He was jealous of me—because I provided Lana with something he couldn’t understand and was incapable of supplying. What was that? Well, for want of a better word, let’s call it friendship. Jason couldn’t comprehend a world in which a man and a woman could be such close friends.

  Although Lana and I weren’t just friends—we were soulmates.

  But Jason couldn’t understand that either.

  “Elliot had a bright idea,” Lana said. “Let’s go to Mykonos tomorrow for dinner. What do you think?”

  Jason grimaced. “No, thanks.”

  “Why not? It’ll be fun.”

  “Where? Just don’t say Yialos.”

  “Why not?”

  “Oh, for Christ’s sake.” Jason sighed. “Yialos is a whole production. I thought we came here to relax.”

  I couldn’t resist intervening. “Oh, go on, Jason. Think how good the food is at Yialos. Yum-yum.”

  Jason ignored me. But he didn’t object further, knowing he had little choice. “Whatever. I need a shower.”

  “That’s my cue, then. I’ll be off. See you both downstairs.”

  I went to the door and walked out. I closed it behind me.

  Then—and I wouldn’t normally admit this, but seeing as it’s you, I’ll be honest—I pressed my ear to the door. Wouldn’t you do the same? They were bound to be talking about me. I was curious to hear what Jason said the moment my back was turned.

  Their conversation was faint but audible through the door.

  Lana sounded irritated. “I don’t understand why you can’t be polite to him.”

  “Because he’s always in your fucking bedroom, that’s why.”

  “He’s one of my best friends.”

  “He’s in love with you.”

  “No, he isn’t.”

  “Of course he is. Why else has he never had a girlfriend since that old woman he murdered?”

  A pause. “That’s not funny, Jason.”

  “Who said I was joking?”

  “Darling, did you want something? Or just to start a fight?”

  There was another pause, as Jason calmed himself. He continued in a gentler tone. “I need to talk to you.”

  “Okay. But lay off Elliot. I mean it.”

  “Fine.” Jason spoke in a low voice. I had to press my ear hard against the door to catch his words. “It’s nothing serious.… I need you to sign something.”

  “Now? Can’t it wait?”

  “I need to send it out tonight. It’ll just take a second.”

  Lana paused. “I thought it wasn’t serious.”

  “It isn’t.”

  “So what’s the rush?”

  “No rush.”

  “Then I’ll read it tomorrow.”

  “You don’t need to read it,” Jason said. “I’m just moving things around. I’ll give you the gist.”

  “I still need to read it. Let’s email it to Rupert, and he can take a look—then I’ll sign later. How’s that?”

  “Forget it.” Jason sounded furious.

  He didn’t explain—but I had no need of an explanation. Even from several feet away, through solid oak, I knew exactly what he was up to. I could tell by his hesitation and the change in his voice that the mere mention of her lawyer’s name had put him off. Jason realized that his little scheme, whatever it was, wasn’t going to work.

  “It’s fine. It doesn’t matter. It can wait.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “Yeah. No worries. I’m going to have a shower.”

  At that, I slipped away from the door. I could imagine what happened next.

  I imagined Jason going into the bathroom—and the moment he was alone, his smiling mask falling from his face. He stared at himself in the mirror. There was desperation in his eyes. Was it a mistake, he wondered, talking to Lana like that? Had he aroused her suspicions?

  He should have waited until she’d had a few drinks—then slid the papers in front of her and got her to sign them. Yes, in fact, that might still work.

  Later on, after dinner, he’d try again—when she was more relaxed. He had to keep refilling her glass. Be extra nice to her. And knowing Lana, she might have a change of heart and suggest signing the papers herself—to please him. That was just the kind of thing she might do.

  Yes—it might all still work out. Breathe, Jason told himself, breathe and stay calm.

  Jason turned on the shower. The water was too hot and it lashed against his face, his skin, burning him.

  What a relief—to feel that pain, a welcome distraction from all his thinking … from everything that he had to do … everything that lay ahead.

  He closed his eyes and burned.

  11

  A little while later, Kate wandered into the kitchen. She was out of breath, and a little high. She hoped the others wouldn’t notice.

  Perching on a stool, she watched Lana and Agathi prepare dinner. Lana was making a green salad with the spicy green rocket leaves that grew plentifully all over the island. Agathi showed Lana the plate of sea bream she had cleaned.

  “I think three’s enough, don’t you?”

  Lana nodded. “Three’s plenty.”

  Kate reached for a bottle of wine and poured a glass for her and Lana.

  They were soon joined by Leo, fresh from the shower. He looked flushed, and his hair was wet, dripping onto his T-shirt.

  Leo was seventeen now, almost eighteen. He looked like a younger male version of Lana—like a young Greek god. The teenage son of Aphrodite—what was his name?—Eros. He looked as Eros must have looked. Blond hair, blue eyes, athletic and lean. And a gentle soul, too, like his mother.

  Lana glanced at him. “Darling, dry your hair. You’ll catch cold.”

  “It’ll dry in a second. There’s like zero humidity outside. Do you need any help?”

  “Can you set the table?”

  “Where are we eating? In or out?”

  “How about outside? Thank you.”

  Kate watched Leo with approval. “Aren’t you gorgeous, Leo. When did you get so handsome? Fancy some wine?”

  Leo shook his head as he collected place mats and napkins. “I don’t drink.”

  “Come on, then, sit down, spill the beans.” Kate patted the stool next to hers and beckoned him over. “Who’s the lucky girl? What’s her name?”

  “Who?”

  “Your girlfriend.”

  “I don’t have a girlfriend.”

  “But you must be seeing someone. Go on … tell us. What’s her name?”

  Leo looked mortified, muttered something unintelligible, and hurried out of the kitchen.

  “What’s wrong?” Kate turned to Lana, mystified. “Don’t tell me he’s single? He can’t be. He’s gorgeous.”

  “So you said.”

  “Well, he is. Should be shagging away like mad, at his age. What’s wrong with him? Do you worry he’s a bit…?” Kate trailed off and gave Lana a meaningful look. “You know.”

  “No.” Lana gave her a quizzical smile. “What?”

  “I don’t know … attached—”

  “Attached? To whom?”

  “To whom?” Kate laughed. “To you, my love.”

  “Me?” Lana looked genuinely surprised. “I don’t think Leo’s particularly attached to me.”

  Kate rolled her eyes. “Lana, Leo is besotted with you. He always has been.”

  Lana brushed this aside. “If he is, he’ll grow out of it. I’ll be sorry when he does.”

  “Do you think he might be gay?”

  Lana shrugged. “I have no idea, Kate. What if he is?”

  “Maybe I should ask him.” Kate smiled and poured herself another glass, warming to the idea. “In a ‘big sister’ kind of way—you know? I’ll talk to him for you.”

  Lana shook her head. “Please don’t.”

  “Why not?”

  “I don’t think you’re the big-sister type.”

  Kate considered this. “No, I don’t think I am either.”

  They both laughed.

  “What’s so funny?” I said as I walked into the kitchen.

  “Never mind,” said Kate, still laughing. She raised her glass to Lana. “Cheers.”

  * * *

  There was a lot of laughter that night. We were a merry bunch—you’d never guess it was the last time we would be together like this.

  What could possibly happen in the space of a few hours, you might ask, what could go so badly wrong as to end in murder?

  It’s hard to say. Can anyone pinpoint that precise moment when love turns to hate? Everything ends, I know that. Especially happiness. Especially love.

  Forgive me, I’ve become such a cynic. I used to be so idealistic when young—romantic, even. I used to believe that love lasted forever. Now, I don’t. Now, I know only this for sure—the first half of life is pure selfishness; the second half, all grief.

  Indulge me for a moment, if you will—let me linger there and enjoy this last happy memory.

  We ate dinner outside under the stars. We sat beneath the pergola, lit by candlelight and surrounded by sweet-smelling climbing jasmine.

  We began with the salty sea urchins, freshly prepared by Agathi. Eaten raw with a sharp squeeze of lemon, they’ve never been to my taste—but if you close your eyes and swallow fast, you can pretend they’re oysters. Then the grilled sea bream, and sliced steak, various salads and garlic-tossed vegetables—and the pièce de résistance: Agathi’s deep-fried potatoes.

  Kate didn’t have much of an appetite—so I ate for two, piling my plate high. I eulogized Agathi’s cooking; careful to tactfully praise Lana’s efforts also. But her healthy salads couldn’t compare to those decadent potatoes, grown in the red earth of Aura itself, golden and oozing oil. It was a perfect meal, that last supper.

  Afterward, we sat by the firepit. I chatted to Lana, while Leo played a game of backgammon with Jason.

  Then Kate suddenly demanded Agathi’s crystal. She went into the house to fetch it.

  I must tell you about the crystal. It held near-mythical status within the family. A crude fortune-telling device, it had belonged to Agathi’s grandmother and supposedly had magical qualities.

  It was a pendant—an opaque white crystal, in the shape of a small cone, like a baby pine cone, attached to a silver chain. You held the chain in your right hand, dangling the crystal over the open palm of your left hand. You asked a question—phrasing it so it could be answered with a yes or a no.

  The crystal would swing in response. If it moved like a pendulum, in a straight line, the answer was no. If it swung in a circle, the answer was yes. Absurd in its simplicity—but with an unnerving tendency to give accurate results. People would consult it about their plans and intentions—Should I accept this job? Should I move to New York? Should I marry this man? The majority would unfailingly report back—months, sometimes years, later—that the crystal had been right in its prediction.

  Kate passionately believed in the magic of the crystal, in that naïve way she sometimes had, with a childlike faith. She was convinced it was the genuine article—a Greek oracle.

  We all took turns on it that night—asking it our secret questions—apart from Jason, who wasn’t interested. He didn’t stay long. He lost his temper when Leo beat him at backgammon—and stormed into the house, in a sulk.

  Once the four of us were alone, the atmosphere became more convivial. I rolled a joint. Lana never smoked weed, but tonight she broke a cardinal rule and had a drag; so did Kate.

  Leo took out his guitar and played something he had written. A duet, for Lana and him. It was a pretty song; mother and son had sweet voices that complemented each other. But Lana was stoned, and she kept forgetting the words. Then she got the giggles, which Kate and I found hilarious—much to Leo’s irritation.

  How annoying we must have been to him, this earnest seventeen-year-old boy; these silly, stoned adults behaving like teenagers. We couldn’t stop laughing, the three of us, clinging to one another, rocking back and forth with laughter.

  I’m glad I have that memory. The three of us, laughing. I’m glad it’s untainted.

  It’s hard to believe, in twenty-four hours, one of us would be dead.

  12

  Before I tell you about the murder, I have a question for you.

  Which comes first—character or fate?

  This is the central question in any tragedy. What takes precedence—free will or destiny? Were the terrible events of the next day inevitable, ordained by some malevolent god? Were we doomed—or was there hope of escape?

  This question has haunted me over the years. Character or fate? What do you think? I’ll tell you what I think. Having deliberated long and hard, I believe that they are one and the same thing.

  But don’t take my word for it. The Greek philosopher Heracleitus said:

  “Character is fate.”

  And if Heracleitus is right, then the tragedy that awaited us in a few hours was a direct consequence of our characters—of who we were. Correct? So, if who you are determines what happens to you, then the real question becomes:

  What determines who you are?

  What determines your character?

  The answer, it seems to me, is that my entire personality—all my values, and opinions about how to get on in the world, succeed, or be happy, can be traced directly back to the shadowy, forgotten world of my childhood, where my character was forged by all the things I learned to conform to; or even rebel against—but was nonetheless defined by.

  It took me a long time to realize this. When I was young, I resisted thinking about my childhood, or my character, for that matter. Perhaps that’s not surprising. My therapist once told me that all traumatized children, and the adults they become, tend to focus exclusively on the outside world. A kind of hypervigilance, I suppose. We look outward, not inward—scanning the world for danger signs—is it safe or not? We grow up so terrified of incurring anger, for instance, or contempt, that now, as adults, if we glimpse a stifled yawn while talking to someone, a look of boredom or irritation in their eyes, we feel a horrible, frightening disintegration inside—like a frayed fabric being ripped apart—and swiftly redouble our efforts to entertain and please.

  The real tragedy is, of course, by always looking outward, by focusing so intently on the other person’s experience, we lose touch with our own. It’s as if we live our entire life pretending to be ourselves, as impostors impersonating ourselves, rather than feeling this is really me, this is who I am.

  That’s why, these days, I repeatedly force myself to return to my own experience: not are they enjoying themselves? But am I? Not do they like me? But do I like them?

  So in that spirit, I ask the question: Do I like you?

  Of course, I do. You’re a little quiet—but a great listener. And we all love a good listener, don’t we? God knows, we spend our whole lives not being heard.

  * * *

  I started having therapy in my midthirties. By then, I felt that I had enough distance from my past for me to begin to safely glance at it; to squint at it through my fingers. I chose group therapy not just because it was cheaper but, truthfully, because I like watching people. I’ve been so bloody lonely my whole life; I enjoy being around others, and seeing them interact—in a safe space, I hasten to add.

  My therapist was called Mariana. She had inquisitive dark eyes, long, wavy dark hair—I think she might have been Greek, or half-Greek. She was wise and very kind, for the most part. But she could be brutal, too.

  I remember once she said something chilling—it messed up my head for a long time. Looking back, I think it changed my entire life.

  “When we are young,” Mariana said, “and afraid—when we are shamed, and humiliated—something happens. Time stops. It freezes, in that moment. A version of us is trapped, at that age—forever.”

  “Trapped where?” asked Liz, one of the group.

  “Trapped here.” Mariana tapped the side of her head. “A frightened child is hiding in your mind—still unsafe; still unheard and unloved. And the sooner you get in touch with that child and learn to communicate with them, the more harmonious your life will be.”

  I must have looked dubious because Mariana delivered the killer blow directly to me:

  “After all, that’s what he grew you for, isn’t it, Elliot? A strong adult body, to look after him and his interests? To take care of him, protect him? You were meant to liberate him—but ended up becoming his jailer.”

  Strange, that. Hearing a truth you’ve always known, in your heart, but never put into words. Then one day, someone comes along and spells it out for you—This is your life—here it is, take a look. Whether you hear it is up to you.

  But I heard it. I heard it loud and clear.

  A terrified child trapped inside my mind. A child who won’t go away.

  Suddenly it all made sense. All the uneasy feelings I experienced on the street, or in social situations, or if I had to disagree with someone, or assert myself—the queasiness in my stomach, fear of eye contact—this had nothing to do with me, nothing to do with the here and now. They were old feelings that were displaced in time. They belonged to a little boy long ago, who was once so afraid, under attack, and unable to defend himself.

  I thought I had left him behind me, years ago. I thought I was running my life. But I was wrong. I was still being run by a frightened child. A child who couldn’t tell the difference between the present and the past—and, like an unwitting time traveler, was forever stumbling between them.

  Mariana was right: I had better take the kid out of my head—and sit him on my lap, instead.

  It would be much safer for both of us.

  * * *

  Character is fate. Remember that, for later.

  Remember the kid, too.

  And I don’t just mean the kid in me, but the kid in you.

  “I know telling you to love yourself is a big ask,” Mariana used to say. “But learning to love, or, at least, have compassion for, the child you once were, is a big step in the right direction.”

  You might laugh at that. You might roll your eyes. You might think it sounds Californian, and self-indulgent, full of self-pity. You may say you’re made of stronger stuff. Possibly, you are. But let me tell you something, my friend: self-derision is merely a defense against feeling pain. If you laugh at yourself, how will you ever take yourself seriously? How will you ever feel everything you went through?