The only person who talks on the minibus to Ravello is Sylvie.
She’s a nonstop fount of half information, chattering out chipper facts about the beautiful towns that dot the coast. Amalfi (my least favorite), Positano (colorful and expensive), and finally, at the top of a cliff, Ravello.
“And now we come to Ravello,” she says, talking through a small microphone that looks like a CB radio from the seat next to the driver.
We’re all buckled in tight because of the twisty road, but she seems unconcerned, half out of her seat and facing us.
Oliver’s in the first row behind the driver with Allison; then it’s me and Harper, then Guy and Emily, and Connor and Isabella way in the back.
“Ravello is a resort town set three hundred and sixty-five meters above the Tyrrhenian Sea by the Amalfi Coast and is home to iconic cliffside gardens. The thirteenth-century Moorish-style Villa Rufolo offers far-reaching views from its terraced gardens and hosts indoor and outdoor concerts during the popular summertime Ravello Festival. Villa Cimbrone, a medieval-style estate perched on a steep outcrop, is surrounded by another celebrated garden.”198
“Oh my God,” Harper says, nudging my elbow. “She’s just reading off the internet now.”
She puts her phone screen in front of me. Sylvie’s directly quoted from Google without changing a word of the phrasing.199
“An impressive feat of memory,” I say. “Or she’s got her phone in her lap.”
“It’s weird.”
“This whole trip is weird.”
Harper pulls a face. “Understatement.”
“I know.” I put my arm around her shoulder. She feels hot despite the air blowing full blast in the car. “We’re okay, right?”
She squeezes me back. “Of course we are.”
“Everyone wants me to believe you tried to kill me.”
“Everyone wants me to believe you faked your own almost-death to frame me.”
“What? Who said that?”
“Emily.”
I turn my head to steal a glance at her. She’s gazing out the window, not paying attention to Sylvie. I mean, no one is, really. What’s the point? We can google on our own.
“Ignore her,” I say.
“Yeah.”
“I’m sorry she betrayed your confidence like that.”
“Whatever.”
I tap Harper on the chin for emphasis. “No, not ‘whatever.’ I’m sure that’s not how you wanted me to find out about you and … Connor, for one.”
She dips her head way. “Are you mad?”
“No, of course not.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“I’m more … concerned?”
“It was stupid.”
I smile at her. “I made the same mistake.”
“I thought he was going to be different … I know this sounds weird, but we were friends. That’s why I let him read my stuff. And then…”
“You were feeling vulnerable.”
“Yeah.”
How did I not know this, I want to ask, but there’ll be time enough eventually for me to learn all the gory details if I want them.
Ugh, no.
“When did you become friends?”
Harper sighs. “You were busy writing, and LA can be lonely sometimes. So many of the people we grew up with are…”
“Different?”
“Married. Or in the business like Emma or … I just don’t have a lot in common with them.”
“And Connor? You have things in common with him?”
“We’re both in your orbit, so yeah. We can relate.”
Famous adjacent, she means. I know the feeling. I have friends in the business, like my best friend, Emma,200 and when I’m around her, especially in public, it can be weird. I only get recognized when I’m at an event for one of my books, and usually not even then. But Emma is different. People know who she is and have no compunction about coming up to her in any circumstance, including the bathroom, to tell her how much they love her or get an autograph. People are weird.
I know what it’s like to be around someone who sucks all of the oxygen out of the room, is all I’m saying.
“I want better for you than him.”
“Me too.”
“So, we really are okay?”
She leans her head against mine and says, “Pineapple.”
It’s not a rebuke this time; it’s a reprieve. So I don’t ask her anything more. Instead, I change the subject.
“What do you think she’s going to tell us next?” I nod toward Sylvie.
“No idea.”
Harper’s phone buzzes in my hand.
It’s a news alert: “Bestselling author Abishek Botha dies on a yacht in Capri. Death being investigated as possible homicide.”
Ah, hell.
I’m about to show it to Harper when everyone’s phones start to buzz, like plops of rain hitting a metal roof.
That’s death, nowadays. It doesn’t happen until there’s a breaking news alert.
“A yacht?” Connor says from the back. “It was basically a fishing boat.”
“Is that really what’s important?” I say.
“I need to check TikTok,” Emily says. “Does anyone have reception? I can’t get it to load.”
“I can’t imagine anyone on TikTok cares about Shek dying,” Allison says.
“I could totally make one of his books blow up right now, though,” Emily says. “Oh, that’s better.” She raises her phone above her face and puts on a fake smile. “POV, I’m here in a minibus in Italy and I just got the news about…”
Oliver knocks the phone out of her hand.
“Hey, what are you doing?” Emily says as she retrieves it from the floor.
“We don’t need to commodify Shek’s death.”
“I was helping him!”
“There’s no him to help anymore.”
She scowls as she brushes her phone off. “His estate, whatever.”
“Just delete it, Emily,” Harper says.
“Fine.” She presses a button and puts her phone away. “But what are you saying? No socials?”
“I think that’s a good idea for the moment,” I say. “We don’t want to give Inspector Tucci any reason to take our phones away again.”
Emily looks horrified. “I missed two book clubs’ Zooms last night, you know.”
“You were zooming into book clubs on this tour?”
“What of it?”
I roll my eyes. Not that I thought she was a suspect, but this kind of puts paid to that. Who has the presence of mind to book club and murder at the same time?
Not me, that’s for sure.
“Is everyone agreed?” I say, turning in my seat to make eye contact with Connor, Isabella, Guy, and Allison. They nod one by one. “No point in feeding the frenzy. Hopefully, no one knows we were traveling with him yet.”
“Easy enough to find out,” Isabella says.
“I know, but let’s get through the tour today, and then we can decide how to handle it.”
“What about the BookFace Ladies?” Harper says. “They’re going to know.”
“Can you round them up when we get to Ravello and let them know not to say anything? That we won’t be taking questions about it? Make sure to tell Cathy specifically. She’s always narrating everything on social.”
“Okay, good idea.”
I scrunch up my face. “Sorry to send you on that kind of errand.”
“She’s used to it.”
“Shut up, Connor!” we both say together.
“And now, here we are in Ravello,” Sylvie says as the bus stops on the side of the road. There’s half a parking lot and a set of stone steps carved into the rock. The sun is high in the sky and the air is thick with heat like a blanket you can’t shrug off. I’m already dreaming of an Aperol spritz or at the very least a Coke Zero.201
“This is it?” Connor says.
“No, it is up the stairs. A little journey, but it is worth it.”
“Where are the BookFace Ladies?” I ask Harper, shading my eyes with my sunglasses and wishing, once again, for a hat.
“Up there.” She points. “In the town square, I think.”
“You sure you’re okay to do this alone? Inspector Tucci did tell us to stay together.”
“Yeah, it’s fine. Don’t worry. I’ll back in a few minutes.”
“Meet us at Wine and Drugs,” Sylvie says. “It is at the top of the stairs.”
“I’m sure I’ll need both by then.”
She leaves, and Oliver replaces her at my side. I’ve been keeping my distance since Inspector Tucci stirred up my suspicions during my interrogation. He’s given me a couple looks, but I’m hoping he thinks that I’m feeling shy or confused after last night.
Which I am.
I mean, you would be, too, if you half thought you’d slept with someone who was trying to kill you and they’d made you orgasm twice.
“Wine or drugs?” he says with a glint in his eye.
“I should probably stay away from both.”
“Given what’s happened I tend to agree with you.” He reaches out his hand, and I take it, my doubts melting away. A man who looks at me like a snack he can’t wait to have can’t be plotting to kill me, can he?
Then again, isn’t an orgasm also called a little death?
Sometimes I hate my brain.
“Ready for the climb?”
“The Miley song?”
“What?”
“Never mind.”
We head for the stairs. They’re steep and twisty, and I’m sweating and out of breath by the time we get to the top of them. I definitely need to get back to my morning swims and throw in a run or two for good measure.
At the top, I turn and look out at the view, which is breathtaking. Unlike in the other towns we passed through, there are a lot of trees in Ravello, and the shade makes a huge difference in the temperature. The water is blue and calm, the sky is clear, and even the tourists seem less frazzled than they did in the hustle of Amalfi.
If someone weren’t trying to kill me, I’d say that this was the prettiest spot in all of Italy.
“Here we are, right this way.” Sylvie motions to a small shop whose black door is cut into the stone. The sign, WINE AND DRUGS, swings above it. “We will have a delicious wine tasting and then we will have lunch.”
We follow her inside, and a shopkeeper in his mid-fifties greets us. The store is lined with bottles of wine, and there are several set out on oak barrels ready for our tasting.
“Where are the drugs?” Guy asks.
“What? Oh, the name,” the shopkeeper says. He has a pasta belly and a thick head of salt-and-pepper hair. “There are no drugs.”
“No drugs,” Guy says.
“No.”
“Well, that’s bullshit.”
Allison pats him on the arm. “Marketing ploy got you down?”
“I believe in truth in advertising.”
She tips her head back and laughs. “That’s the funniest thing I’ve heard all day.” She points at the shopkeeper. “Please, ignore us. Let us begin the tasting.”
I look around at the others. Does anyone really want to drink from some unknown bottle in this group? I can’t be the only one thinking this.
But apparently I am, because Connor picks up a small glass of red wine and downs it with a flourish.
“I thought you didn’t like wine,” Isabella says, picking up her own glass.
“That’s Champagne,” Allison says. “Important distinction.”
Isabella wrinkles her nose and tastes her wine. “Oh, this is lovely.”
I watch her drink it, and when nothing happens, I pick up a glass.
“I thought we said…” Oliver mutters.
“When in Rome, am I right?”202
“When in Ravello.”
He picks up his glass and we clink them together. Only they’re plastic, so the sound they make is unsatisfying.
“Here goes nothing,” I say, and tip it into my mouth. The flavors are wonderful, and when nothing happens, I finish the glass and look around. “What’s next?”
“Shall we open the next bottle?” the shopkeeper asks.
“Bring it.”
An hour later, we’re all drunk.
Drunkity drunk, drunk, drunk.
Even Harper. Even Oliver.
This is what happens when you give a bunch of people who fear for their lives and/or are plotting murder unlimited alcohol during the middle of the day before lunch.
Day drinking.
Day murder.
Wait, that’s not a thing, is it?
Lord, I hope not.
Some of the wine is delicious, some mediocre, and some it doesn’t matter given how much we’ve all had. We’re supposed to be spitting it out after we swirl it around and appreciate it, but—and I mean this in the nicest possible way—fuck that.
I drink it all down, and so do the others, and I order a bunch of it to be sent to me in Venice (California, not Italy). Harper clucks her tongue at the price, but I tell her that you only live once and you can’t take it with you, and she rolls her eyes and laughs and we’re into the Champagnes now, so everyone but Connor is giggling.
Even Oliver, even Guy.
Someone’s about to say I love you, man when Sylvie tells us that our time is up and we need to climb some more stairs to the town square to meet the BookFace Ladies for lunch.
There’s a chorus of groans, but this is a good idea.
We all need to step away from the drinks and take a beat.
Mostly, we all need food.
So we say our thank-yous to Pietro, the shopkeeper, who’s now our best friend, and troop out of the store.
Sylvie tells us to andiamo! and we stumble up the stairs. I’ve got my hand on Oliver, holding on tight, because stairs are not safe for me, even when I’m sober.
But I am not sober—no, sir.
And maybe I’m being an idiot. Oh, I definitely am.
But sometimes you have to throw caution to the wind.
Sometimes you have to live that Instagram slogan like it’s meaningful. As if it’s not just a way to get likes. Like it might actually change your life if you follow its edict.
Everyone feels it, I can tell. We’re all connected in a way we haven’t been till now because one of us wants to end some of us.
And that connects people, right?
The murderer and the murderee?
There’s a bond there. Murder is a close emotion. Especially when it’s planned.
It builds and builds until it’s a force that lives inside you.
At least, I assume.
Not like I’d know.
We get to the top and I suck in my breath. It’s even more beautiful up here. A wide, circular piazza with bistro tables and benches where you can sit and stare at the view. Farther in, there’s a medieval castle (the building Sylvie was quoting Google about), its turret reaching up to the sun.
The air feels cleaner, and maybe that’s why my brain clears out, too.
It’s like a swift wind blowing in there, and then the solution thunks into place.
I know who’s trying to kill me.
I know what their motive is.
I know what I’ve missed until now.
But I don’t have any proof.
Normally, I’d end the chapter right now and let you sit with that banger for a while. But I’m not going to do that this time.
Nope.
Here’s what I figured out.
The thing I haven’t spent enough time thinking about is why me and Connor.
Because it’s not about Shek. It never was. He got in the way of someone’s plans, and so he was disposed of like yesterday’s newspaper.
Anyway. Let’s get to the solution, shall we?
Who has a motive to kill both of us? I know I’ve joked that everyone does, but that’s not true. Allison is an old hurt; Oliver, too. I didn’t know Emily before this tour, and killing someone to ensure your book sales seems extreme. The only one with a real double motive is Harper, but there’s no way.
And that’s the problem.
That’s the solution.
Someone isn’t trying to kill both of us.
They’re just trying to kill me.
I’ve said it before, but now I know it’s the truth. There’s no evidence that anyone actually tried to kill Connor. There’s only his word for it, and his word is bullshit.
The push at the Vatican, the bystander who saved him, the incident with his car. The man who died in the street could’ve been anyone, a convenient excuse to pull me in because it’s not like he mentioned Davide by name before he died.
And none of what Connor says occurred happened in front of anyone else.
Only my almost-deaths did.
Mine and Shek’s.
If there’s one thing I know after all these years of writing about murders: If the pattern doesn’t match, then it should be tossed out. And if you toss out what Connor said happened and you’re left with only what we know happened, well, then it’s a clearer picture.
It’s been Connor, all along.
Connor told me that his life was in danger to distract me. To distract everyone. Because who’s going to benefit the most if I die?
Him.
A murder mystery author gets murdered on her tenth-anniversary book tour? That’s gold.
And Connor’s out of gold right now.
He must’ve found out I was thinking of ending the series. Maybe it was Harper who told him, guessing the truth even though I never said it expressly, or maybe he knew about the statute of limitations, or maybe it was just his instinct.
He’s always had good instincts about people.
That’s how a con man operates.
So that’s who did it.
Who’s doing it.
Who isn’t finished doing it.
Connor.
The most obvious suspect is usually the best answer in the real world, and sometimes even in books. Then again, sometimes it’s just terribly wrong.
Now you can flip the page.