Chapter 3

The morning sun blazed mercilessly against the white sand, its heat already oppressive at nine o'clock. I sat beneath a striped umbrella, my wide-brimmed hat casting shadows across my face as I watched Joe pace restlessly near the water's edge. His phone pressed against his ear for the third time in ten minutes.

"Still no answer," he said, frustration creeping into his voice as he rejoined me on the beach towel. "Murphy was supposed to be here thirty minutes ago."

Davis looked up from his book, squinting against the glare. "Maybe he overslept? You know how he is with mornings." But there was something strained in his casual tone, a tightness around his eyes that hadn't been there yesterday.

Drake sat hunched in the sand nearby, his knees drawn up to his chest like a child seeking comfort. He'd been silent since we arrived, his fingers compulsively digging trenches in the sand. Every few minutes, his gaze would dart toward the hotel, then quickly away, as if he expected something terrible to emerge from those pristine white walls.

"This isn't like Murphy," Irene said sharply, her voice cutting through the sound of waves. She stood with her hands on her hips, her designer swimsuit and cover-up immaculate despite the heat. "He's many things, but he's never late when there's attention to be had."

I pressed my fingertips to my temple, letting a small wince cross my features. "Maybe we should check on him? I'm getting worried." My voice carried just the right note of innocent concern, the fragile wife anxious about a friend she couldn't even remember.

Joe was beside me instantly, his hand cool against my overheated forehead. "Are you feeling alright, sweetheart? The sun might be too much."

"I'm fine," I murmured, leaning into his touch. "Just concerned about Murphy. What if something's wrong?"

Davis closed his book with a sharp snap. "Branca's right. We should check his room." He stood, brushing sand from his swim trunks, but I caught the tremor in his hands. "Better safe than sorry."

Drake's head shot up, his face pale beneath his tan. "Maybe he just... maybe he changed his mind about coming down. We shouldn't bother him."

"Since when do you care about bothering Murphy?" Irene's laugh was brittle, sharp-edged. "You've hated him since high school."

The words hung in the humid air like a threat. Drake's mouth opened and closed soundlessly, his eyes darting between Irene and the rest of us with something approaching panic.

Joe helped me to my feet, his protective instincts flaring as he noticed my apparent unsteadiness. "Come on. Let's go check on him together. Branca needs to get out of this heat anyway."

The walk back to the hotel felt endless, our flip-flops slapping against marble floors that seemed to echo our collective anxiety. The air conditioning hit us like a wall of ice, raising goosebumps on my sun-warmed skin. Joe's arm never left my waist, his touch both possessive and protective.

Murphy's room was on the third floor, down a corridor lined with tropical artwork and the scent of hibiscus from fresh flower arrangements. The silence felt oppressive as we approached his door, broken only by the distant hum of the hotel's ventilation system.

Joe knocked firmly. "Murphy? You in there, buddy?"

Nothing.

Davis tried next, his academic voice taking on an edge of authority. "Murphy, we're all waiting for you downstairs. Everything okay?"

Still nothing.

Drake had pressed himself against the opposite wall, his breathing shallow and rapid. Sweat beaded on his forehead despite the air conditioning. "Maybe he's just sleeping deeply. We should leave him alone."

"No." Irene's voice was sharp with growing alarm. "Something's wrong. Murphy's a light sleeper. He would have heard us by now."

Joe was already moving toward the elevator. "I'm getting hotel security. Stay with Branca."

The minutes stretched like hours as we waited in that sterile hallway. I let myself sway slightly, one hand pressed to my forehead in a gesture of mounting distress. Davis moved closer, his concern for me warring with whatever guilt was eating him alive.

"Are you okay?" he whispered, his breath warm against my ear. "You look pale."

"Just tired," I murmured, allowing my voice to tremble. "This feels... familiar somehow. Like déjà vu, but darker."

His face went white. "What do you mean?"

Before I could answer, Joe returned with a uniformed hotel manager and a security guard carrying a master key card. The manager, a middle-aged woman with kind eyes and graying hair, approached the door with professional efficiency.

"Mr. Murphy?" she called, knocking once more. "This is hotel management. We're coming in to check on you."

The electronic lock beeped, and the door swung open with a soft whoosh of displaced air.

The smell hit us first—not decay, not yet, but something wrong. Something final. The manager stepped inside, then immediately stopped, her hand flying to her mouth.

"Oh my God," she whispered.

Joe pushed past her, then froze in the doorway. His face went ashen, his body blocking my view while his protective instincts warred with shock.

But I could see past him, around him, and what I saw was perfect.

Murphy hung from the ceiling fan, a twisted bedsheet around his neck, his body swaying slightly in the air conditioning's breeze. His face was purple, his eyes bulging, his tongue protruding in a grotesque parody of the arrogant smile he'd worn just yesterday. The chair he'd kicked away lay overturned beneath him, a final testament to his last moments of panic.

Irene's scream shattered the silence—a sound of pure anguish that echoed off the walls and seemed to go on forever. She pushed past all of us, throwing herself at Murphy's body, her hands clawing at his legs as if she could somehow pull him back to life.

"No, no, no!" she sobbed, her perfect composure crumbling into raw grief. "Murphy, please! Please wake up!"

The sight should have horrified me. Instead, I felt a sharp pain lance through my skull, and suddenly I was seventeen again, trapped in a locker room while Murphy's hands violated my body, while Drake watched through a crack in the door and did nothing, while Irene counted money for her betrayal.

I staggered backward, my hand flying to my head as manufactured memory fragments crashed over me like waves. The pain was real—I'd practiced triggering my own migraines for months, perfecting the physical symptoms of psychological trauma.

"Branca!" Joe's voice seemed to come from very far away. His arms caught me as I swayed, his body shielding me from the scene in the room. "Don't look, sweetheart. Don't look."

But I had already seen everything I needed to see. Murphy was dead, exactly as I'd planned. The first piece had fallen from the board.

"Get her out of here," Davis said urgently, his voice thick with something that might have been guilt or fear. "She shouldn't see this."

Joe lifted me easily, carrying me away from the chaos and into the hallway where the walls seemed to spin around me in a dizzying kaleidoscope of white and gold. I let my head fall against his shoulder, my body trembling with what everyone would assume was shock and trauma.

Inside Murphy's room, Irene's sobs continued, punctuated by Drake's panicked breathing and the hotel manager's urgent phone calls to police and paramedics. The sound of their collective horror was music to my ears.

One down. Three to go.