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But then, suddenly, something seemed to click, and she nodded.
“Very well. To cooperation,” she said stiffly, and reached out and took a coconut. “Conor?”
There was a long pause. Then Conor’s mouth split in a wide grin, so close to the smile he’d worn in the headshot on that handout we’d received that first day on the boat, that my stomach twisted. When I had seen that headshot, when I’d met him for the first time, I had thought what a nice smile he had—how open he seemed, how sincere. But now, that wide, warm smile that didn’t reach his extraordinary ice-cold eyes, it seemed the most frightening thing in the world.
“To cooperation,” he said. He picked up the two remaining coconuts, the one intended for him, and the one we’d meant for Zana, tucked one under his arm, and tipped the other back. The movement, in the dying light, was so quick that I wasn’t sure which one had ended up under his arm. I was 90 percent certain that he had drunk the right one, but I wasn’t sure, and now I found I was staring, mesmerized, as the muscles in his throat worked, draining the thin, sickly liquid. I saw that Santana was staring with the same intensity, and knew that she was trying to figure out the same thing and probably wishing, like I was, that we had drugged both of them to the same level.
Conor wiped his mouth, set down the coconut, and grinned.
“It’s been a pleasure doing business with you. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’d better head back to Zana.”
He turned and began walking back towards the jetty, his silhouette dark against the lemon-yellow remnants of the sunset that still stained the sky.
We watched him as he stepped from plank to plank, nimble as a goat.
We watched him as he stepped onto the veranda of the water villa, opened the door, and closed it behind him.
And then we turned and made our way back to Forest Retreat, the bananas and pretzels in our hands, and a feeling of foreboding in our guts.
IT WAS MAYBE an hour later, and we were getting ready for bed, shaking out sheets that were now sweat-soaked and dank, and chasing the last mosquitoes out of the room, when I realized something—I had forgotten to fill up the bucket of seawater for sluicing the toilet. And Angel was in the bathroom. In fact, she’d been in there for a long time. A really long time.
“Angel?” I said. I knocked on the door, and when there was no reply, I tried again. “Angel, are you okay? I forgot to fill up the seawater bucket earlier. Do you want me to do it now?”
There was no answer. Just the sound of the wind outside. It had been picking up all day, and now I could hear it rustling in the trees.
I looked at Santana, who frowned, clearly making the same calculations I had over the length of time Angel had been in there.
“Angel?” she said, coming across to stand by me. “Angel? Can you hear me? Can you say something?”
No reply. I was getting seriously concerned now. Had Angel passed out from dehydration? Hit her head?
“Angel,” I said. “Angel, we’re coming in. If you don’t want us to, say now.”
There was still no answer, but I did hear something from behind the door… a strange kind of rattle that made my stomach flutter uneasily.
Santana looked at me and nodded, and I set my hand to the knob.
The door was locked, but the latch was flimsy and it took only a shove from my shoulder to displace it. We were inside within a few moments, but it took our eyes longer to adjust to the darkness, which was even deeper than the main room.
When they did, I saw Angel sitting, slumped on the toilet, her head lolling on her chest.
I gave a choking cry, ran across to her and began shaking her by the shoulders. She fell slowly forward, slithering down in my arms to land on the floor. I only just managed to catch her head, stop her hitting it on the hard tiles.
“Angel!” A feeling of panic was rising up to engulf me. I shook her shoulder again, harder this time. “Angel, are you okay?”
Stupid question. Of course she wasn’t.
“Oh my God,” Santana was gasping. She was standing in the doorway, her hands clasped over her mouth. “Oh my God, Lyla, is she dead? Please tell me she isn’t dead.”
But when I put my fingers to her neck, I realized she wasn’t dead. And more than that, with the next slow, shuddering breath she drew, I realized what the sound was that I’d heard from outside the bathroom. It was a snore.
“She’s—she’s asleep,” I said, looking up at Santana. Her expression changed instantly to one as confused as I felt.
“Asleep? Has she passed out?”
“I have no idea. Angel!” I pulled her half-upright and slapped her gently on the cheek. “Angel.”
“Laisse-moi tranquille…” Angel said, though her voice was slurred so that I could hardly make out the words. “J’suis fatiguée…”
