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“And what’s the toxic dose?” I said.
“I have literally no idea.” Angel’s voice was tart. “It is not something I have had any desire to research. But the tablet I have is not the strongest type. My doctor said she would prefer to start me on the lowest dose. So, I imagine three will not be a problem.”
“Give Zana two,” Santana said. “And give Conor the rest. He’s twice her size anyway, and there’s a good chance some of it will get left in the coconut.”
Angel nodded soberly. I did not. There was an uneasy feeling in my stomach, which had been building all day, ever since Santana’s suggestion of using the insulin to kill Conor. Were we really going to do this? Were we really going to poison someone in cold blood, and live with that for the rest of our lives?
“Listen,” I said. “I think we owe it to ourselves to try one last time. There has to be a way of resolving this that doesn’t involve killing Conor. What if we drug him and use the opportunity to take back the water and search his villa for the insulin?
But Santana was already shaking her head. Angel had crossed her arms.
“And what if he wakes up?” she asked. “What if the insulin is not there? Or what if we successfully kidnap the water—but then he wakes up the next day and beats us to death in order to take it back? What then? Because, let me remind you, Lyla, he is bigger and stronger than any of us. Bigger, stronger, and more psychotic. And then, if you, Lyla, finally decide that it is morally okay for us to defend ourselves and kill him—by then it will be too late. The sleeping tablets will be gone—and our last chance also. Conor will not give us two chances. You know it.”
I opened my mouth to reply—and then shut it again. The problem was, she was right. I did know it. There was no way Conor would give us two opportunities to overpower him. It was now… or never.
But how I wished it could be never.
“So we’re decided, yes?” Santana said, looking from me to Angel. “Tonight, Angel will give Conor four tablets, and two to Zana, and then we wait for them to fall asleep. When they’re out, I’ll creep over to the villa and administer the insulin.”
“We are decided,” Angel said firmly. “Now, all that is left is to get the coconuts.”
CHAPTER 30
IT WAS ALMOST nightfall when we finally made our way down to the cabana, Santana and I carrying two coconuts each, and Angel holding one. We had already punched holes into them, and Angel had spent a long time grinding the pills into a fine powder we hoped would be undetectable and poking it through the small aperture. Angel was holding Conor’s. Santana was holding her own and the one meant for Zana.
My heart was thumping in my chest so hard that when I looked down I could see the pink laces on my bikini top trembling with each beat—but I was no longer sure if that was fear of Conor, trepidation at what we were about to do, or just the physical side effects of extreme dehydration. We were all light-headed with it, sick and dizzy with lack of food and water, and Santana’s blood-glucose monitor had been going haywire all day, with spiking highs her pump no longer seemed to control, and lows that even glucose tablets didn’t seem to affect.
When we came into the cabana clearing the sun was several inches past the water palm, and Conor was already there, resting nonchalantly against the table as if he didn’t have a care in the world, holding a jug of water. It was all I could do not to fall on him and tear the container out of his hands, but we stood there, almost shaking with anticipation, while he measured it carefully out into the three cups. He set them on the table, and we gulped the liquid down. The water stung the bloody cracks on my lips and smelled of flat plastic from the container, but nothing had ever tasted so good. When it was gone, it took everything I had to push the cup away and not plead with him for more.
“We brought coconuts,” Santana said, her voice hoarse. She picked up the one that Angel had set down in the sand while she drank her water. “Only five I’m afraid, the last one split. But this is for you.”
Conor nodded, but he didn’t snatch at the coconut the way we had done at the water. Seeing him in the flesh, up close, it was more abundantly clear than ever that he was not holding himself to the same water rations he was giving us. Where Santana and Angel looked dangerously dehydrated, their lips cracked and dry, their skin clinging to their muscles, their veins standing out like cords, Conor looked sunburnt but relatively fresh.
Instead, he took the coconut and wedged it back in the sand, beside the others, then reached into the pockets of his board shorts and pulled out some packets of pretzels, a bag of cookies, and three bananas.
“Pretzels?” Santana said despairingly. “Are you serious? They’re full of salt. We can’t risk even more dehydration.”
Conor shrugged.
“They’re all that’s left. And the fish weren’t cooperating. I spent four hours baking under the sun earlier today, but if you want to try catching some, be my guest.” He waved at the dark ocean, its turquoise hue turning deeper as the sun sank below the horizon. For the first time in a long time I saw there were clouds there, turned to flame by the sunset.
Santana shut her eyes. I thought if she’d had the moisture in her body, there would have been tears pricking there.
“Where is Zana?” Angel said, and now I realized something—if Zana wasn’t here, we had no way of controlling which of the two drugged coconuts she would end up with.
“She’s not feeling well,” Conor said. “Headache, from when she fell and banged her face.” Contradict me, his expression said, and see how far it gets you.
I saw Angel open her mouth and I knew, suddenly, that I couldn’t let her finish what she was about to say. That if she said what she truly thought of Conor, of what he’d done to Zana, that might be the end of it, the end of her.
“Listen,” I said hurriedly. “Thank you for the water, Conor. And for all the fish you’ve caught so far. I appreciate it’s not an easy task. And I know— I know today hasn’t been easy. For any of us. But we’re only going to survive this if we stick together. So… cheers.”
I picked up a coconut, one of the ones I had been carrying. I recognized the little chip on the lip.
“Here’s to cooperation.”
Santana looked at me, startled, and then realized what I was doing and why. If we didn’t get Conor to drink his coconut now, we would never be sure that Zana wouldn’t end up with both of them.
“To cooperation,” she echoed, and gave Angel a look that was almost a death glare. For a moment I thought Angel was going to tell us all to fuck ourselves, that she would never raise a toast with Conor, let alone to something as poisonously ironic.
