Total pages in book: 128
Estimated words: 120230 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 601(@200wpm)___ 481(@250wpm)___ 401(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 120230 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 601(@200wpm)___ 481(@250wpm)___ 401(@300wpm)
She turned toward one of the narrow windows that lined the staircase, the line of her profile delicate against the charcoal light. “This trip, this place, it was an adventure in the sun. Now all I can think about is that there’s no chance a helicopter could get through the wind and the rain, and that our only way out is a road that Ash mentioned is prone to slips. So who knows if that’s even open.”
I kept my mouth shut.
There really was no point in spreading that piece of bad news. Soon as it stopped raining however, I planned to drive out to the site of the slip and leave a giant sign telling them we were stuck out here.
Hell, I’d make an arrow with fallen rocks if I had to; the isolated road was unlikely to be a priority, but a survey—most likely aerial—would be done to make a note of the damage so they could plan for the work involved to clean it up.
“Go listen to one of your true crime podcasts,” I said to Vansi. “You’ve had a hard morning. A little murder is what you need to cheer you up.”
“Ha ha.” She fought off a smile. “It’s research. So I don’t end up serial killer bait.”
“Very important in New Zealand, that hotbed of serial killers.”
This time she did laugh—that warm, hiccupy-sounding laugh that was one of the most beloved sounds in my life. “Shut up. What are you going to do?”
“Grab breakfast, and volunteer to help Aaron.” I could chop vegetables for lunch prep or do the dishes, whatever he wanted. That was how we’d done things at the flat when Aaron cooked. We’d do the cleanup, or buy any special herbs or spices he needed. None of us had wanted him deciding it was too much work to bother cooking for us.
“Aaron’s a great guy.” Vansi’s hand clenched on the rounded top of the banister at the landing. “If only I had the hots for him instead of for Phoenix.” A tightness to her features, her skin stretched thin. “Sorry I snapped at you yesterday morning. I just don’t know what’s going on with him—but that’s no reason for me to lash out at you. Forgive me?”
I couldn’t do it, couldn’t keep this secret from her. “He’s smoking again,” I blurted out. “I caught him on the veranda. He’s been hyping himself up to confess, but with Kaea and all, he’ll probably let it slide for the time being. Anyway, that might be why he’s acting shifty.”
Vansi stared at me for a long moment before bursting out into a huge smile. “Oh my God, Luna.” Running over, she gave me the biggest hug, squeezing the life out of me. “All this time I’m thinking he’s having an affair or just doesn’t love me anymore, and all the man is doing is surrendering to an old bad habit.”
Tears shone in her eyes when she pulled back. “I’m so happy. I never thought I’d say that about Nix smoking, but compared to everything I’ve been imagining, I’m ecstatic.”
“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you straightaway. Nix was feeling so bad about it and I knew he wanted to tell you himself.”
“I understand.” She squeezed my upper arms. “I can deal now that I know what’s going on. Thank you, thank you, thank you.” An enthusiastic kiss on the cheek before she all but skipped down the hallway toward their room.
I was happy for her, but I wasn’t so sure that that was all that was going on with Phoenix. The smoking was a symptom, not the cause—because Nix just wasn’t the type to break promises. Particularly one he’d made to his wife.
Vansi had to know that, too. But blaming their issues on his guilt over smoking might at least allow her to enjoy the rest of our time at the estate. The truth—whatever it was—would no doubt come crashing down soon enough.
Shutting the door, I wrapped my towel more securely around myself, then began to check every single wall of my room with methodical precision. I knocked lightly, listened to see if any wall sounded hollow, pressed every inch I could reach in an attempt to trigger a hidden catch—including inside the wardrobe. But as far as I could tell, the walls were apparently just walls.
Still not satisfied, I dragged over the delicate chair by the writing desk, climbed onto it with the intent to check the ceiling. I couldn’t reach. Jumping off, I looked around. My eye fell on the slim folding umbrella I’d left sitting outside my suitcase. After living in Auckland, then London, I tended to pack one automatically. Now, I pulled the handle out to its fullest length, and began to tap the ceiling using that end.
A shower of dust, but no movement, no indication of any hidden trapdoors.