Oliver rushes past me and grabs Connor by the shoulders while my heart shudders in my chest.
I should’ve taken Connor seriously.
All those events—the car, the push into traffic, the threats, the purse snatching, maybe even the fish bone—they were all there in front of me.
Someone on this tour has killed Connor. Which means police, questions, suspicions, the past dragged up again.
On the other hand, this does solve a big problem for me—No.
I’m not like that. I’m not.
“Is he dead?” I ask, my voice nearly unrecognizable.
Oliver leans over his face, seeing if he can feel a breath on his cheek. Then Oliver grabs his wrist, checking for a pulse, and he must not find one because he’s positioning Connor to start CPR when Connor suddenly sits up, very much alive.
Not even remotely dead.
That motherfucker.
“Get off me!” Connor says and gives Oliver a shove that sends him tumbling to the floor.
Oliver reaches his hands back to stop himself, but it’s not enough. He skids across the hard tile and then comes to a stop several feet away.
“You’re alive,” I say to Connor as I haul Harper to her feet. Her whole body’s shaking. “He’s alive, Harper. The fucker’s alive.”
“As you see.” Connor swings his legs around and places his bare feet on the floor. He’s wearing pajama bottoms, but no shirt. He looks down at Oliver. “You all right, mate?”
Oliver glares at him.
“What the hell just happened?” Guy says, the first after Oliver to arrive. His question is echoed by the others as they pile up behind him like they’ve been spat out of a clown car.
“Who screamed this time?”
“Is someone hurt?”
“What’s happening?”
“Why is Oliver on the floor?”
Connor starts to laugh.
“What’s so funny?” I say.
“You should see yourselves. And that scream. Harper, I’m impressed. Almost as good as Allison’s yesterday.”
“This was some kind of joke?” Harper says.
“It was a wake-up call.” He turns to me. “The way your heart’s feeling right now? How panicked you are? That’s how you’ll be feeling all the time if you kill me.”
“You should do it,” Guy says from behind me. “I’ll even help you.”
“You hear that? The whole reason he has a career is because of me, and he wants to do away with me.”
“I think that’s on you, mate,” Oliver says.
“Can someone fill me in?” Allison asks.
“He faked his death,” I say. “That’s why Harper was screaming.”
Everyone starts speaking at once, a cacophony of “what the hells” and “you must be jokings,” and some words that aren’t fit to print.70
Thank God we have the whole floor. Any outside guests would be asking for a refund.
“Where is she?” Oliver asks Connor with a hard edge to his voice.
“Who?”
“Isabella. Wasn’t she here last night?”
Connor laughs again. “Jealous?”
“Absolutely not.”
“Then why do you care?”
“I want to make sure she’s all right. Given everything.”
Connor scowls, then smooths out his features. He hasn’t charmed a thousand women by letting people know what he thought about them. “Come out, love.”
The bathroom door opens, and Isabella steps out dressed in creamy linen pants and a sleeveless shirt covered in pink flowers. Her red hair’s in two braids, and she looks all of eighteen. “Here I am. Safe and sound.”
Oliver growls, then stands and checks himself for injuries. He seems fine, though I suspect his pride is more than a little injured.
“You went along with this?” I ask.
“Seemed harmless.”
“Piece of advice—nothing he does is harmless.”
She shrugs, unconcerned. Which is on her at this point, I guess. I have bigger fish to fry.
“Why did you do it, Connor? The real reason.”
“I thought I’d beat whoever’s trying to kill me to the punch.”
“You wanted to smoke them out?”
He nods slowly.
“And?”
“I’ve narrowed down my suspects.” He stares at Guy. “You’re number one.”
“Should I be flattered?”
“You should consider yourself warned.”
“Care to share with the class?” I say.
Connor blows out a breath. “What do you care? You want me dead anyway.”
“Not actually dead.”
“What’s the difference?”
“I exist in print; therefore I am?” Oliver says.
Nailed it.
“Regardless,” I say, “that was ridiculous and cruel, Connor. You should apologize.”
“To you?”
“To Harper.”
Connor’s eyes are as mocking as his voice. “You want me to apologize, Harper?”
“I don’t want anything from you,” she says. Her color is high, but she seems more in control. “We’ve wasted enough time on this. Everyone needs to be on the bus by seven thirty. Let’s get a move on.”
“Feel free to miss it,” I say to Connor.
“You wish.”
I put my back to him. Everyone else is still standing there, watching us like we’re an episode of Love Is Blind. “Let’s go, Harper.”
We push through the crowd as Connor calls after us. “You’ll regret this, Eleanor. You’ll see.”
He’s got that right, anyway.
I already do.
I take a quick shower while Harper finishes packing, trying to rinse off the film of unease that Connor’s stunt created, but it’s no use. Because someone is trying to kill Connor.
I believe it now. Not because I saw anything on the faces of the others on this tour—I’m not a human lie detector, and neither is he.71
No, it’s Connor’s actions. Faking his own death smacks of desperation, and that’s not something he usually traffics in. He must truly believe he’s in danger from one of us. Which means there’s something, maybe more than one thing, he hasn’t told me yet.
Damn it. This is always how people die in murder mysteries.
They hold back a crucial piece of information that could help identify the killer.
“Eleanor!”
“Coming!”
We make it to the bus with a few minutes to spare.
It’s one of those fifty-person coaches, black and sleek with tinted windows and two exhaust pipes in the front that look like horns. Inside, the seats are covered in a plush red material, and there’s a bathroom in the back. The air smells like disinfectant and maybe slightly like pee, and I pop a piece of gum into my mouth to distract myself.
I wish I’d had time to grab some breakfast to soak up some of the alcohol that’s stuck in my system, but there’s a stop in about an hour at a pasticceria, Harper says, so I’ll get my fill of empty calories then.
The bus is full of BookFace Ladies, who wave to me excitedly as I pass. Or maybe it’s Harper that they’re waving to. After this morning’s debacle, I could not look further from my author photo if I tried.72
Today’s T-shirt is a BookFace of Murder in Nice. I wonder if they have shirts for every day of this trip.
And oh! I get it—ten days, ten years since the first book …
I’m a tourist in my own life.
Only there isn’t a Book Ten. Not yet. Which is my fault or Connor’s fault or maybe both of us together.
I shudder as I pass Cathy, who’s waving at me in greeting.
“What is she still doing here?” I hiss to Harper.
“I can’t just kick her off. There could be liability issues.”
I close my eyes for a moment. “At least keep her away from me.”
“I’m doing my best.”
I catch her hand. “I know you are. I’m feeling off because of everything that happened this morning.”
“You don’t have to take it out on me.”
“I’m sorry.”
We walk farther up the aisle until we find two empty seats together. I swing my purse into the mesh rack above and sit down next to Harper. We’re wearing a variation of the same outfit—light linen shorts and cute T-shirts with practical walking shoes she sourced for us.
It’s selfish to even think about it, but I really will be lost without her.
I wish she’d rip off the Band-Aid, though, and just tell me.
Because the suspense is … wait for it … killing me.
I watch the door as the other authors trickle on one by one, no one sitting together except for Connor and Isabella. They take a row across the aisle from us. Connor shoots me a look, then wraps his arm around her and they start to kiss.
Because what’s a better way to distract yourself from your imminent murder than to suck face with a beautiful girl, am I right?
I turn away in disgust. I can’t believe Isabella’s staying on this trip after this morning, but she clearly doesn’t make the best choices.
And okay, okay, I made the same choice when I was her age.
Like, exactly the same one.
I shouldn’t judge. But judgment’s kind of my thing, and it’s a hard function to turn off.73 Maybe when I get back to LA I’ll go to one of those personal-improvement groups the creatives in my neighborhood are trying to get me to join.
“Not the sex-cult one,”74 they always say, like that’s going to alleviate my concerns about joining some other kind of cult.
“It’s about two hours to Pompeii,” Harper says.
“What?”
“That’s how long you’ll have to be on the bus in total.”
“Okay.”
“Is that not what you were worried about?”
I start to laugh because even though Harper is as close to me as a person can be, she can’t see into the labyrinth of my mind.
I wish I couldn’t either.75
“Honestly?” I say. “I was thinking about maybe joining a cult when I got home.”
“What?”
“It feels easier, you know? Let someone else make all my decisions for me. Since I keep making terrible ones myself.”
“Tell me you’re joking.”
“Sort of?”
“El, no.”
I try to stretch out my legs, but there’s not enough room. “I wouldn’t give them my money.”
“You’re screwing with me.”
“I’m not Connor.”
Her face falls, but before I can say anything, Sylvie comes up the stairs dressed in another flowing mix of skirt and long-sleeved kaftan and grabs the mic from a stand next to the driver. “How is everyone this morning? Another day, another tour, yes? Ah, there are my BookFace Ladies. And Miss Eleanor, the reason we are all here.76 Buongiorno!”
I can feel twenty-eight pairs of eyes on me as I raise my hand and wave.
Is that disappointment I see on their faces?
If only I could hide my face with a book.
“Did you enjoy your time in Roma, Miss Eleanor?”
“Yes, thank you.”
“Eccellente. Now, we are going to visit Pompeii, an ancient site where there was a big explosion, yes?”
“I mean…” I mutter under my breath.
Harper stuffs a fist into her mouth.
“So relax and we will be there in a matter of hours. And don’t worry, there will be a break in one hour. You can get an espresso, a little cake. I will explain more about the tour to you then. Andiamo!” She gestures to the bus driver to start the bus, and the engine roars to life.
“Where did they find this woman?” I ask Harper.
“No idea. But I’ll let Marta know she’s a mess. If she ever gets back to me, that is.”
The bus pulls onto the road, and I feel a beat of panic that Oliver didn’t make it. I search the other seats, but there he is, up in front, one row back from Sylvie. Somehow, he got on without me noticing.
Is that progress or just sad?77
“El?”
“Yeah?”
“Is someone really trying to kill Connor?”
“I think so.” I take out my phone and google the news article Connor showed me last night. “What do you think of this?”
Harper reads my screen. “What does it mean?”
“Connor told me that this is the guy who pulled him out of traffic at the Vatican.”
“Why’s he in the paper?”
“He’s dead.”
“Oh my God.”
“Yeah.” I put my phone away. I put the article through Google Translate earlier when I was getting ready. There are minimal details. His name was Davide Bianchi. He was a schoolteacher. Married. No kids. One of Rome’s many road victims. There’s no mention of him saving anyone the day before.
“You think it’s connected?” Harper says.
“It’s a pretty big coincidence.”
“Maybe he saw something?”
“Maybe.” I get the same feeling I had last night, like someone is walking over my grave. But I’m not the target. Connor is. “What if it’s one of them?” I motion vaguely to the rest of the bus.
“They’d be pretty stupid to do it now, after he announced it to everyone.”
“Murder’s always stupid.”
She frowns. “So, it’s not you?”
Um, what?
“You don’t think that, do you?”
“Not really, but…”
“I have a motive.”
“Don’t you?”
“I’m not the only one.”
She purses her lips. “You’re the only one talking about it openly.”
“The book stuff? That’s fake. I’d never be able to kill someone in real life, no matter how much I hated them.”
“Okay.”
“Hey, now, come on,” I say, trying to lighten the sting of Harper thinking I could be capable of murder. “You know I couldn’t plan something like that on my own. I’d have to have you help me at a minimum.”
“You’d make me an accessory?”
“An Accessory to Murder. That’s a good title.”78
She smiles slightly.
“You don’t really think I’m capable of that, do you?”
She looks into my eyes, and it’s like looking at myself in a retouched photo. “No.”
I take her hand. It’s cold despite the heat. “Harper, please tell me what’s going on.”
“I don’t—”
“No more of this ‘after’ bullshit. Please. Just tell me.”
She tugs her hand away and looks out the window. We’re rolling past a huge white marble building with a massive bronze man on horseback outside of it. The sky above it is a crisp blue, though the heat is shimmering. The wonders of Rome.
“I don’t know what I’m doing with my life,” Harper says.
“Join the club.”
“No. Don’t do that. Don’t minimize what I’m going through.”
“I’m sorry.”
“I just … I know you don’t get it, okay? But I don’t know who I am.”
“You’re an amazing, smart, awesome person.”
“I’m a thirty-two-year-old who works for her famous sister. Anyone could do this job.”
“That’s not true. And you’re a writer.”
She looks at me. Tears are brimming in her eyes. “Connor doesn’t think so.”
“What are you talking about?”
“I let him read my book.”
“What?”
“I know you said you’d read the new draft, but you were busy with your deadline, and … I wanted a fresh perspective.”
“I’m sorry it took me so long, but Connor? Seriously? He doesn’t know the first thing about writing.”
“You’re wrong, El. He did creative writing in college. And his notes were good. They were devastating but accurate. He was pointing out all the things everyone always does with my stuff. You know what they say. Competent execution, but ultimately not something anyone ever falls in love with.”
I bite the inside of my cheek.
This is, unfortunately, exactly what my editor said about Harper’s book. And my agent, too, though I’ve never told Harper I gave her the manuscript. And when I finally read it, I could see what they meant, which was the worst feeling in the world. I couldn’t bring myself to tell Harper about any of it, which is why she thinks I haven’t read it yet.
Sometimes it’s kinder to lie.
“You can’t let one person’s opinion affect you that much. Especially not Connor’s.”
“It’s not just him. It’s what everyone thinks. Even you.”
“That’s not true—”
“Don’t, okay? Just don’t. I tried. I wrote the best novel I could, and it got rejected everywhere. Over and over.”
“You know I’d change that if I could. But this … That’s been true for a while now. What changed?”
“You know.”
“I don’t.”
“Honestly, El? Sometimes you’re so … You have what I want, and you’re just going to throw it away?”
My throat feels tight. “You know why I have to do it.”
“Do I? Yeah, Connor’s annoying. I have to deal with him more than you do. But if you end the series, do you think you’re going to get away from him? There’s going to be a million think pieces, and pressure from the publisher, and the fans won’t even believe he’s dead.”
“But that will die down, and then I’ll be free.”
“Free of what?”
I bite the inside of my cheek and taste blood. “They don’t want me unless I write about him. That’s a cage.”
“Looks pretty gilded to me.”
“We’re supposed to be talking about you, not me.”
“There is no me without you, don’t you get it? That’s the problem.”
I sing a line from that Taylor Swift song “Anti-Hero,” about me being the problem.
“Please don’t make light of this.”
“I’m sorry, I just … You don’t feel that way, do you?” We stare at each other, and I can hear my heart pounding loudly in my ears. “Oh my God, you do.”
“It’s complicated, El. We’re complicated.”
“I know I stole your dream. I didn’t mean to.”
“But you did.”
“I wish I could take it back.”
“You don’t.”
My heart feels like it’s breaking. “I’m not sure what to say.”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“It does matter. You matter. You matter to me.”
Harper looks at me for a long beat and then she says, “Pineapple.”
We don’t say anything else after that.
AMALFI MADE ME DO IT—OUTLINE
WHY?
WHERE?
TO DO
NB: Holmes died when Moriarty pushed him off a cliff. Lots of cliffs in Amalfi …