Then Things Went Dark, page 22
“I’ve spoken to several of your fellow contestants,” Kennard says, just like they’d agreed. At this point, nothing short of a confession will do. “And more than one of them has pointed us in your direction regarding Mr. Sutton’s death.”
“Deflection, obviously,” Jerome says. “I think the only thing I said to Rhys the day he died was ‘Should I leave the milk out.’ He’d been distant, you know, since he started dating her. Spent more time with her than he did any of the rest of us.”
“And you didn’t like her?” Kennard asks, though of course he knows the answer.
Jerome considers before finally shrugging. “I liked her well enough, I just don’t think they were well suited for one another. She was the kind of girl who complained when her boyfriend was an asshole like she didn’t pick the asshole. And he clearly only liked her because of a lack of better options.”
“So you admit he was an asshole?”
Jerome glares at him. “I don’t think I said that at all.”
“Well,” Kennard says, moving on. “I’d like to circle back around to the drugs found on the island, in the smoking area, no less, where you spent forty minutes the day Rhys died. And then, I’d like to discuss this write- up filed at your workplace for an incident involving white lines at a Christmas party.”
“They never concluded anything.”
“No, but they’re HR and we’re Interpol, so we’ll take our chances.”
Kennard and Cloutier finish their interviews simultaneously, emerging into the hall and nearly colliding. Which means they both notice the looks from the other officers at the same time, passing them on the way to their unofficial office.
Maes is waiting for them, angrier than Kennard’s ever seen her, and he’s worked with her for years— her whole body stuck in rigid lines, barely able to talk, as she just spins her computer screen to face them.
It takes a moment to realize what he’s looking at— some partiers in Berlin, a video of a bar. And then he sees it, him and Cloutier in the background, clearly visible as they laugh, their faces turning toward the camera, not realizing it’s there. He watches as they turn back to each other. He remembers this, during those brief weeks they thought they could make it work— how it felt easy. Kissing him felt so easy.
Cloutier reaches out, clutches him, nails curling into his skin as they watch their undoing.
“It’s everywhere,” Maes says. “You’ve gone from passing mention to the center of the scandal—is Interpol even investigating properly? Or are their lead detectives too busy fucking each other to pay attention to the murder? And frankly, I’d love an answer to that one too.”
Season 1, Episode 14
The day passes quickly, the heat muted into a hazy, sleepy warmth. The contestants chatting amicably for the most part, Araminta rarely leaving Rhys’s arms. And he’s so much nicer than he ever was.
Isko: I have lost count of how many times I was nearly sick. We get it. You’ve fucked and made up. The unending stream of compliments was worse than the times they tried to apparently eat each other.
Araminta: I’m still annoyed with Isko, but, well, I’m optimistic. I’m only a point behind and we’re only halfway through the competition. I think I can win this.
As the afternoon dims into evening, Araminta announces she is going to go shower before dinner.
She expects Rhys to accompany her but he just calls after her: “Wear that blue thing I adore, will you?”
Kalpana wants to shake her when she nods without a second thought.
Over dinner, the contestants gather around the table discussing Desert Island Discs. No one can follow it given they all pick the most obscure songs they can think of, and by nature, no one else has heard of them.
“Four a.m. in an Empty Room,” Rhys says, and Theo looks to him, waiting for the smirk or the laugh that should accompany Rhys naming one of his songs.
“Really?” he asks, when none is forthcoming.
Rhys nods. “I’ve never denied your talent, Theo; you just need to direct it better.”
“That sounds like a challenge,” Theo says.
Then he leaps to his feet, grabs an empty wine bottle from the side, and readjusts his actual microphone on his collar to make sure it can hear him in full clarity. He launches into a song.
It’s so abrupt that for a moment they don’t know what to do with it. But it’s exciting, and more than that, he’s good, incredible really—the sort of voice that you feel in your spine, in your very skin, and actually having something interesting to watch is a thrilling break from performing interest to a camera.
Araminta: Most people would have to pay a lot of money to see Theo Newman perform like that, wouldn’t they?
The song is new, a slightly different vibe than RiotParade’s. It’s angrier, certainly, but more soulful too.
Rhys cocks his head to the side to watch.
Rhys: He’s clearly on his way to something, but, well, let’s not make the mistake of believing the strategy only comes out during competitions. I would say he’s doubling down on launching his solo career. It makes you wonder if this was always his plan.
He finishes with a bold final note, and they all begin a gentle applause.
Jerome clears his throat. He suspects he is not being given the screen time he deserves, that he needs, if he’s going to win in the court of public opinion before the actual trial. So he will force himself back into group conversations no matter how much they try to cut him out. “I believe it was my turn, actually, on the song I’d take to a desert island. Before that…interruption.” He turns his cruel eyes on Araminta. “And I’d choose ‘Peppermint.’”
She doesn’t even look like she hears him, too busy trailing circles across Rhys’s thighs and, now that Theo is done, staring out at the ocean.
“I never answered either. I’d probably go old school,” Theo says. “The Who or something.”
“Didn’t the drummer murder someone?” Kalpana asks.
“He accidentally ran over his bodyguard—hardly a criminal mastermind,” Theo scowls.
“I’m sorry, is there a certain level of masterminding required for something to be considered murder?” Rhys asks with an exhale that is equal parts derision and amusement. “Since you’re apparently an authority, how would you do it?”
“Poison,” Jerome says instantly. “Something innocuous, like mushrooms, and if I have to buy it, then purchased in cash. Something that could be an accident but probably isn’t.”
“Poison is weak,” Isko says.
“Exactly. It’s a woman’s weapon, which means if they’re looking at all they won’t be looking for me.”
“Yes, the police are so easily deceived.” Araminta rolls her eyes.
“And how would you do it?” he asks.
“With a chisel, probably.”
“You’d hardly get away with that,” Jerome says. “You might as well carve your name into the corpse.”
“Who said anything about trying to get away with it?” she counters. “If I killed someone, I’d want the world to know.”
“Femme fatale with five minutes of fame?” Rhys asks.
She just smirks back. “Sure, or maybe I think I’d only kill someone if it was righteous—not an act to be hidden, but held aloft. An example, if you will.”
“Okay, that’s hot,” Rhys says.
“I’d suffocate them,” Isko says. “Hold a pillow against their face—no mess and difficult to prove.”
Rhys laughs. “And with what upper-body strength would you do this?”
“I’m sorry—do you need a reminder?” Isko appraises Rhys, like he would just as soon stab him as fuck him, but there’s something unnervingly erotic about it regardless.
“A syringe full of air,” Kalpana says, “in between the toes—it’ll look like a heart attack.”
“Christ, that’s psychopath shit,” Theo says.
“No, it’s not; it’s a viral social media post,” Araminta sighs. “Next you’ll be saying to bury the body beneath a dead dog.”
“As long as it’s vertical,” Kalpana says, grinning.
“Wouldn’t you pay someone else to do it for you?” Jerome asks Kalpana.
“That would leave a trail, surely.”
“Family connections, then,” he suggests. “Rich people have those, don’t they?”
“I don’t know what you’re admitting, Jerome. I had no idea Silicon Valley was crawling with potential hitmen. Then again, you’d have no problem getting on the dark web.”
“Google works just as well,” Jerome says, then adds under his breath, “especially when you’re a retail tycoon.”
No one else hears, but Kalpana does, snapping to face him with eyes that are wide and terrified.
Jerome: She’s not my partner anymore, is she? I have no need to keep her filthy secrets.
Kalpana reaches for her drink, running through ways to spin this: To declare it boldly and pretend she never hid it, simply didn’t mention it? To refocus on all the positive changes she’s made? To ignore it? She’s hardly the only activist to keep rich parents quiet—it doesn’t fit the vibe, and it’s a distraction when people yell at you for it rather than the real issues.
“What about you, Newman?” Rhys asks.
Theo shakes his head. “You know, not everyone sits around plotting murder.”
“I’ve yet to meet someone who hasn’t toyed with the idea, just once.”
Theo shrugs. “I’d confess the moment the police so much as looked at me. Probably best not to let it get that far.”
“Good evening, contestants!” Eloise calls from the TV screens. “Are you ready for your challenge? We want to give you all the opportunity to claw back some points, so this week you’ll all be competing against each other. But the popular vote will still be awarded and the victor given an advantage in the challenge. Are we ready?”
They glance at one another uncertainly.
“We had a tie in our vote tonight between expecting our icons to be generous or cunning. Which is exactly the choice you’ll have to make—one by one you’ll enter the confession booth and face a simple challenge. Complete it and you’ll have the option to either sabotage another contestant or reward them. Which will win, your tactics or your kindness?”
The contestants glance at one another, waiting for the catch, until Kalpana finally asks what they’re all thinking: “Why would anyone choose to reward another contestant?”
Eloise nods like she was waiting for it. “Because you aren’t rewarding them in the competition. There are no points this time around, just the opportunity to set yourselves up for future success. Because your prize is to give another contestant a letter from home.”
So this is the choice: an edge in the popular vote by making the nice choice, or an edge in the challenge itself with an advantage over an opponent.
Araminta is the first to react, which surprises only those who have not been paying attention. Sure, she might harp on about her estrangement from her family, but there are five cameras on her at this moment.
“Oh my god! A letter from home!” She blurts, unable to think of anything better to say.
“Alex,” Isko breathes, leaning toward the screen as though enraptured.
The others feign excitement, but it’s too tinged by fear to appear quite real. Letters like that could say anything. At their best, they could destroy the version of themselves they’ve created for the show, could drag the people they are away from this island into the spotlight. They’d almost rather someone gain an advantage against them than deliver those letters into their hands.
The tasks themselves are easy puzzles that they finish in moments—clear that the real challenge is the decision itself.
Jerome doesn’t imagine there’s much benefit to the advantage—he already knows so much—and choosing the letter might redeem him a little and entice the public to his side. It would go against the image she conjures of herself if Kalpana picked anything other than the letter. Theo feels like any other option is taking something he himself would kill for away from someone. Araminta knows her own family situation will be at the forefront of everyone’s minds, and what better way to play on sympathy than to sacrifice herself for someone else’s well wishes from home. And Rhys chooses the letter only so he can imagine hand delivering Araminta’s to her himself.
But Isko doesn’t hesitate.
He slams the button for an advantage, and when asked who he’d like to sabotage he punches in Rhys’s name.
There are no points to be won, and no reason Rhys would read him winning a letter for another contestant as a means of disobeying his command to throw the competition. It’s a weak taste of a revenge he was beginning to believe he’d never get.
Which means that when Rhys finishes his challenge and chooses the letter, a new reel begins playing on his screen. A string of close-up shots of every time someone has touched Araminta, her thighs around Theo’s head, her arms around Kalpana’s waist, her bound wrist against Isko’s.
Rhys’s sabotage is his own jealousy, and the flames of it lick with such vitriol he can hardly contain it. He throws the door to the confession booth open with so much force it slams into the wall behind him as he leaves.
His arm is tense around Araminta and he does not cool so much as bury the fire deep. It is almost worse, to see him simmer rather than boil over.
Theo finds the boxes with letters on the beach, each one with a digital lock that has opened in response to their success. He piles them all in one box and hauls it back to the firepit.
“There are only five,” he says. “Looks like someone chose sabotage.”
They look at one another—wondering who and, worse, if they are the victim, if something might happen to them when they least expect it.
Rhys: Of course, I didn’t say anything. If I had to see that, then they can simmer in their fear that it’s coming to them.
“Never mind that now,” Araminta says. “Not when there are lovely notes from home right there. Let’s celebrate that and come back to the other options later.”
Theo digs through the scrolls before looking up at Jerome. “I’m sorry, mate. It looks like it was your letter that wasn’t won.”
“Are you fucking kidding me?” Jerome starts rooting through the box himself, like it might be hiding.
Jerome: That’s what I get for being a good fucking person.
Kalpana: Whatever. He probably chose sabotage himself.
“Then forgive me if I don’t stick around for your happy family reunions,” he spits, tapping his pockets for his tobacco and marching away without another word.
The others stare, not quite feeling guilty that Jerome doesn’t have a letter, but perhaps wondering if they should pretend they do.
“Shall we read each other’s aloud?” Kalpana asks, just to break the silence.
“I suppose we’d better,” Araminta says because she knows the cameras better than anyone else. And no one wants to watch someone read something in silence. Besides, she’s used to milking her tragedies to entertain an audience.
“I’ll start,” Theo offers, when no one moves. He reaches in and grabs a scroll at random, Kalpana scrawled in gold, looping letters on the side.
Kalpana: If it’s anyone reading it, I want it to be him.
“Kalpana, I’m not even sure how to encapsulate just how proud of you we all are.” Theo grins. “It’s been a blessing to watch you flourish and show the world what you can do. Keep up the fantastic work, and don’t let the haters and the press and all that nonsense get you down. We all love you so much, and we can’t wait to see what you make next. Love, Divya and Anika.”
Kalpana buries her face in her hands, surprising herself by crying. Theo wraps his arms around her and she holds him for a moment.
When she pulls away, she is smiling, tears still running down her cheeks.
“I didn’t even know how much I needed to hear from my sisters,” she says.
What press? What haters?
She needs to win, because donating that money to some charitable cause would silence whatever anyone is saying. Winning is her salvation.
She sighs. “Go on then. I’ll read the next one.”
Isko passes her the box and recognizes the writing pressing through the page before she can even turn it to the name. “Oh, that one’s mine.”
“Darling,” Kalpana reads, “I cannot tell you how much I miss you and how furious I am to be proved wrong—you can last on this island, and clearly you can outshine the rest of the competition, make the whole world jealous of me for being engaged to you, and make me miss you more than I ever have. I love you, and I can’t wait to hold you in my arms once more, Alex.”
“Awww,” they chorus, mostly because they know it will annoy him.
Araminta: I can’t believe the fiancé is real, honestly.
Theo: I guess an open relationship really can work.
“I guess I’ll read one,” Isko says, unable to quite dismiss his smile. “Araminta, I have yours. Okay um… Babe, you are totally rocking this thing! I’m so impressed! Can’t wait to celebrate your win (because I’m certain you will) and blow all your prize money on a villa in the Med (that is the plan, right?). See you as soon as you get back home, Binki.”
Araminta smiles. “That’s nice.”
“Who’s Binki, and why do her parents hate her?” Kalpana asks.
“My friend from art school,” she says. “And I always assumed it was a nickname, but she’s from Chelsea so you never know.”
Isko: So we’re all out here getting letters from family and fiancés, and Araminta gets some random girl she went to college with? I know she’s estranged and everything, but was everyone else busy?
Theo: I don’t think I’ve ever wanted to hug someone more. She looked like she could shatter.
“I can’t wait to meet her, minx,” Rhys says, squeezing the hand he holds.
“My turn, I suppose,” Araminta says, a touch too forced. She draws a scroll. “I have Theo—oh you’re going to have to read your own, Rhys.”
Rhys shrugs. “I’m good with that.”
“Newman! Stop bad-mouthing us, man. I swear we can change, haha! Oh god,” Araminta gasps. “This is from before…”
