Araminta did not say I love you back. She clings to that thought so tightly it keeps her awake. Did she react all right? Did Rhys catch anything amiss? Did the audience? She can rectify it with a moment of her own, she’s sure. But does she want to?
Does she love him?
Should she? Would it be good for the cameras? Or is her confusion in its honest truth more relatable?
She decides that, for now, what she needs is space and time to miss him again. So she slips from the room and stretches on the beach. When she returns, she finds Theo at the kitchen table.
“Hey,” she greets.
He nods in her direction.
He can’t be much of a morning person, not least because he’s rarely up at this time. At this hour, he can hardly hold a conversation, and the more she presses, the more questions she asks, the more he retreats.
Theo: Christ, who wants an interrogation first thing in the morning?
And then Jerome joins, and for the first time, she is relieved to see him. He has a bad habit of appearing at inopportune moments and it’s nice to know he can, occasionally, do the reverse.
She tries to chat to him, politely, civilly, as she always would.
But he just grunts in response.
Jerome: Here we go—this is how it begins. They always come crawling back to you, always want you to be their shoulder to cry on.
Later, she finds Kalpana on the deck, watching the waves crash on the distant shore.
She is hesitant, awkward, not wanting to blame her divide with Rhys on her.
But after greetings are divested with, Kalpana asks, “So how were things with Rhys last night after his little tantrum?”
And Araminta knows it would be a betrayal to say anything about Rhys to Kalpana.
So she tries to change the topic but all she can manage is “It’s a nice day.”
“Imagine that.” Kalpana sips her coffee.
Kalpana: My guess is he told her he loved her, then ejaculated prematurely, thus creating the tortured woman you see before you.
She finds Isko by the pool. He hasn’t said much lately, even when they were latched together it felt like he was in a world of his own, staring into the distance.
“Good morning, Princess,” he says, and she’s too desperate to argue.
“Hey,” she says instead, and he turns in her direction.
Isko: She clearly wasn’t okay, but isn’t that what she has a boyfriend for? To care about all that?
“Another thrilling day out here,” she says. “What do you miss most about being home?”
He considers. “The ability to choose when I see people and how.”
Araminta looks at him, unable to tell if that’s a semi-polite way of telling her to fuck off.
“That and Alex.”
And here it is, finally, a topic she can cling to.
“How did you two meet?”
“I’d actually rather not get into that. This island, this show, is already taking too much. I’d rather not give them my personal life too.”
“Oh, that’s fine.” She falls back, defeated.
Isko: I guess she didn’t get my not-so-subtle hint to fuck off. Haven’t we spent enough time together lately? Where’s Rhys to stick his tongue down her throat when you need him?
“Where did you go this morning?” Rhys asks, running his hands across her shoulders, pressing his fingers into the knots he finds.
She tries to relax into it. She doesn’t have the heart to tell him how on edge all that touching makes her. But then she remembers their spa day and how it felt like that had started it all, their collusion—just the two of them against the others. Maybe she never needed anyone else.
“The beach.”
“Will the world end if you skip a day of yoga?”
“It’ll feel like it.”
“Do you want to talk about it?”
She offers a weak smile. “It’s okay, honestly.”
“You know you can, right? That you don’t have to keep it to yourself? I’m not going to think any less of you.”
“It’s really nothing. It would be easier if there were something to talk about—trust me, enough therapists have tried and failed. Everything else I have answers for—with migraines I take pills; seasonal depression, I take a weekend in the Mediterranean or a holiday to the Caribbean. But anxiety just never leaves me. Sometimes I wake up feeling like my heart might burst, like I’m dying. Yoga helps me manage it.”
He nods, a concerned frown etched into his forehead. “Is there anything I can do to help?”
Araminta: I could tell he wanted to be like, “Oh that’s so horrible, I’m so sorry” but he didn’t. Which is exactly what I need and just, god, even the fact I felt comfortable enough to tell him is more than I’ve ever done with anyone before. What exactly am I so scared of? He’s perfect.
She reaches for his hand. “You being there when I return is more than enough.”
Theo is awful at this game.
He can finally admit it.
He doesn’t know how to cause drama. He cannot throw himself into a romance for the sake of the cameras, cannot pick a fight for screen time or think of any way to command attention. Attention has always gravitated toward him. He thinks of what Eloise said when she first introduced Iconic to the world: You have always had to be one in a million, but can you even be one of six?
Out there he’s special. But on this island with the others? Maybe he can’t be the standout star.
So he gives up trying to find a clever way to use the information he has and figures that, if nothing else, this conversation will likely be aired.
He finds Isko filing his nails on a sun lounger by the pool, two bottles of water and a bottle of vodka next to him, and for a moment, Theo wonders if it might contain water too—if Isko is trying to cultivate some image by drinking vodka straight at 11 a.m. But the camera would have seen him fill it up, so it must be the real thing, though no less an intentional choice.
“Can I ask you something?” Theo starts, sitting next to him.
“Of course.”
“It’s…well I suppose it’s also a confession. And you’d be perfectly entitled to tell me to fuck off.”
Isko glances over the top of his sunglasses. “You don’t love me, do you, Theo?”
“I took a secret from the wall.”
There is no surprise, no anger, just Isko reaching for the vodka, slowly unscrewing the cap, and taking a swig. “All right. And you’re here, so it was mine. What was it?”
He hesitates just enough to show a remorse he’s not sure he feels. “It was about a girl, I think.”
“Just tell me what it was, Newman. I appreciate your efforts to keep from revealing it to the masses, but if you know, I’d prefer the whole world to.”
Theo: It was horrible, hearing my own sentiments parroted back to me. All that hatred for Rhys when he took my secret from the wall, and I did the exact same thing to Isko.
“It said: I’m sorry, Juliet. Your «chou».”
Isko nods. “Ah.”
“Well, I was just wondering…”
“What it meant?” Isko offers when it becomes clear Theo is struggling to get the words out.
“Well…” Theo itches at the back of his neck.
“Go on,” Isko presses, leaning forward with a wicked smile unfurling on his lips. His sunglasses are thick and dark, and Theo can’t see the eyes behind them at all, just two big circles of black plastic. “Theo Newman, say it. You stole a secret and now you want answers. It wasn’t enough for you to merely take it from me; you’re now audacious enough to come confront me and demand clarity.”
Theo swallows then shakes his head and snatches the vodka from the side and takes a long shot. “Yes. I took a card, and what was on it has confused me ever since. Of course, feel free not to answer, to tell me I already got more than was fair of you. But I’d like to know so I’m asking.”
To his surprise, Isko laughs. “Forcing honesty from you all is like drawing blood from a stone, but what a delightful, thoroughly bloody thing it is. Sit down. I’ll tell you about Juliet Moncrieff.”
Theo startles. “Wait, I know Juliet Moncrieff. I think we had the same publicity team or something.”
“Well, they’re shit. Fire them. Her publicists all but threw her to the wolves when things went down.”
Theo can’t agree—they’re doing a great job for him. He’s here, after all. While the rest of the band awaits destruction, Theo’s in the shelter avoiding the fallout.
On the other hand, he supposes, they did throw the rest of the band over to save him. But Theo would never be stupid enough to go to a party with fifteen-year-olds and take photos.
“I was her private chef for three years,” Isko says quietly. “But Juliet didn’t like thinking of herself as an employer. She really made an effort to make me feel like a friend—integrated me with her other friends and everything. She made cooking for her feel like someone respected my passion and was excited to see me indulge it. It was work, and the hours were long and she paid me, but working for Juliet was more than a job, it was a lifestyle. I wasn’t entirely stupid; she liked collecting people and giving them cutesy terms of endearment like chou. I’m sure it made her feel thoroughly down-to-earth to befriend the help, but honestly, I liked all that about her.”
“Okay,” Theo says hesitantly. Because what does Isko have to apologize for; where does it all go wrong?
“My point is that I like Juliet a great deal and I still consider her a close friend. But I would understand if she didn’t feel the same way. I testified against her at her trial, Theo; that’s why I’m sorry.”
“Oh, that must have been so difficult. But you did the right thing—”
“So the system would like us to believe,” Isko says, a fierceness to his voice. “I didn’t know what I knew; I just answered their questions—who I saw coming and going from the house and when. I debated doing it for weeks but Alex finally convinced me that if Juliet was innocent, my testimony would help and if she wasn’t, then it wouldn’t be anything I said that put her away. But in the end, they did put her away, and I can’t help but feel like I could have helped. I mean, who gives a shit about tax evasion anyway? Who ruins a friendship over financial fraud?”
“Yeah, of course,” Theo says with a nod. “It can’t have been easy. But what else could you have done?”
“That’s what I’m saying, Theo. That’s why I’m sorry—because we’re told things are right or wrong by a system that locks away a girl who at worst misunderstood overly complicated financial forms and got famous enough that they thought to make an example of her. And if I could go back, I would have lied. I would have created any story, told the police anything to get her out. I’m sorry I ever believed you owed the police the truth. Every single investigator on Juliet’s case was an asshole, and I should have screwed them over at every opportunity I had.”
They’ve replayed that clip so many times in the precinct they wonder if they’re responsible for all the algorithms making it go viral.
It is marked in block letters on Isko’s file: Trust nothing he says.
Araminta and Rhys have dinner alone together that evening, and Araminta appears in a fairy-tale dress—a soft pink number that glows in the golden light.
“My minx? Wearing color?” Rhys gasps. “Could this be?”
“I do wear color on occasion,” she says. “I have worn at least three colorful pieces on this island.”
“You should wear more.” His eyes rake her over. “You look ghastly in white; in color, you’re a goddess.”
“Excuse me?”
“What?”
“I look ghastly?”
“Oh, I didn’t mean it like that. I’m just complimenting the way you look now.”
It’s not a compliment at all—but then she thinks of how quiet today has been and how it’s not worth kicking up a fuss and ruining the first nice moment of the day.
And she does look nice in this dress.
“Well, I haven’t been able to wear this one before. It clashes with my sunburn.”
They decide to rapid-fire some questions, like it will help them get to know one another. But it feels foolish—how could they possibly know each other better than they do? After spending a whole lifetime on this island, all that other time elsewhere is extraneous.
Araminta’s answers keep falling back to art: her favorite travel location where the best galleries are, her dream dinner party full of sculptors, her first kiss over an easel.
“You know what I like best about you?” Rhys asks.
She prepares herself for a compliment she’ll only want to brush away.
“Your passion. Every single question I ask, you have a thorough answer. Everything you like, you adore.”
“So do you,” she says. So does everyone on this island. Has he not heard the arguments? She would argue that of them all, she is the most flippant, the most willing to dismiss a subject as trite. But perhaps he sees something in her that she doesn’t.
“I know—that’s why it means so much to me that you’re like that too. I’m so passionate about everything I do—too much so. It’s like I have to pick what to devote myself to because there just aren’t enough hours in the day. I’d have loved to have thrown myself fully into my band, Hurricane Bay, but I couldn’t do that and act, and in the end, acting won out. People who can’t do anything without getting wrapped up in it are enticing. And no one is more captivating than you.”
She feels herself blush and looks away, unable to meet his eyes. He seems so sincere when he says things like that.
“Can I ask you something?”
“Of course,” he says, squeezing the hand he holds.
“It’s just something I keep thinking about after, well, after you told me you loved me. Do you still, by the way?”
He gives her a withering stare. “Yes, Araminta, I still love you.”
“Well, I just wanted to check it wasn’t some high from being unlatched from Theo that you’re now regretting. I won’t mind, you know.”
“You won’t mind?”
“Well, I would, but I’d understand. Anyway, given that you do in fact still love me, I just wanted to check something about what you said yesterday, just so I can’t accidentally cross it again, about how I can’t be talking to someone I kissed like that—”
“I never said that,” he says.
“Never said what?”
“That you ‘couldn’t’ do something—why are you making me sound controlling?”
“You know what I mean, about how—”
“Me setting a boundary is not me controlling you, Araminta. And I’d appreciate it if you didn’t present it like that, especially on live TV.”
Araminta blinks, confused about where she went wrong but maybe shouldn’t have brought their argument up anyway. “Oh. Okay, never mind.”
“I love you so much, I just want this to be perfect,” Rhys says and forces a laugh. “I don’t blame you for misremembering. In fact, it’s a good thing all this is being recorded, or with a memory like that, I’d have to remind you of this relationship when we get back out. I can’t wait to just be alone with you. I’m going to spend the rest of my life making you feel like the most loved person in the world.”
But it’s not just the words, it’s him staring at her with his dark eyes so focused, the planes of his face in the torchlight, and she’s overcome by his beauty and the way he gazes right back like he’s just as captivated. “Do you really think this can survive on the outside?”
“Of course it can.” He seems confused as to why it couldn’t.
Frankly, Araminta could not even attempt to think of the outside world right now. “Good,” she says anyway. “Because I love you too. And it would be a real shame if what we have has some kind of time limit because of this show.”
The lights flash earlier tonight. And there it is on the screen again, a request that they all head inside while they set the challenge up. They do as they are asked, clinging to windows, barely able to see a thing once the boat draws close enough to dip beneath the trees. They watch as it leaves again, and the lights dance for a second time and the jingle plays and they are all summoned back to the firepit.
Eloise flickers to life on the screen. She’s wearing enormous earrings, two black gems set in blue plastic; they half-expect the jewelry to blink.
“Good evening, contestants. Why, you look so much happier today,” she taunts. “This evening’s test is one of problem-solving and strategy. Each pair has received a series of riddles that will lead you to hidden letters around the island. You need to find all the letters and be the first pair to work out what the word is. There are three points each up for grabs!”
A buzzer sets them off running.
“I help you ascend with each stride; to higher levels, I’ll be your guide. Without me, progress is hard to find; what am I, in reality or in mind?” Jerome reads, curling the paper so tightly his grip threatens to rip the page.
He can’t stand this; intelligence is a trait he believes uniquely his on the island.
Kalpana skims the others like they might be easier. But she’s just as infuriated—she dabbles in poetry! She should be able to find a double meaning!
By the time she realizes the answer is steps, the other pairs have already found their next clues. They finally dart inside to the staircase, just to realize that’s impossible, that the crew were only crawling around outside and, after much running about, remember the metal rack leading down into the pool. By that point, the others are two letters down.
They’re racing to their second when they pass one stapled to a lamp with Theo and Rhys written across the top.
Kalpana hesitates only a moment before she keeps going. Not because she does not want to rip it down herself, but because she cannot be seen to. Yesterday’s subterfuge exposed the weaknesses and hypocrisies of the other contestants—this would be outright cheating.
Which is Jerome’s field.
He snatches that page down and shoves it deep in his pocket, and Kalpana gets to pretend she had no idea he’d do that.
Meanwhile, Araminta and Isko stare at the page, two letters filled: I, O.
Two more to go.
But Araminta, expert at elusive phrasing, clocked that the challenge was not to find all the letters, just to solve the word.
Araminta: It feels fruitless in a way. Because I’m paired with Isko who’s above me in the points table, every win just boosts him up too. It never closes the gap. But I guess if we take ourselves as far away from the other contestants as possible, I can put all my energy into beating him next week.
“Icon is too straightforward,” Isko says.
“I agree, which is why I think they’d go for something adjacent—Idol, maybe? But how foolish would we have to be to guess that on a show called Iconic?”
She glances at the remaining riddles. Maybe one will be easy enough to push them in the right direction.
If I have it, I don’t share it. If I share it, I don’t have it.
It prickles her, a whisper that insists she knows the answer.
A secret.
The wall.
Rhys’s admissions have faded to a pale blue—and on it a note is taped: N.
“Icon!” Isko and Araminta scream.
Isko: So infuriatingly basic.
Araminta: But I guess you weren’t really testing our intelligence anyway, otherwise why let us do it in pairs. No, you just wanted to see what we’d do.
Gathered back together, Theo doesn’t even wait for Eloise to award points before he kicks off.
“I’ve checked every lamp, lantern, and bloody light bulb on this island,” Theo fumes. “Someone took it, they must have.”
“Quite an accusation,” Isko refutes. “How do you know you got it right.”
“What else is ‘it can fill a room without occupying space’ supposed to mean?”
“Tension?” Araminta posits, with a wry smile. “Now can we go back to our points, please?”
“Yes, congratulations Araminta, and Isko!” Eloise beams. “Let’s take a look at what that does to the scores!”
Isko: 14
Araminta: 13
Jerome: 10
Kalpana: 5
Theo: 4
Rhys: 4
“Some real variation, but we’re still early in the competition and anyone could win!”
The screen shuts off.
“So let’s be clear,” Rhys says with his usual joviality, but his smile is taut, suggesting underlying anger sharper than the grin itself. “Are we resorting to cheating now?”
“We’re scavenging and solving riddles. And someone here feels the need to cheat to win? Sort out your priorities,” Theo adds, fury dulled into snarling derision.
Rhys: I think Theo was mad because he was so pleased to have solved the riddle. Bless his heart.
“Theo, I don’t know who you’re accusing, but no one here would cheat,” Kalpana says.
“Really, you’re literally partners—”
“Sorry, let me clarify: the only person who would cheat was with me. He couldn’t have.”
“All right, let’s not argue this further,” Rhys interrupts, sliding his arm around Araminta’s waist. “Let’s all just agree that from here on out, there’ll be nothing underhanded—no cheating.”
“Fine with me,” Araminta says, smiling up at Rhys and leaning in closer.
Reluctantly, the others agree too.
Rhys: Oh yeah, I have no intention of doing that. But now, I’m hoping I’ll be the last person they’d suspect.
And with what he has planned, becoming a suspect is the last thing he can afford to do.
@AzaOnTheNet
Can Araminta and Rhys stop being adorable for five minutes please? It’s giving me unrealistic aspirations for my love life #Iconic
@BookishSaira
Love how Rhys’s solution to cheating is to get people to promise they won’t, like sure babe, that will definitely work #Iconic
@AdorableAmelie
Can we get more Theo Newman in the edited episodes please @IconicTVShow—I’m so tired of RiotParade dominating headlines and the one innocent member not being given a platform in favor of yet more Rhys and Araminta. Stop playing favorites with the edits #Iconic
AHX have ramped up their advertising for tomorrow’s episode. It glares from Cloutier’s phone: “The truth: what really happened to Rhys Sutton—Friday at 8pm only on AHX.” He has the sudden urge to fling it across the room but instead shoves it into his pocket. It is a fact that the truth is not on those tapes: the drugs in his system that he never took, the water you never see him choke on. He can already see this becoming one of those great unsolved mysteries, fodder for dinner parties and podcasts.
Unbidden, his mind wanders to Kennard. They’ll be named in the case documents, forever part of this. Together.
Before he can spiral, he pulls out his phone and throws himself back into the case. Already he can feel it slipping in importance, taking second place to his own life, his own problems.
He dials the producer again.
“Hello?”
“It’s Detective Cloutier. I have some more questions.”
“You don’t have much time, do you?”
“Before you become known as the network that made entertainment from this tragedy?”
“It’s already entertainment. People are already watching it. We’re just taking back control of the narrative.”
“Do you have any idea how much the victim’s family will sue you for?”
“Yes, actually, our projections show that even taking that into account, we’ll still make an incredibly tidy profit, which we’ll need given we can’t do the final live show. Eloise is refusing to take part, and we’d been counting on people tuning in for answers to the salacious questions everyone has—”
“Those questions—can you send them to me?”
“Well, we hadn’t written all of them, but sure. I can send you what we have.”
Maybe they have been approaching this wrong.
They’ve been treating them like any other suspects—logical, in control, with some level of foresight. But maybe they need to be treated like contestants in a competition. Maybe that’s still where their minds are. They are reality stars first, murder suspects second.
He takes that thought to the last person who definitively saw Rhys alive.
“What?” Kalpana snaps, chewing on a mint, glaring at him with new ferocity. “Keeping something else from us? How many hours is it until the episode airs? Are you getting desperate?”
“Yes,” he says. “And you should be too.”
He flips his phone to her and shows her the advertising.
She looks genuinely disgusted, which he marks in her favor.
“They’re not just airing it, they’re pitching it, marketing it, it’s…fucking capitalism.”
“That’s not all,” he switches to his pictures, to the screenshots he’s taken from the #Iconic search: a string of Kalpana definitely pushed him, her winning in polls of who they think did something, people sharing their clips and theories about her.
“Okay, you’ve made your point.”
“A lot of people out there think you did it. And they’re drawing their own conclusions as to why because we haven’t given them a conclusion of our own.”
“My money’s on Theo.”
“Really?” He’s surprised—from what he’s seen, they were close.
“He’s as much of a liar as Rhys was. Even being there was a lie.”
“Liars don’t necessarily make killers.”
“Liars covering up more scandals do. And they were fucking pouring out of Theo.”
He centers himself again, remembers what he came in here for—not to be distracted by her pointing the finger at another contestant. “Look, Kalpana, we’ve seen the footage. You were the one on that cliff. If for instance you did something to protect Araminta, you’d become the hero of this narrative, the protagonist. I’m sure a judge would be—”
“I’m not protecting Araminta. If Theo didn’t kill Rhys, then I think she probably did.”
“Excuse me?”
“I’m not protecting her. I think she was capable of murder.”
And damn it, this deflection works because it’s the second time he’s heard it.
So he goes back and pours over the clips.
No one has paid much attention to the footage of Araminta on the final day. She retreated to her room. She didn’t spend time in blind spots. But Theo and Kalpana both think she did it, so there must be something.
And there it is, one moment—Araminta, gathering Rhys’s belongings, muttering something under her breath.
“Et in Arcadia ego.”
He knows the painting, knows what it means.
Death. Even in paradise, there I am.