Susan and Patrick Clark raised me in the suburbs of Ohio—two accountants whose idea of a wild night consists of popping in a DiGiorno and working ahead on company audits. They live in a squat one-story in a suburb filled with squat one-stories. Their living room furniture all falls into a restricted spectrum of light gray with beige accents.

  I’m smart. Like them, I’m good at math, so I went off to college and double majored in business and finance. I didn’t even think much of it. Of course I would major in those subjects. It didn’t strike me as anything all that important until the night of my college graduation, seven years ago. My parents took me to a world-renowned steak house where they both ordered salads with sides of soup, no bread.

  My dad spoke up in a monotone voice and told me that he’d put in a good word at his company. If I wanted, I had a position there. Working with him.

  I could get a house in their neighborhood, gray furniture of my own.

  That night, I applied to graduate school for hospitality management. When looking for jobs, I only considered locations my parents would never go.

  It’s why I’m here in Turks and Caicos.

  I understand it’s not exactly the idyllic version of things. You’re supposed to know your life’s passion from infancy, right out of the womb. Bam—you want to be a doctor? Here, have this toy stethoscope. Apparently, I should have been playing bellman and concierge as a young child. Even still, I’ve found that I really enjoy this field. Coming from two robots, it’s no surprise that I like searching out inefficiencies, numbers that don’t add up, systems that can be tweaked and made perfect. I rose fast in the ranks because of my attention to detail, and now I have my sights set on a director position within the resort.

  It’s why I’m taking this early-morning meeting with Todd Weaver.

  Todd Weaver has a paunch belly and a bad toupee. He’s perpetually cleaning something out of his front teeth with the tip of his tongue, and never, not once, has he applied enough deodorant to mask the stench of his body odor. I want his job. I want him off this island. I never want to smell his particular brand of musk ever again.

  “You’re doing a damn fine job here, Cole. A damn fine job.”

  Yes, obviously. I already know that.

  Todd sits behind his desk, leaned back so the buttons on his shirt are giving everything they’ve got. Hold, brothers!

  Behind him, there’s a panoramic view of the ocean. I love swimming out there in the morning before work. I enjoy running along the beach, too, hiking through the island trails, anything that gets me outside. Turks and Caicos has so much to offer, and I take full advantage. Back in my suburb of Ohio, we had a man-made lake that shone sickly blue from the chemicals they pumped into it. Surrounding it was a pale concrete running path. No trees. Not a single one. It’s like there was an ordinance against them.

  I’m never leaving this island.

  “I can trust you, can’t I, Cole?”

  Todd’s been talking, and I accidentally tuned him out. This question has me shift my gaze off the beach, back to his sweaty face.

  “Of course.”

  “You’re my second-in-command, my wingman, if you will.”

  He winks, and I hope my expression skews more toward a smile than a grimace, but it’s hard to tell without standing in front of a mirror. My people skills are admittedly lacking.

  “I’ve been considering making some major changes around here. There’s a few departments that I think have ballooned up out of control for no good reason.”

  “Oh? Which departments?” I ask, playing along.

  He goes on to tell me that entertainment and hospitality was identified on a recent audit as having a “highly slashable” budget. He wants to restructure and trim the fat, banking on the fact that the resort’s overwhelmingly positive guest reviews will remain on travel sites even after the team responsible for earning them has been gutted. Todd is a lot of things, but genius isn’t one of them.

  First up on his chopping block is the aging clown traumatizing hotel guests during what’s meant to be a kid-friendly brunch (he’s got a COPD cough and a penchant for making references to children’s shows from the Reagan administration while bewildered kids frown at their uninspired balloon animals). He was a personal favorite of the previous CEO, but he’s been working past his expiration date for some time.

  Next is the rotating cadre of B-list musicians, one-hit wonders, and cover bands that serenade the crowds in the cocktail lounge on nights and weekends. Nothing a little Spotify playlist can’t replace, he thinks.

  I’m taking notes on my iPad, jotting down the gist of his speech right up until he says, “Paige Young.”

  My fingers still, my spine stiffens, and slowly, I look up. Todd has his feet propped up on his desk, his fingers digging through a bag of trail mix like a hungry little squirrel. He only wants the chocolate and the raisins.

  “Paige? From excursions?” I ask, playing dumb.

  He doesn’t even look up from the bag. “Yes, her and a few others.”

  I clear my throat, trying to understand. The clown I get. He should have been shown the door about thirty years ago. But Paige?

  I can’t resist asking why.

  Todd waves it off like the question isn’t even worth his time. “Oh, I know she’s pretty enough, but we have plenty of pretty women at Siesta Playa, some far more willing to show a little skin, if you catch my meaning.”

  I’m thrust into such a vivid daydream of wrapping my hands around his thick neck that I don’t even realize he’s waiting for a response.

  “Guests like her,” I say like I have no real skin in the game, like I’m just pointing out facts.

  “Guests like everyone.” He slides his feet off his desk and sits up, staring me down with conviction. “For now, this is just between you and me, got it? I can’t just go around firing people. We’ll have to be smooth about it. Cunning. Can you be cunning, Cole? Hah. Cunning Cole.” He points at me. “I’m counting on you.”

  Right.

  Counting me as an ally was Todd’s first mistake.

  Threatening Paige?

  Absolutely not.

  I force myself to sit in my seat until he’s finished dismissing me. Then I stand and show myself out, trying my hardest to act as I normally would. If my departing words are a little strained or if my eyebrows are too furrowed, Todd isn’t astute enough to notice.

  I feel like I’m walking through a haze of smoke down the hallway, blinking slow, still in shock as I make it into my office.

  Paige can’t leave.

  Paige . . . belongs here. With me.

  She just doesn’t know it yet.

  I set down my iPad on my desk and rake my hands through my hair. I want to settle this the easy way: hire a hit man to take Todd out on his way home from work. Simple. Easy. Life in jail would be hard, but I’d manage.

  Instead, I pull up a fresh Excel spreadsheet. A little zing of excitement trickles down my body. I do love a fresh spreadsheet.

  Before I do anything, I save it to a restricted, password-protected folder. It’s not that Todd would ever think to snoop around in my office, but I prefer to be as careful as possible, especially if I’m planning to go up against my boss.

  It’s the only path forward and something I would have done soon even if he hadn’t threatened Paige. For a while now, I’ve suspected that Todd might not be one hundred percent squeaky clean. It’s a hunch, a wild one. There have been whispers around the hotel. Rumors about Todd’s worsening gambling addiction, the time he asked the accounting department if they could pay him in all cash instead of depositing his paycheck directly into his bank account like normal. I haven’t put much stock into any of it, but I’ve tucked each rumor away in my arsenal, just in case.

  I’d love nothing more than to pick up my phone right now and call our CEO, Scott Durliat. Unfortunately, if I rat out Todd at this point, I fear I’ll wind up looking like nothing beyond an insubordinate tattletale. Everything I have on Todd is based on rumor, not fact. He’s done nothing wrong that I can prove, yet. Furthermore, given how obvious I’ve been about my intentions and ambitions with this company, Scott could take it the wrong way, as if I’m merely gunning for Todd’s job.

  I know I need to act fast, but I don’t want to rush and ruin this opportunity to save Paige from the chopping block.

  There are several ways I could investigate Todd’s dealings with the company, but most of them require access to accounts and files not at my disposal. I’m sure if I could gain access to Todd’s office and log on to his computer, all his wrongdoings would be right there, dumbly saved in his internet’s browser history. I know he’s not smart enough to wipe that stuff. He once asked me the difference between Cc and Bcc in an email.

  I drum my finger on my desk, trying to come up with a brilliant plan that doesn’t involve any breaking and entering. It can’t be all that difficult to outsmart Todd. I just have to be savvy about it. I have to use the tools at my disposal.

  I could plant a bug in his office (surely they sell those on Amazon), but what would I do with twelve hours of audio consisting of Todd cycling through a series of burps and farts and grunts? How would that possibly be helpful?

  Right. Let’s see. If the gambling rumors are true, he could be strapped for cash. I could call his bank and try to gain access to his accounts, but that’s illegal and highly suspect. I wouldn’t know the answer to any of his security questions, anyway.

  Think, Clark.

  What do I have access to?

  Inspiration strikes like a bolt of lightning. I grab my desk phone and hurriedly dial the extension for the accounting department before I’ve even fully formulated my plan.

  Someone answers on the second ring. “This is Connie speaking.”

  Connie. I was hoping she’d pick up. Connie Phillips is a pipsqueak of a thing, no taller than five feet, with coke-bottle glasses and a wobbly voice. She’s been with the company for ten years and she’s a great accountant, but because she’s so quiet, she’s been largely overlooked for promotions. A few months ago, I tried to remedy that by awarding her with a substantial raise in line with the amount of years she’s remained loyal to the company. Though the raise was long overdue, I still remember the tears welling up in her eyes when I shared the good news with her. I’d had no idea what to do and settled on a stilted There, there pat on her shoulder. Hopefully I’m still in her good graces, because I have a big ask.

  “Connie, hey. This is Cole Clark. How are you? Good? Good. Could you do me a favor?” I don’t pause to wait for a reply. I can’t let her refuse me. This is all I’ve got. “I’m running numbers on my end, just going through some budgetary items, and I need you to provide me with last year’s expense reports.”

  She stutters with her reply. “A-all of them? Sir, that’s—”

  “All of them. From every department.” My tone implies there’s no room for negotiating.

  There’s a pregnant pause where she’s likely resigning herself to her fate.

  “It’ll take me a few days to get you copies . . . ,” she says, already sounding weary about the task ahead of her.

  “That’s fine. Could you get it to me by Friday?”

  “I . . . I’ll try.”

  “Great.” I’m about to hang up before I remember to add, “And Connie?”

  “Yes?”

  “I really appreciate it.”

  Chapter Four

  PAIGE

  I’m fully aware that the literal translation of our hotel name (Sleep Beach) does little to arouse fantasies of an exciting tropical vacation, but that doesn’t seem to deter the gobs of pasty tourists from passing through our lobby day after day.

  New characters erupt daily from the bowels of docked cruise ships. Batches of lanyarded convention goers arrive en masse. Each week brings a fresh horde of corporate tech bros or niche hobbyists. Last week there was the bridal and wedding expo where I watched grown women go to blows over the possibility of winning a free bridal gown from two seasons ago. Bathrooms were overflowing with crying bridesmaids that had been excommunicated and cut from weddings for such offenses as disagreeing with the bride or asking if they could maybe, just possibly, take a break for a late lunch since they’d been going nonstop since 8:00 a.m. “Where’s your loyalty, Marie?! I told you to pack a protein bar!”

  This week it’s the Nifty after Sixty dating event. Next week it’s my personal favorite: the doomsday preppers convention. I’m counting down the days. I’ll be surprised if I can sleep before then.

  It’s Tuesday evening, a few days after the bonfire. I’m in one of Siesta Playa’s ballrooms hosting a luau-themed bingo night for a room full of eager participants who range in age from 60 to 102. The number of medical devices and implants in this room would short-circuit a metal detector.

  My only objective tonight is to ensure everyone is having fun. Oh, and also, Dr. Missick has insisted that I remind everyone that there are complimentary condoms in a bowl near the door that guests can (read: must) take at the end of the night.

  I like to think I’m putting on a pretty great event. The energy in the room is lively and fun. We have a DJ onstage blasting hits from the ’60s and ’70s. A few waiters traipse through the crowd, passing around cocktails and denture-friendly light bites. I’m wearing a huge flower tucked behind my left ear and a flowy pink dress courtesy of Lara. Also, I’ve been given free rein on the microphone, which was a bad idea from the start.

  “. . . And so that’s why we had to put down my childhood dog,” I say, wrapping up a long-winded story.

  Eyes blink up at me in stupor.

  Right. I’m losing them.

  I think fast and draw another ball so I can call out the corresponding number.

  “B-5!”

  “God fucking damn it!” Mr. Leroy shouts loudly enough for everyone to hear.

  I don’t miss a beat.

  “Wee-oh, wee-oh, wee-oh!” I singsong like a siren, pointing Mr. Leroy over to the limbo station set up in front of the stage. There’s a house rule: if people get out of hand with the cursing and foul language (which happens a lot with this group), they must limbo. I wave for the DJ to turn the music up as Mr. Leroy stands to accept his punishment. It’s silly and dumb, but it’s also really fun. And Mr. Leroy actually clears the pole, which is good because earlier I accidentally sent a guest to Dr. Missick after they accidentally threw their back out.

  The crowd cheers for Mr. Leroy as I reach for another ball in the bingo cage.

  Just when I hold it up, my gaze falls on the figure in the back of the ballroom.

  I’m not sure how long Cole has been here watching me onstage, but seeing him is thrilling in the same way it is, say, when you get electrocuted. Zap.

  I stutter over the number, and the crowd starts mumbling.

  What’d she say?!

  I didn’t catch it.

  Was it G-48 or B-48?!

  “B-48!” I clarify, dropping the ball back with the other dead ones and then surreptitiously wiping a sweaty palm on my dress.

  I’m desperate to look back up at Cole—to try to read his expression—but then someone near the back of the room shouts, “BINGO!”

  They know the drill. The person’s card will be checked by a staff member, and if they haven’t cheated (at their age, these people have very little to lose), they get to pick something from a curated prize table, which includes such priceless items as a plastic Siesta Playa key chain, a large-print sudoku book, a needlepoint pattern of a whale and dolphin holding flippers, and a bag of Werther’s Originals. They rave about the offerings.

  “Okay, we’ll take a short dance break while we check their card!” I tell everyone, waving for the DJ to turn up the music a bit. “Then we’ll start the next round!”

  I hop offstage with plans to head toward the bathroom, but instead my feet carry me straight to Cole because I’m a glutton for punishment and I haven’t seen him in a few days. He watches me approach with a level of arrogance that makes me shiver. I’ll never understand why he’s so intimidating. He’s not that much older than me, just a few years. It’s the black suit, maybe. The shiny metal name tag: COLE CLARK, ASSISTANT DIRECTOR OF OPERATIONS.

  Ooh la la.

  We skip the polite greetings because neither one of us has bothered with them in months. I go straight for the kill.

  “Come to play with your friends? I’m sure we can find you a bingo card. Be warned, though, the needlepoint patterns are going fast. I hope luck is on your side.”

  He almost smiles. “Just checking in on things.”

  He surveys the room as if to prove his point, and I’m treated to a view of his jawline. I focus my attention there before he looks back down at me and stares a beat too long at the big purple flower in my hair.

  “I’m assuming you heard about the limbo incident earlier . . .”

  It’s probably why he’s here, to slap me on the wrist and dole out the necessary punishment.

  I swear he’s fighting back a laugh as he pinches the bridge of his nose. I hold perfectly still, like maybe he’ll give into the feeling if only he forgets that I’m here watching him. Laugh, damn it.

  It doesn’t work. He composes himself, drops his hand, and shakes his head. “Why can’t you just take it easy on these people?”

  “Because they like to have fun! I like to have fun. Look. See?” I start to dance in front of him, shimmying and being silly to see if I can succeed in breaking his character. He’s like one of those stuffy British royal guards. No smiling! No personality whatsoever or the king will hear about it!

  He sighs.

  I continue, shimmying forward and back now instead of side to side.

  It’s a game.

  How long can I force him to stand here and watch me make a fool of myself?

  How long can he keep from laughing?! I’m laughing.

  “Oh fine.” I toss my hands up. “God, you’re so annoying.”

  He ignores the jab. He knows there’s no heat behind it. I’ve been calling him annoying for as long as I’ve known him.