The Murder Games

CHAPTER 7

"Why do I feel like a third wheel on a strange new dating show?" Cara sweeps through the suite's doorway, absorbing the room's full-size bed, lone nightstand, and single dresser. All the furniture looks like bamboo. It has a light, natural hardwood appearance. There's no TV but who needs one in a place like this? The resort is designed for most activities to take place outdoors so guests can enjoy the island's natural wonders.

"Everyone else has their own room," she continues, "except for Simon and that woman who sat next to him on the plane. I think I heard him call her Isabel."

My brows furrow. "Must mean they're together."

"That's what I took. Guess that totally rules out my theory that this is a sex ring."

"Tom said it wasn't."

Her eyes flick in my direction. "Like we can trust him? But I guess sex traffickers don't kidnap married couples."

"They might not be married, but I doubt that matters to us."

Cara falls back onto the bed and stretches out while I wander to the bathroom, inspecting the rest of the suite. A glass shower takes up one end with a big round fixture that must rain down water over a person's entire body. In the middle, whitewashed ceramic planks frame up the cabinet and sink. All the vanity area has that blonde wood appearance to match the furniture in the room. The toilet appears like any other.

I ponder our situation, especially the fact our abductor had to decide between one or both of us. One of us wasn't supposed to make the trip to the island. Question is, which one? And does it matter? Guess not at this point.

Before we entered the room, the concierge had reiterated Tom's order for us to change our clothes. She said we would feel more at home. We still wore a wardrobe fit for winter but could now dress for the tropics. When I opened the closet, I found a maroon pair of capris and a cream-colored button up blouse. My flats went well with it so I didn't change shoes, although there was a line of additional footwear in cubby holes at the bottom of the closet. My new attire fits perfectly, as if picked out just for me. Since Cara is about my size, but a tad skinnier, she made do with khakis and a teal blouse. I peer at myself in the bathroom mirror and decide I like the airy look of the capris and open necked shirt.

"What did you think about the staff?" she asks.

I meander back into the room and sit on the edge of the bed next to her feet. "Well, they seemed unique in their own sort of way. If we're in the South Pacific like they said, it would seem the workers here are Polynesian from the surrounding islands. They said so and their accents suggest such. They may have hired them from Foa Island. They said we were west of there."

Cara sits up and gestures toward the clock on the wall. "The dinner Tom talked about starts soon. In the meantime, I think we're free to roam about. Maybe we should check the place out? We don't have our phones, but what if we discovered some other way to communicate with the outside world. We could send a message. An SOS."

"Doubt we'd find anything. Any computers or satellite phones would be locked up. But it's worth a try. Might as well."

Down the hallway from our room, we pass by the palm fronds in the vase and enter the lobby. Behind the soft, turquoise-colored sofas and chairs, similar in color to the caldera lagoon outside, the entire beachfront wall is nothing but a panorama of glass that reflects me, Cara, and the butler. I remember his name is Tua, but with all the new people I've met recently, to keep them all straight, I decide to refer to them by their roles at the resort. I don't need to know them personally anyway. Besides, I can learn their names later if I want or need to.

The butler stands next to the bar in the rear of the room with his hands clasped behind his back, staring at us with squinted eyes. I focus on him for a few seconds. The more I study his face, the more I pick up on the message he's sending, that of suspicion, hatred, or something else. His lips are almost snarling, and his dark eyes are homing in on us, piercing right through us. He might be Tom's watchdog. After all, as the butler, what would he do? Watch the door, roam the halls, carry our luggage maybe, if we had any. Spy on us. I don't know.