Walking back to my cabin, I revel in the way the breeze kisses my skin ever so lightly. This is the last time that I will feel this in a very long time. There are other islands I can go to, but none of them will be Caye Caulker, Belize.

My flip-flops make a loud smacking sound as they hit the back of my heels. There are no roads here, not any official ones anyway.

No cars either.

People get around mainly on foot or by bike and the occasional golf cart. This place exists somewhere between the past and the present.

The internet is fast but the pace of the world is slow. There isn’t much to do but swim, snorkel, dive, fish, read, eat, talk, and drink. Isn’t that kind of perfect, though?

That’s exactly why I came here. I need to get away from everything.

I thought I could leave the bad out there, somewhere back in Boston but now it has followed me here.

Now, the asshole who I helped and who made promises to me is now on television talking about how dangerous I am.

This is my way out I think, gritting my teeth as regret and anger bubble up within me.

“Hey there, stranger,” Ali, the French expat, says as I walk past her apartment and head toward mine.

We haven’t hooked up because she has been out of town the majority of the time that I’ve been here. That and I’ve also had some reservations about sleeping with someone who lives so close to me.

“You want to come over for a bottle of wine?” she asks.

“Maybe some other time,” I say, giving her a brief wave.

Back inside my one bedroom cabin with minimal furnishings, not as a result of any particular decorating intention, I turn on the television and start to pack.

I can’t find the program that was on at the bar so I Google my name.

The first thing to show up are the videos.

I am the focus of at least three different national programs and Art is interviewed by the hosts of each one.

“What a fuckin’ asshole,” I say, shaking my head and grabbing the suitcase out of the closet.

I fold just a few shirts and pants along with my one pair of loafers and toss in my toiletries. In the bottom cupboard right next to the sink, I pull out an envelope with all of my passports. Thanks to a contact from back home, I have a number of them, but I’m not entirely sure which one I should use.

“Don’t forget, he is charming but very dangerous.” I hear Art say in the background. “He is the main suspect responsible for killing his ex-partner—”

I close the video.

I’ve had enough of his ugly face and his ugly lies.

Why is he doing this to me? I wonder. Now?