paced tour of the shoreline of Great Camanoe Island.

Pretty soon, my guest would be headed straight for the open Atlantic, if he could stay afloat long enough. If he happened to hit the tiny coral atoll of Anegada twenty miles away, he’d be lucky because the next thing he’d hit would be Bermuda, more than 900 miles north.

Realistically, though, the prevailing currents would likely drag him west, which is where we were headed in about half an hour. If he could just keep his head up, maybe we could pick him up along the way. Or throw a life ring over the side and drag him to our final stop, the island of Jost van Dyke, population 297.

Flippant thoughts while someone was drowning, I know, but that’s just a taste of the way my sick mind works.

My name’s Elizabeth Bower Jordan, by the way. Most people—including my drowning victim—know me as Lizzie.

I’ve never rescued a soul, but being a first mate on a tour boat requires you to play a lot of different roles—bartender, boat hand, psychologist, mediator, cruise director, bloodhound, psychic, DJ. You’ve just gotta run with whatever the day throws at you.

I fumbled to free my fins from the rubber band that bound them together. As my fingers flopped, my mind raced. Those long skinny old man arms could only belong to Herb, the septuagenarian from southern Connecticut whose life was about to be cut much shorter than even he imagined.

I jumped as a bright orange life ring appeared in my field of vision. I grabbed at it, my hand closing over the stiff foam in a death grip. I looked up at the captain on the other end, Ben.

You gonna be okay? he asked. Like the guys from San Diego, Ben was easy on the eyes, with blonde hair, blue eyes and white teeth that flashed frequently in his tanned face. A dimple on his chin and a slightly upturned nose gave his face a lighthearted look, bolstered by the fact that Ben was rarely serious. Even now, with one of our passengers fighting for his life, he was grinning at me, daring me to be scared.

Instead, I scowled at him. Am I going to be okay? I wasn’t aware there was a choice.

Ben opened his mouth to respond, but he got cut off.

There’s a man out there! a female voice behind him exclaimed.

Aw, crap. Now the boat was going to be in on it. There’s nothing like having an audience for your first ocean rescue.

Ben held up a hand to me, indicating that he’d deal with it. I can only imagine how he planned to explain that I was the captain of the rescue squad, as improbable as it seemed. However, I knew he’d have that woman completely wrapped around his tan little pinky by the time I returned. Ben had a way with women.

He had a way of scorning them, too, but I had bigger things on my radar at the moment.

I was as ready as I’d ever be. I shuffled to the edge of the deck in my fins, pulled a mask over my face, threw the life ring off the back deck and stepped off.

The water wrapped my sun-warmed body in an chilly embrace, but I shook it off. I checked the location of Herb’s arms, taking in a sharp breath as I noticed they were considerably lower in the water. I took off, scissor-kicking my legs furiously.

Even though I was cruising right over one of my favorite reefs in the British Virgin Islands, I didn’t see the vivid green and pink parrotfish, their teeth scraping on the hard coral, or the school of twenty-five navy blue tang attacking an outcropping of algae or even the long, torpedo-shaped gray barracuda making slow circles through the reef, sending all of the little fish scattering into their nooks and crannies.

All I saw was the face of Herb’s daughter, Lynn. She reminded me of Mrs. Lemon, my college roommate’s mom. She was tall and thin with pale pink, freckled skin and short strawberry blonde hair. Lynn kept hers out of her face with a sensible haircut that framed kind green eyes couched in fine, elegant wrinkles.

I’ve noticed that people transform into two shapes as they age. They either acquire padding in strange places until they resemble a bean bag chair or continue to shed flesh until they resemble some variety of bird. Like her father, Lynn was on her way to becoming a stork. And not an unattractive one for her age.

On our way up to Virgin Gorda that morning, Lynn told me she’d brought Herb to St. Thomas because he used to love boats, but he’d been slowly making his world smaller and smaller since he hit his late seventies. She thought it might be one of their last vacations together. She wanted this one to be special.

The jury’s still out on special, but I’d bet today’s entire tip that it would be unforgettable.

I took another sighting to locate Herb. I could see his arms cresting above the waterline, but just barely. I felt my breath catch in my throat. I kicked harder and faster.

My quads were starting to burn. I ignored them. I’d been conserving a little energy in case Herb proved to be a fighter. Right after they tell you to remain calm in an emergency, your rescue instructors will tell you that drowning victims will drown you if you’re not smart about how you approach them. And then they remind you how important it is to remain calm. Helpful, that.

Considering Herb wanted to argue with just about every pirate story I told that morning—it was a first for me to have a guest raise his hand for Q&A as I was enthusiastically relaying the outrageous tale about the fisherman who found enough pirate gold in a cave to buy his own island—I figured he wouldn’t be an easy rescue. I’d probably have to grab him hard. I felt a little flourish of sadistic pleasure at the thought.

I took another look at Herb, his face now completely underwater. However, I was heartened by the fact that his mask and snorkel were still on. Some people panic and tear their mask off in a desperate bid for oxygen. Chalk one up for Herbie.

I squinted through my mask. Had he gone horizontal in the water? Was he trying to float? He was kicking up a lot of whitewater, making it difficult to see exactly what he was doing. I’d have to just wing it. Wait—it looked like he was moving toward me. This complicated things.

I planned to go in life ring first, to see if he’d grab onto it. That would make my job easy. It would also keep him from closing bony claws on my shoulders, shoving me down to boost his own body upward, ducking me underwater in the process. I felt my shoulders tense as I prepared.

He looked even closer now. Was I seeing things? I’d have to get the life ring between us quickly before he shoved me below the surface—

I jerked upright as I realized he was too close for me to wedge the ring between us. I lifted my head out of the water, ready to fend him off. I had a life ring, and I was prepared to use it to save my life, as well as his.

But instead of trying to use my body as a rescue raft, Herb stopped short, pulled his head out of the water and let the snorkel drop from his mouth. Is it time to come in? he asked, his yellow teeth gritting between thin lips as he kicked to stay above the surface.

I was struck speechless.

Herb took this either as a sign of deafness or idiocy. He tapped his wrist with two gnarled arthritic fingers covered in brown liver spots. What. Time. Is. It? he asked in a booming voice that I was sure scared all of the fish off the reef below. Then I flinched as he brought his bony arms out of the water the way he had when I saw him on the boat, crossing them once over his head, then bringing them back down into the water. He bobbed as he did it, and I realized that the man was treading water.

Treading water. The man wasn’t drowning. He was treading water.

It was all I could do to look at my own wrist and say, 2:30. Time to come in.

He nodded once, then put his head down and went horizontal again. His limbs started thrashing, and I thought for sure he was going to go down. I put my face in the water and realized that the man was just . . . swimming. And fast.

As I watched Herb’s arms flail him back to the boat, I felt the energy drain from my body. I wanted to throw myself on the mercy of the life ring and rest. And I wanted a drink, preferably poured right down my snorkel.

However, a glance behind me revealed that I was drifting closer to the rip current at the edge of the island. I’d be the one in need of rescuing if I didn’t start back for the boat, stat.

I maneuvered the life ring between the boat and me, then put my head down and started to kick. I cursed through my snorkel the whole way, my legs protesting and my lungs wheezing.

I arrived back at the boat bedraggled and irritable. Herb sat on one of the teal cushions on the back deck, his thin silver hair neatly slicked back, a green towel draped over his neck like a prizefighter. He was working on another Painkiller, our signature cocktail and a delightful blend of orange juice, pineapple juice, cream of coconut and plenty of rum. It was his fourth of the day if I was counting right. And here I was, looking like the creature from the black lagoon, breathing hard, face flushed, my auburn locks lying in hanks around my face, darkened to a dull brown by the salt water. At least my bikini was intact, which wasn’t always a given.

My nerves were shot, so when a warm hand landed on my shoulder, I jumped like I’d been burned.

Lynn’s face swam into view. Thank you, she said. He used to be a champion long-distance swimmer, but he hasn’t swum like that in years. It was sweet of you to go out to him. She beamed at me, revealing a set of ever-so-slightly-buck teeth. Then she joined Herb on the cushion.

I just stared dully at them, my vision going in and out of focus, my hands and legs shaky from adrenaline and exertion. Had she seen him give the universal help gesture? Did she think I’d just casually stroked out there to share a sweet moment with Herb?

Later, this would all be hilarious. Or, at least, I sure as hell hoped so.

Fresh water? Ben said, the green nozzle of the hose in his hands. He was also in perfect array, his blue polo shirt tucked neatly into a pair of khaki shorts, his hair gently tousled.

I glared at him. He sprayed me, right in the face.

In case you’ve never worked on a boat, I’ll let you in on a little secret. In addition to cheesy jokes, this is one of the things captains think are funny.

And I’ll let you in on one other secret that most captains don’t seem to know—or appreciate: Their mates rarely agree.

Better? he asked once the stream had stopped, the corners of his mouth tight with amusement. He knew better than to laugh outright. I think I would have charged him like a bull.

But, if nothing else, I was a professional. I stood stock still and gave him the best dead fish eye I could, then collected my strewn clothing from the back deck and vowed to get him back later.

And I vowed to have a drink that night after work.

Make that lots of drinks.

2

In the interest of full disclosure, I’ll tell you that I rarely needed an excuse to head up to Island Time Pub after work.

You couldn’t beat the location—or the view. It was perched right over one of the busiest harbors on the island, open to the balmy Caribbean air and gentle trade wind breezes. It also offered a perfect view of the second Virgin Island of St. John, barely four miles away, right across Pillsbury Sound. In fact, St. John was so close that you could see its weather patterns and, in turn, know exactly what was headed for you. When St. John completely disappeared behind a rain storm, you knew it was time to move away from the balcony rail or prepare for a good soaking.

In better weather, the rail offered you the chance to watch boats of all sizes return to harbor for the evening. You might be treated to the sight of a small powerboat returning with sunburned day trippers dancing drunken circles in their bathing suits around the captain as Jimmy Buffett blared; a weathered inflatable dinghy bearing a family of four back to shore after a day of monohull sailing to St. John, the father often in a khaki Columbia fishing shirt/hat combo—and sometimes the wife, too, or a fishing boat in pristine condition, its stainless gleaming even after a day at sea, its tall tuna tower bearing the little flags that report their marlin catches for the day and its crew tanned to a caramel crisp and ready for that night’s dose of Jägermeister.

It all made for a very satisfying close to the day, especially with a cold beer in one’s hand, preferably a Presidente.

Although the company at the bar wasn’t nearly as breathtaking as the view, it was at least familiar. I saw the same faces at Island Time that I waved to out on the water, each with their own shade of tan betraying how often they’d been working lately.

Island Time was the place where the day’s yachting for dollars stories got exchanged: whose boat hit the bottom in the shallows at Foxy’s that day, who tied up their boat like a total idiot (If you don’t know how to tie knots, tie lots.) and who had taken bikini models/Playboy bunnies/hot cougar moms out for the day.

That sundowner beer was all I thought about as I cleaned the boat that night, especially when I checked my phone and saw no messages from Dave. I shook my head. It wasn’t like him, but maybe I didn’t know him as well as I thought I did.

Ben and I divvied up the cash from that day—$200 each, not bad—but it didn’t improve my mood for the drive to Red Hook.

I was at Island Time often enough that Detroit Jake, the tall gangly bartender from (you guessed it) Detroit, poured an Absolut Citron and soda, splash of cranberry, as soon as he saw me crest the top of the stairs.

Detroit Jake wasn’t alone in his nickname. We don’t do last names down here. We do occupations or affectations. In addition to Detroit Jake, we have Scuba Steve, Franklyn the Mechanic, Crash . . . the list goes on. I’m usually Redheaded Lizzie or Boatie Lizzie on my good days. On my bad days, I don’t want to know what they call me.

iPhones and Facebook were changing that to some degree, but everything moves on island time down here, even change.

The look on your face, Jake said as he squeezed a lime wedge into my drink, told me that it’s not a Presidente kind of day. He pushed it toward me with long, spindly fingers.

Jake looked like he’d been stretched on a rack when he was shaped, his face long and gaunt no matter how many slices of pizza he ate from the kitchen, leaving his poor ears flapping out in the breeze. His skinny hips and bony butt hid under baggy cargo shorts, which always looked dangerously close to falling right off him. Like many of the bartenders on the island, his complexion remained a pale white from too many hours behind a bar and too few in the Caribbean sunshine.

He smiled at me. Besides, a hero like you deserves a drink. His blue eyes sparkled.

I paused for a second, my straw an inch from my lips. There was no way they could already know about today.

Could they?

This was St. Thomas. Of course they could. The coconut telegraph, that informal person-to-person game of telephone which made everyone’s private business public, was the fastest, most efficient thing on this island.

I dropped my head back and groaned. How the hell did you hear about that? It’s only 6:03.

He tilted his head toward a blue-shirted captain who was wearing the same outfit Ben had been wearing earlier, although he wore it a few sizes larger. I figured he also probably had to adjust his hat nightly to accommodate his ego, which was also constantly expanding.

He called himself Cappy. God knows what his real name was. When his boat guests would ask whether that was short for Captain, he’d always reply with, Well, it ain’t the name I was born with! Then he would laugh a huge belly laugh and slap his knee. That was Cappy, always full of non-sequiturs that he thought were hilarious but left everyone else puzzled.

Cappy was one of the many white boat captains who moved down from the continental U.S. to live in St. Thomas, as was Ben. On the boats we worked, there were only a few Virgin Islanders at the helm. By the way—and contrary to popular belief—arriving on island with an intention to stay didn’t make you an instant Virgin Islander. Being bahn here pretty much did.

That said, those who were born on St. Thomas descended from people who arrived to these islands in all kinds of different ways. Some were the ancestors of Africans who had been brought to this island as slaves. Some were the children of people who moved from other Caribbean nations like St. Lucia, St. Barths and Dominica, while still other families arrived from elsewhere, with the U.S. and Europe leading the charge. On St. Thomas, I knew white people who were born on the island and black people from Texas. The island was a major intersection point for folks from all over, and if you wanted to know where someone was from, you had to ask. It made for interesting bar stool chatter, if you’re into that sort of thing. (Which I happen to be.)

I’ll save you! Cappy’s poor imitation of what I could only assume was my voice dragged me back to Island Time. Then he looked at his buddies and laughed that laugh. He thought he was so hilarious—even more so after a few cocktails. His moon-shaped face was even ruddier than usual with glee.

I glared at him.

He continued with absolutely no regard for my mood. Might want to read that article that’s going around about how drowning don’t look like you think. Might save you some trouble next time.

I opened my mouth to make a sharp reply, but I felt a tap on my shoulder. I spun around and barked, What?!? into the face of the person who had touched me.

It was Ben. Jesus Christ, hadn’t he done enough today?

I gotta talk to you, he said, white knuckling his iPhone in his right hand while his other hand reached for a Heineken that Jake already had on the bar.

I jerked my thumb over at Cappy. Sounds like you’ve talked enough today.

He looked over my shoulder, his eyes squinting. I took it as a sign of guilt. Yeah, sorry.

It’s not like he needs more ammunition to give me a hard time.

He suddenly looked thoughtful. Hey, how much did you give that old guy to drink today?

You mean Herb? I took a hard hit of my drink and arched an eyebrow at him. I didn’t overdo it. You know some of the girls like to put an extra bottle in the mix, but I actually follow the recipe.

One of your rules?

I just hate dealing with drunks, I said, staring at his beer.

He smirked at me and I could see his mouth start to open with a new retort. It shut quickly. Then I saw a small furrow appear between his sun-bleached eyebrows. I really need to talk, he said.

I held back my most sarcastic reply. I needed to get better about that. Maturity and all. Preserving work relationships as sacred.

And, truly, it wasn’t that I didn’t like Ben. We were friends, and he was one of the captains I enjoyed working with. But there was no way I would ever tell him so. It would jack up his ego to ungodly levels. But I could make a small concession here.

I flipped my hand over, palm up. Go ahead.

I met this girl two nights ago—

I groaned. Really? It’s bad enough when I have to listen to the tourist-of-the-week story when I’m being paid to work with you. At the bar, it’s strictly leisure time for me. I held up my pointer finger. Actually, wait, when you start dating a girl who doesn’t already have a ticket out of here, then—and only then—will I be your Dear Abby.

Ben put a hand on my shoulder. Trust me, this is different.

I rolled my eyes and looked pointedly at his hand. What, because you’re in looooove? Does she have a ticket, or doesn’t she?

But before I could fire off another one, Ben’s hand dropped listlessly off my shoulder, and I saw something change in his eyes. Maybe it was sincerity, or maybe I caught a glimpse of what all those girls were chasing: sad blue eyes under knitted eyebrows set against tanned skin. A sensitive man against the elements, tough on the outside, marshmallowy on the inside.

Barf.

Still, I let him continue.

Whatever overtook me, I just want to say this: I wish I could take it back and keep this whole mess from happening.

Instead, I actually asked him to continue. Big mistake.

Ben brightened considerably at the prospect of pouring his sad little heart out to me. I met this girl at Duffy’s yesterday. Andrea.

I groaned.

No, no, no, wait, he said.

Mmm-hmmm?

She was with her friends, visiting from D.C.

I waved my right hand in a circle impatiently. This was still sounding like the conquest stories of the old Ben.

We were dancing, having fun, you know, and then I said, ‘Let’s go to XO so we can do something a little quieter.’ She said okay, so we went in and had a drink. I asked her to come home with me—

The vomit is rising in the back of my throat.

Lizzie.

Get to the point.

She went back over to Duffy’s to tell her friends that she was coming home with me, and she never came back.

I waited for him to continue, but he just stood there and took another swig of his Heineken.

Okay, so some girl ditched you at Duffy’s. I’m sure rejection like that is hard for a stud like you. And . . . ?

I knew she was at the Ritz. I asked one of the towel guys on the beach to look for her today, just to make sure she was okay.

You mean, ‘just to stalk her,’ right?

Lizzie.

My patience is wearing thin. I sucked the last of my drink through the straw. I shook the plastic cup—affectionately known on the island as Caribbean crystal—at him. And my drink is empty. We’re at a delicate juncture.

He sighed, then grabbed the cup out of my hand. He upended his Heineken to finish it—in sympathy, I supposed—and nodded his head at Detroit Jake.

While Jake poured, I pulled out my phone, a laughably old, scarred pink Motorola Razr that belonged in a flip phone museum, and scrolled to the name Dave. I cast a glance over at Ben to see if he was observing my texting, as he often did.

But he was staring over at St. John, lost in thought. That was a first.

My thumbs paused over the keypad for a second. Then, I dashed out a message: What are you up to tonight? I slammed my phone shut just in time to accept a new cocktail with my right hand.

Ben gave me a look. Got better things to do?

Honestly? Yes.

"Will you just listen?"

Mmmm-hmmm, I said as I sucked straight citrus vodka through the straw. I was having trouble finding the club soda or the cranberry juice in my drink. Apparently, Jake thought I was looking for a drink that packed a punch.

So my friend at the Ritz saw her friends. Just the two of them on the beach today. No Andrea.

So she went home with someone else and you’re jealous. I shrugged.

He reached out and grabbed my shoulder hard. Lizzie. He went and talked to them. They said she went home with me.

His grip tightened, and I knocked his hand away. You’re hurting me, I said. I took a step back, my body tensing like a runner at the starting line.

He raised his hand in apology. I’m sorry, Lizzie. I’m sorry. I’m freaking out.

I took a breath. My heart was pounding, but, with some effort, I refocused my gaze. This was just Ben. He didn’t mean anything by it. But knowing what he knew about me, he should be more careful.

He read me quickly. Lizzie, I’m sorry. Please. You’re the only person I can talk to about this.

I took a deep breath. You’re fine, Lizzie. You’re with Ben. You’re in St. Thomas. I felt my heart slow again, and I resumed my place at the bar. However, I left a few extra inches between us.

I set my drink down on a coaster that Jake had so thoughtfully left for me. So let me get this straight. This girl—

Andrea.

Andrea. Her friends thought she went with you, and you thought she went with them.

He nodded.

So no one knows where she is.

He nodded again.

What did your towel guy say to them?

Nothing more than shooting the shit about their night. He told me he played it cool.

I rubbed my forehead with my left hand, willing my brain to think faster. The hamsters running the wheels in there were hitting the hard stuff right along with me. Wait, her friends just left her and went home?

Because they thought she went home with me.

Some friends.

Lizzie, this was yesterday, and she still hasn’t turned up.

As far as you know.

As far as I know.

Ben, it’s, what, twenty paces from XO to Duffy’s? And how many people are there in the parking lot on any given night? There’s always a crowd of spectators, leaning on cars and watching the action. It’s not as though someone can just disappear against her will with no one noticing. My guess is that she ditched you.

He leaned forward, closing the distance between us, giving me a chance to look at his face in extreme close-up. He really was classically good-looking, although he did have a small scar on his upper lip. A car accident, if I remembered correctly. I think he told girls he got it on a motorcycle. He also had a couple of broken blood vessels in his right cheek that I’d never noticed before.

Even so, it was an earnest face that lacked for nothing in the charm department. The only flaw I saw in Ben—well, okay, besides the whole gunning-for-tourists thing—was that he could be a little too slick for his own good. When you watch the same smooth act day in and day out, it can get tiresome. I willed myself not to fall for it.

Something’s not right, Lizzie, he said. Maybe I’m wrong. But if I’m not, you know this is all going to fall on me.

"Ben, come