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Back No Going Back: a Novel Save as PDF
Chapters (84)
  1. Cover
  2. Dedication
  3. Part 1
  4. 1
  5. 2
  6. 3
  7. 4
  8. 5
  9. 6
  10. 7
  11. 8
  12. 9
  13. 10
  14. 11
  15. 12
  16. 13
  17. 14
  18. Part 2
  19. 15
  20. 16
  21. 17
  22. 18
  23. 19
  24. 20
  25. 21
  26. 22
  27. 23
  28. 24
  29. 25
  30. 26
  31. 27
  32. 28
  33. 29
  34. 30
  35. 31
  36. 32
  37. Part 3
  38. 33
  39. 34
  40. 35
  41. 36
  42. 37
  43. 38
  44. 39
  45. 40
  46. 41
  47. 42
  48. Part 4
  49. 43
  50. 44
  51. 45
  52. 46
  53. 47
  54. 48
  55. 49
  56. 50
  57. 51
  58. 52
  59. Part 5
  60. 53
  61. 54
  62. 55
  63. 56
  64. 57
  65. 58
  66. Part 6
  67. 59
  68. 60
  69. 61
  70. 62
  71. 63
  72. 64
  73. 65
  74. 66
  75. 67
  76. 68
  77. 69
  78. 70
  79. 71
  80. 72
  81. Acknowledgments
  82. About the Author
  83. Also by Sheena Kamal
  84. About the Publisher

Keeping, as always, to the dark end of the street.

49

I wake up to a missed call from Leo and a video waiting from Simone. I open the video first. When I click on the link, shaky footage of what happened on the back patio in Lombok starts to play. After a moment, the focus clears. The events unfold the way I remember, but from a different angle. Then the memory fades and new information comes my way. Dao takes cover behind the sculpture of a mermaid and returns fire. The gang take cover, too, but two of them are shot. One is the young protester. Dao doesn’t stop to ponder this. The chaos is enough for him to turn, jump the wall, and disappear.

Rewinding the video, I pause just at the moment he turns. The focus adjusts, zeroes in on his face. I stare at it for a long time. There are creases on his forehead now, and two bracketing his mouth. There’s a cut bleeding freely on his chin. It seems as though he’s looking straight at the camera—or at the person holding it.

“Who took this video?” I ask Simone, when I get her on the phone a few minutes later.

“Gimme a sec. I’m just getting back from morning meditation and my ass is numb from sitting on the floor so long.” There’s a rustling sound, and then she comes back on the phone. “Okay, so I was doing some searches inspired by the news report with the photos of him manhandling that protester, and I found the video. Some socialite staying at the hotel recorded the murder, ‘accidentally’ uploaded it on social media from Bali. Claimed she was too distraught to think clearly, but the thing was widely circulated before she pulled it down.”

I remember the flash of dark hair down at the beach. It’s what caught my attention at the window in the first place. Lam’s heiress, the daughter of the oil baron.

“Cristina Guerrero is a twenty-three-year-old Colombian student currently enrolled in Business Studies at Yale,” says Simone. “Her father made his money in oil, but personally I feel it might be cocaine.”

“That’s a bit biased.”

“Apologies, you delicate flower, you. Rehab is a fucking trip, as always. Anyway! The dad married a beauty queen who died of an eating disorder ten years ago. Dear Cristina was packed away to boarding school soon after. I found an interview done with her in a fashion magazine where she said her mother starved herself to death so she wouldn’t have to. But with her bone structure and money, the whole world is her playground. She hopes to use her business degree to get into fashion for plus-size women. In her spare time, she’s a lifestyle guru and posts health and well-being advice from exotic locales around the world.”

“Must be so hard for her,” I say. We giggle.