The resort, p.23
The Resort, page 23
“You have no fucking idea.”
“So tell me,” I order. “Tell me what I’m missing.” I’ve dropped the act. I want to know. Or more than that. I need to know. Looking into all this started as a story, one that would serve the dual purpose of getting revenge on Cass and finally starting my career as a journalist. But Lucy’s got under my skin. Those big blue eyes she locked on me that night when she came to me for help. The strength she carried in her delicate frame. Her unwavering confidence. All of that, just thrown away, left to rot in the sea.
Cass stands there, shaking her head, her eyes stone. “Robin was an accident,” she says finally, her voice so quiet it’s barely audible. “My dad was sick. I tried to fix him, to get him the meds he needed. But it all went wrong.”
Something unclenches inside me. I’m getting somewhere finally. She’s going to confess.
“So what about Lucy?” I ask eagerly. “Was that an accident too? Why else would your ring be near her body? And why did you have her phone under your bed?”
“I never took her phone,” Cass says quietly.
“There’s no use denying it. I found it under your bed.” Cass stays silent, her forehead wrinkled, so I switch tactics. “And what about Jacinta? What were you doing the night she died?”
“I was at Frangipani. She was there. But…but then I went home. I’m sure I did.”
Wait. She’s sure she did? “You don’t remember?”
Her face drops. “I started taking Xanax that day. I think I took too many of them at first…”
She trails off, and I process what she’s saying. Despite all the evidence, a small part of me didn’t really think my theories could be right, but what Cass is saying basically confirms them.
“Cass, you killed Jacinta. You lured her up to Khrum Yai and pushed her. And then you strangled Lucy, leaving those bruises on her neck.”
Her gaze slides off me and up the trail to Khrum Yai. As if she’s remembering.
She opens her mouth, and I brace myself for her confession.
And then the rev of an engine ricochets off the trees lining the hill, the sound deafening amid the silence.
Logan is home.
30
CASS
“Leave, now. Before I call the police.”
“Oh right. You have them all in your pocket, don’t you?” Brooke retorts. “That must be convenient, you know, now that you’re getting married to a murderer and all.”
I feel emotion flood my lungs, forcing in a breath at Brooke’s comment. At the noticeable flinch I see in Logan’s face as he’s confronted for the first time with what I actually am. A murderer.
“But you don’t know anything about her really,” Brooke continues. “You don’t know what—”
“I said, leave.” Logan’s voice is gruff, a tone I’ve never heard him use before. I watch as his hands ball up, his muscles tense. The only time I’ve seen him this angry was when he found out an employee at Frangipani had been stealing money from the bar. He’d come home that night with rage on his face and bruises on his knuckles.
Brooke notices it too, and I see a flash of fear in her eyes as she takes a step back. She opens her mouth again, but Logan beats her to it.
“Come inside,” he says to me.
And I do, but first, I steal a glance back at Brooke. She’s still standing there, her lips parted slightly, the anger flashing in her eyes.
I turn, following Logan in, my mind playing Brooke’s accusations on a loop. You killed Jacinta… You strangled Lucy.
I try to deny it, but I’m not sure I can any longer. I was so jealous, so hurt when I saw Logan and Jacinta together. It threw my entire life off course.
And everything Brooke said makes sense. All the evidence adds up.
I barely register once we’re inside. For once, this house doesn’t feel like home.
Logan takes a seat in the armchair at the far side of the living room and buries his head in his hands. A portrait of a man defeated.
“Logan,” I say, going to him. But when I place my hand on his shoulder, he recoils as if I’ve burned him.
I can feel the life I’ve built here crumble around me. It started when I saw Logan with Jacinta, a few pieces of sand breaking off. And then a wall fell when I found that first envelope on my doorstep, and now, all of it has turned to dust, a sturdy sandcastle washed away in the waves.
With that realization comes the panic that’s been lapping at my toes the last few days. I’ve built everything around Logan, this man who loved me, who wanted to spend his life with me. I have nowhere to go, no idea who I am without him. Compulsive need engulfs me, squeezing tight.
“Please. I love you.” The panic laces my words, but Logan doesn’t even turn. “Let me explain.”
“Explain?” That does it. Logan spits out the word as if I’ve cursed him, twisting his body toward me. “Explain what? That you lied to me about who you are this whole time? That you said your father and sister died in a car accident? That I know bugger all about you? Not even your name?”
“Please,” I try again.
“I thought Brooke was lying. When Doug told me about her Instagram post, I didn’t even want to look at it. I told him that it was a load of shite, that you would never lie to me. I thought I knew you…” He trails off, clears his throat. “But then I thought of the paper I found in the drawer the other day when I was looking for a takeaway menu. It said something about a massacre and had a picture of a girl on it. I thought it was rubbish and I tossed it. God, I didn’t even recognize you in that picture. My own fiancée. You must have thought I was so stupid.”
“No, Logan, never. You have to understand, I couldn’t tell you who I really was. You never would have loved me.”
Logan makes a noise that falls somewhere between a cough and a laugh. “But I did, Cass—Meghan, whoever you are. I loved you so much.”
Apparently not enough to stop you from cheating with Jacinta. The words come from nowhere, rising up my throat like acid, hot and mean. I force them down with a swallow that feels like needles sticking into my throat.
“I’ve protected you from so much here that you don’t even know about. I’ve made it my job to keep you safe. I lied for you about where you were the night Lucy died, and I was prepared to keep lying for you.” Logan’s use of the past tense causes my muscles to stiffen. “And then I find out that it wasn’t the first time you killed. You murdered your own father and sister, for God’s sake. I googled it. None of it makes any sense.” His voice breaks. I move forward to comfort him, but I stop when I see him flinch. “You told me they died in a car accident. A car accident!” He shakes his head as if he still can’t believe it. “Honestly, it makes me sick to think I’ve been sleeping next to you all these years.”
“Logan, please,” I cry. Every one of his words slices my skin.
He turns his head, but he’s quiet. And I realize this is my chance. The only one I may have left. I need to make him understand. I take a deep breath, and I finally let out the words I’ve been holding in for so long.
“My father was sick,” I start. Logan’s head is still turned away from me. “It was likely undiagnosed bipolar disorder. He seemed to have it under control when I was young, at least from what I remember. But when my mother died when I was a teenager… I think the grief triggered it. He had these, like, manic episodes. He would be violent toward me and Robin. He would hurt us.
“The injuries were never too serious. We could usually cover the bruises and scrapes easily enough, so no one would know. When I left for college, Robin had to bear the brunt of my dad by herself. I thought he was getting better by then. We both did. I wouldn’t have left her behind if I thought otherwise.
“But then, during the beginning of my sophomore year of college, he lost his job. After that, he spiraled. Robin’s injuries became more frequent, more severe. We tried to get him to a doctor, but he wouldn’t go. During fall break, I requested that he go see our local practitioner, and I ended up with a dislocated shoulder. And it wasn’t like we had any other options. Both our parents were only children, my mom’s parents were long since dead, and my dad’s mother didn’t want anything to do with us.
“I needed to help Robin. But she was still seventeen. Underage. If I called Child Protective Services, they would have put her in foster care. It would have killed my father. And I was just nineteen and in college. I wasn’t ready to take care of her on my own.” I squeeze my eyes shut, working up the nerve to tell the worst part of the story. “So I did the only thing I could think that would work. That would save them. Robin and my dad.”
All this time, Logan’s had his eyes glued to the floor, but this statement finally prompts him to turn toward me, giving me the reassurance I need to continue.
“I knew my father would never get better without medical help. But there was no way Robin and I would ever be able to get him to go to a doctor. So I decided to bring the medicine to him.”
I remember when the thought came to me as I was tossing and turning in my dorm room bed. It was so simple it made me sit upright. If this worked, everyone would win. My dad would get better, Robin would be safe, and everything would go back to normal. Like it was before my mom died.
“I started going to the school medical center, telling them I had all Dad’s conditions. I explained my periods of hyperactivity, which would boil over into violence, along with weeks where it was impossible to get out of bed. I included just enough secondhand details to make it believable. And it worked. The doctor prescribed me Xanax.”
I feel Logan’s attention prick up at the sound of the drug.
“I started stockpiling it. My father and Robin were planning to come visit me at school for Thanksgiving that year. I figured I would slip my dad the drugs during the visit. If it made him calmer, more like our old dad, I would give the rest to Robin with instructions to start putting the crushed-up pills in his food and drinks. I thought I’d figured everything out. Thinking back on it now, I can’t believe I thought it would work. It was stupid, really—so many things could have gone wrong. The doctor could have stopped prescribing me the Xanax. Maybe it wasn’t even the type of medication my dad needed after all. He could have noticed or felt the difference and panicked. But I didn’t think that far ahead. I was just happy to have found what I thought was a solution, a way to help Robin after leaving her in that mess.”
I cough, trying to cover the emotional choke hold the memory has over me. The anger at my naivete.
“I barely slept the few days before my father and Robin came to visit. But when they did arrive, Dad didn’t notice anything was off. He didn’t stop talking long enough to. He’d booked us this huge room at the hotel down the street from school, a suite with two separate bedrooms, a living room, and a makeshift kitchen. More space than we needed by far.
“When we were unpacking, he pulled out a cooler I hadn’t noticed in the car. It had a bottle of Moët and a Tupperware of strawberries. He said he was proud of us and wanted us to celebrate…” Tears prick the backs of my eyes, and I feel my throat grow thick.
“That’s why you seemed so off when we had the champagne at our engagement party,” Logan says, and I nod frantically, feeling a small prick of hope that I can make him understand.
“Dad popped the bottle and started pouring, and he had Robin use one of the hotel knives to cut up the strawberries to put in our glasses. When he turned around to supervise her, I knew that was my chance. I pulled out a Ziploc bag of two crushed Xanax pills I’d prepared the night before and shoved in my pocket and dropped the contents into one of the glasses, using my finger to stir it as quickly and quietly as I could. Neither of them noticed.”
I look over to Logan, who’s still staring at me with wide eyes. I want desperately for him to reach for my hand. To give me the comfort he usually does. But he doesn’t move.
“They came back from the kitchen with the strawberries, my dad picking up each glass and plunking them in. I made sure Dad got the right flute, and after we all clinked our glasses, I watched him take a sip. I was so relieved, so sure that everything was going to work.
“I hadn’t told Robin about any of it. I didn’t want her to be involved if my father found out what we were doing. I wanted all the blame to be mine.
“My dad was on a high, talking a mile a minute. And then he grabbed us, one by one, twirling us around the room, dancing, despite there being no music. He took the glasses, handing each of us one to drink. I tried to follow them, I really did, but I didn’t see which one he picked up. I couldn’t be sure that he’d grabbed the right one.”
I pause again, my breath growing thin as I get closer to the end.
“I should have found a way to confirm that Dad had the right glass. I should have knocked it out of Robin’s hand or warned her in some way. But I couldn’t move. It was as if I was frozen. And she drank it so quickly. In two gulps. She was so excited, her first glass of champagne.”
Despite everything, a sad, wet-sounding laugh erupts from my lips, quickly evolving into a sob. I swallow it, forcing myself to continue.
“And then Robin started saying that she felt sick. She staggered into the closest bedroom, barely making it onto the bed. And she never moved again.”
I hear Logan’s breathing stop, just like Robin’s did all those years ago. I force myself through it as I feel the tears on my cheeks, rushing to get to the end as quickly as possible.
“Dad knew something was wrong immediately. He ran to her, shaking her body, screaming her name, but she didn’t move. He checked her breathing, took her pulse, but I could already tell she was gone. And then he snapped. Just like he always used to.”
The tears pool at my eyelids as I remember his voice, deep and hateful, a tone I had never heard him use even at his most manic. “You. You did this. What did you give her? Her heart, Meghan!”
“Apparently, my sister had a heart condition I didn’t know about,” I continue. “She had been diagnosed a few months before, but she never told me. I guess she didn’t want me to worry. She wasn’t supposed to drink, something my father clearly ignored. And the Xanax mixed with the champagne was too much for her to take.” I pinch the bridge of my nose and feel a tear sneak down my cheek.
“My dad started coming at me across the living room,” I say, forcing myself to finish. “I could tell in his eyes, Logan, he was going to kill me. I’ve never seen such pure rage before. So I backed up, away from him, until my legs hit the kitchen counter. And he grabbed my throat, squeezing, squeezing. I don’t know how he didn’t break my neck.”
Instinctively, my fingers rise to my throat, and I can feel my father’s hands there. As if, in some way, they’ve never left. My mind flicks back to the ghostly bruises I saw on Lucy’s neck, and I shake my head to rid it of the memory. I can’t think of her right now.
“I tried to grab anything I could to fend him off. Anything that would get his hands off me. And then my finger brushed against the knife Robin had been using to chop the strawberries. I grabbed at it and raised it above me, but Dad saw it first. He released his hand from my throat and took it. I never had a chance.”
As if on cue, the overhead lights flicker. I pause, listening to the steady thrum of rain against the roof. I’ve been so absorbed in my story I hadn’t noticed that the storm had finally started.
“He didn’t even pause. I didn’t feel it when the knife went in. It was like watching a movie. When he realized what he’d done, Dad just dropped his hands and backed away, like he was in shock.”
I realize my fingers have moved from my throat and are now tracing the scar above my chest. Logan’s eyes dart there too.
“That’s what the scar is from. Not a car accident,” he says, understanding breaking through the sorrow in his eyes. All I can do is nod.
The doctor told me later it was a miracle, that the knife had missed my aorta by less than a centimeter. He told me I should be grateful. I couldn’t even comprehend the meaning of the word.
“Somehow I managed to pull the knife out with both hands,” I tell Logan. “I swear, it was like it was all happening to someone else. I didn’t feel anything. And before I knew it, the knife was in my hand, and then it wasn’t anymore. It was in my father’s stomach.”
I trail off then, exhausted. I want to collapse, to sleep forever. But I can’t. I need to see what Logan feels after hearing this, the story I was never prepared to tell him. I brace myself for his anger, his disgust from earlier.
But his eyes carry none of those emotions. Instead, he looks at me with a mix of shame and pity. He shakes his head solemnly, and for the first time since I saw Brooke’s letter on my doorstep days ago, I cautiously let myself believe that everything will be okay between us.
“Cass,” Logan says, and I feel my heart rate accelerate. “I’m so sorry that happened to you. I can’t believe you had to go through that.”
I want to reach for him but wait for him to give me the signal to do so.
“But I can’t process this all right now.” His words make me shrink back. “Why wouldn’t you just tell me at the beginning? Why all the lies?”
“I just didn’t—”
“You never gave me a chance,” he interrupts. “You didn’t trust how much I love you.”
I cling to that word, the present tense. “We can still fix this, Logan. We can put all this behind us.”
Logan shakes his head once, and it feels like a bullet to the chest. “Brooke’s post is all over Instagram. It’s bloody viral.” He looks down at his hands. “It puts everything we have here at risk.”
He stands up and I want to cling to him. He starts walking toward the door.
“You’re not…leaving?” I manage to ask through the tears stuck in my throat.
I see him open the front door, and I feel so far away, so helpless.
“I just need some time to think this through,” he says. “I’m sorry, but I think it’s better if you find somewhere else to stay tonight. I…I need some space right now. I’m going to take a drive. Please don’t be here when I get back.”
