Page 28 of Forsaking All Others

24

“What do you mean her body washed up?”

“Well, Viscount,” Gerry clutches his clipboard to his chest like a shield, “she, ah, apparently was killed on the challenge, but no competitor has claimed the kill.”

“You mean to tell me someone murdered Regina while she was competing in a challenge, yet your cameras didn’t capture who?”

“Yes, it’s very, very odd….the time of death…”

“What were her injuries?”

“Gunshot wound to the head,” he squeaks, edging his way out the door.

“What? Stop right there!”

Gulping, he looks at me with wide, worried eyes.

“Gerry, of course none of the competitors killed her. None of them had fucking guns!”

“Yes,” he gulps, one foot out the door, “but I assure you, Viscount, every effort is being made to investigate this matter.”

“Just as you investigated the attack on the limo on opening night?” I growl. “An enquiry that ended with a shrug, from memory.”

“We’re doing everything we can,” he says hastily, licking his lips. “On the upside, you didn’t have to kill the loser. I mean, she’s dead by some of the means, so you didn’t have to, you know...”

He holds two fingers up to his lips, which I assume are meant to signify fangs.

“And you don’t have to eliminate the default loser, the Georgian, Natia, either, because she technically wasn’t last — Regina was.”

“What kind of gun?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Don’t play with me, Gerry, you won’t like the outcome. What kind of gun killed her?”

“I don’t know,” he shakes his head, “early indications are that it was a handgun placed against her temple and fired at point blank range. Her hands were bound behind her back. Ah, we just don’t know any more than that at this stage.”

He turns to leave the room as I ask one last question, although I think I already know the answer.

“Gerry, what was she wearing?”

“Ah,” he turns back, frowning, “a swimsuit. A red swimsuit.”

‘Just as I thought.’

25

I sit at the candlelit table fronting the river in Seville and toy with my food.

It’s a beautiful, hot evening, just dark, even though it’s past eleven. The Games crew have cordoned off an entire lemon-tree-lined street full of cafes fronting the river so that we can enjoy our first one-on-one date.

Only, I’m not enjoying it, and if I’m not mistaken, neither is the bachelor. He hasn’t even touched his cake, and from what I’ve heard he has a notorious sweet tooth. Why he’s out of sorts I don’t know, but I sense his melancholy and it compacts upon my mood as I struggle with my own concerns.

Our flight to Spain yesterday had been uneventful, the contestants falling into two distinct categories: those who had participated in the first challenge and wanted to discuss it, and those who hadn’t and wanted to discuss it.

In between there was me.

Several people tried to draw me out, but I had no intention of sharing my thoughts on what went down. Usually I’d sleep during the day, but I was deep in strategy mode most of the flight trying to figure out what to do about my pursuers while simultaneously stressing about the date I was scheduled to attend by default.