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I looked out to sea, where Angel had taken hold of Zana’s arm and was coaxing her, plank by plank across the fragile jetty.
And I couldn’t deny Santana was right.
AFTER SUPPER, WE washed the plates down at the shore, kneeling on the rocks at what was fast becoming the dishwashing station. It was just us girls—though of course we weren’t girls, any of us, any more than the men on the island were boys. We were adult men and women. But somehow, without meaning to, I had fallen into the Perfect Couple lingo. The Girls, the Boys, the Lads, the Islanders. We were still falling into teams, playing the parts assigned to us by the production company. Sometimes it was hard to remember that Bayer and Romi were dead—not just eliminated from the competition like Nico. But then… as I stared out at the vast, empty ocean, turning orange in the setting sun, I forced myself to admit it: there was every chance that Nico was dead too.
Joel and Conor were up at the cabana, talking earnestly about something. Joel had sketched out a map of the island in sand on the tabletop and was pointing at the various bays. Conor was nodding. Watching the two of them together made me feel uneasy in a way that I couldn’t explain. I shouldn’t want Conor and Zana to be isolated from the rest of us. Having such deep divisions among the islanders wasn’t good for anyone, particularly given Conor still had all the food and water held hostage out at the water villa.
But seeing Joel acting so pally with the man who had—no two ways about it—stolen our supplies and been responsible for Bayer’s death, was somehow deeply unsettling. Didn’t he care? Dan did. In fact, he still hadn’t returned, and that was another thing keeping me on edge. Here we were, looking like something out of a travel brochure, four bikini-clad girls, tanned, beautiful, kneeling in the surf and silhouetted against the most stunning sunset I had ever seen—and yet all I could think about was the darkness beneath the picture, the rifts pulling our little community apart.
“Angel,” I said now, as she rinsed out the last cup and wiped it carefully on a towel. “I really don’t like thinking of you all alone down at Palm Tree Rest. Are you sure you don’t want to bring your mattress up to our villa? There’s room, isn’t there?” I looked at Santana, and she nodded vigorously.
“Yes! Absolutely. Plenty of room.”
Angel was looking thoughtful.
“I must admit,” she said at last, “I did not enjoy last night. It’s not that I’m afraid of being alone, you understand. But…”
She didn’t finish. She didn’t have to. We all knew what she meant. It was at night that the thousands of miles of empty ocean stretched out the longest, and the fears came crowding hardest: What if we’re never rescued? What if the water runs out? What if we die here, like Romi, like Bayer, like the poor woman whose name we didn’t even know, lying in an unmarked grave?
Having someone else’s snoring to distract you from those what-ifs… well, even just the presence of another warm body was immensely comforting.
“What about you, Zana?” Santana asked. “You know, if Angel is moving in with us, you and Conor wouldn’t have to stay in that water villa. You could take back Palm Tree Rest.”
But Zana was shaking her head, and I knew the answer before she spoke: Conor would never allow it. He would never abandon the food and water, no matter what it cost Zana, who was already looking sick with nerves at the prospect of making the crossing to the water villa.
Truth to tell, I wouldn’t have fancied it much myself—and I had no fear of water. Down here at the water’s edge, you could see all too clearly how rickety Conor’s makeshift jetty was—just salvaged planks and pieces of driftwood cobbled together with nails bashed in using a rock. I had seen Zana and Angel cross it earlier, watched them totter from one piece of wood to another, Zana’s hand gripping Angel’s like it was the only thing keeping her from death. It was barely functional, let alone safe, and for someone with a fear of water it would be a nightmare.
“Zana, he can’t make you stay there,” Santana said now. She took Zana’s hand, opening her mouth to say something else, but as she gripped Zana’s wrist, not roughly, but firmly, Zana winced and pulled it back.
All three of us—me, Santana, and Angel—looked down at Zana’s hand. She had balled it up and now she plunged it in the water, scrubbing the last of the dishes with unnecessary energy.
It was too late though. We had all seen it. A small, distinct black bruise on the inside of her wrist, as if someone had pinched her there, very hard.
“Zana—” Santana began, and then stopped, as if at a loss for what to say. She glanced at the two of us as if urging us to step in, but Angel didn’t meet her look. She was staring, stricken, at Zana’s wrist, her face as pale as if she had seen a ghost.
“Are you okay?” I asked at last. It was pitifully inadequate. It wasn’t what I wanted to say. Is he hurting you? was what I wanted to ask.
“I’m fine,” Zana said. She stood up, holding the plates to her chest as if to protect herself from our collective gaze. “I mean, as fine as anyone can be in this situation. And I don’t need to move. I’m very—” She swallowed, as if the lie was hard to say. “Very happy. At the water villa. We’re very happy. It’s beautiful.”
But her voice wasn’t remotely convincing, and as she turned and began walking back up the beach to Conor and Joel, I could hear the plates she was carrying chinking together, as though her hands were trembling.
THE SUN WAS fully set, the island in rustling moonlit darkness as we made our way along the pebbled path from Palm Tree Rest, Angel’s blankets slung over my arm, her clothes and washbag in her own. Santana was up ahead, holding Dan’s water and food from supper. He still hadn’t returned.
We were rounding a turn in the path, the route made strange and unpredictable by the sharp moonshadows crisscrossing the ground, when there was a sound in the bushes up ahead, and a figure appeared, silhouetted against the trees, dark against dark.
“Joel?” I said uncertainly, but the shape wasn’t right. It was a man, but not Joel; it was someone stockier, more muscled.
“Dan?” Santana was peering into the shadows, and then she gave a kind of choke of relief and ran forward. “Dan! You absolute fucker. Where have you been? I was going out of my mind.”
“I’m fine,” Dan said, but he didn’t sound fine. His voice was rough and croaky. “Is that water mine? I’m so thirsty.”
“Yes, it’s yours. And so’s the food. It’s your ration from supper. Hey, don’t down it like that. You’ll make yourself sick.” Dan had tipped the canister up to his lips and was gulping the water like a man who hadn’t drunk a drop since breakfast—which he probably hadn’t. “Where the hell were you?”
“Up the other end of the island. Where’s Conor?” Dan’s voice was still hoarse. I exchanged an uneasy look with Santana.
“He’s still at the cabana,” Santana said at last. “Talking with Joel and Zana.”
Although that was not strictly accurate. Zana hadn’t said a word since we washed up the dishes, and when we had left the three of them, she had been sitting, staring out at the water villa like someone sentenced to execution staring at the gallows.
