Theo hurls his fork into the sink like a petulant child. “So what I’m hearing is that everybody’s guilty, or nobody’s guilty, because our so-called victim might be off on a bender somewhere.”

“So where does this leave us?” Jana asks. “And what do we do next?”

“For one thing, we don’t take our frustrations out on innocent cutlery,” Quinn says, cocking an eye at Theo. “This also means that the next phase of our investigation will require great care. Whether Paige is dead or alive, I believe we’re dealing with a conspiracy—not the passionate mistake of a single perpetrator. And if they’re smart enough to form a conspiracy that’s eluded the feds, they’re smart enough not to get caught. The clock is ticking. Our ruses may have kept the suspects close at hand, but that won’t last forever.”

“I guess this means no dessert,” Otto says.

Jana is the first to rise, straightening her cocktail dress with a few tidy, precise movements. “I don’t know about the rest of you, but I’m dying for a drink.”

Chapter 20

JANA (THE ACTOR)

I promise you, my dear Matthew, my desire for a cocktail has nothing to do with our wonderful afternoon at the beach sipping overpriced kiddie juice.

But like you said, the clock is ticking, and I don’t want to let certain opportunities slip away.

As predicted, Jamie Halsey decided to return to Turks and Caicos along with Captain Kurtz. Before our 6:00 p.m. meeting with the rest of the group, I paid a visit to the marina and recruited a couple of confidential informants who were more than happy to text me when the Hostile Wake-Over made an appearance. Amazing, the information you can glean with nothing more than a crisp hundred-dollar bill and a knowing smile.

One of my informants texted in the middle of our group meeting with a bonus piece of news: Jamie Halsey was apparently headed straight to his favorite watering hole, the Infiniti Bar at the Grace Bay Club.

The name is not misleading. The main feature of this bar is a ninety-foot stretch of black granite that runs all the way out to the water. Not quite infinity but close enough, I suppose. I weave around the well-heeled travelers snacking on ceviche and sipping $18 cocktails until I find Halsey. He’s doing shots of Grey Goose and flirting—badly—with a pair of glistening young women who are either twins or friends who aspire to look exactly alike.

I hate to see a young man flirting badly. I decide to show him how it’s done.

You know how I flirt, my dear Matthew. I’m irresistible.

Especially when I do nothing except order a drink and look like I have the kinds of problems that only a rich young man can solve.

“Hey, what’s going on?”

This is his opening gambit. Snooze.

I say nothing but give him the tiniest of openings—a brief glance, followed by a facial expression that’s somewhere between You’re Going to Disappoint Me, Dear Boy and I Might Be Bored Enough to Let You Try.