Inspector Hauata picked up the thread. "That's what we're investigating. Did Officer McCabe mention knowing Mr. Reeves before the incident?"
"No. We talked about Seattle, but Lars Reeves never came up." I frowned, struggling to process the new information. "Michael was on vacation. So was I. This doesn't make sense."
"Few things do in situations like these." Officer Teuira shut her notebook with a soft thud. "We'll need you to remain available for further questions, but you may take a break. Please don't leave the resort grounds."
As I stood to go, Inspector Hauata asked one more question. "When did Officer McCabe tell you he was with SWAT, Mr. Kessler?"
"At breakfast, about an hour before the explosion."
I could barely hear the words muttered in response. "A convenient disclosure."
A need to defend Michael bubbled up inside me. "He was forced to come here. His brothers made him take a vacation. He didn't want to be in Tahiti at all."
Neither officer responded.
Outside, pink light crept across the clouds as early evening approached. I sat on a low stone wall near the staff parking lot, far enough from the resort's main buildings to avoid the curious stares of guests and employees alike.
My hands trembled as I pulled my phone from my pocket. I had received a wave of notifications: missed calls from my history department chair, texts from colleagues, and news alerts that made my stomach queasy.
OneSeattle Timespush notification stood out against the others:
BREAKING: SWAT Officer Involved in Island Killing – Seattle PD's Michael McCabe Named.
It rattled my world. I tightened my fingers around the phone's frame.
"Of course, the guy I open up to in paradise turns out to be headline news back home," I whispered to myself.
I checked my direct messages, and there was nothing from Michael. There were no missed calls or texts explaining what had happened after they separated us at the marina. I speculated that meant he wasn't allowed access to his phone.
I opened a message thread. My thumbs hovered over the keyboard, hesitating. What do you say to someone you've known for less than a day, who might now be in custody after a deadly altercation?
Finally, I typed a message to Michael:
Alex:Are you okay? Please tell me you're okay.
The delivery confirmation appeared instantly, but there was no indication he'd read it. No three dots appeared to signal a response forming.
I didn't call. The rational part of my brain knew a phone call might interrupt something important. It might ring during questioning or while Michael spoke with lawyers.
My rational thoughts didn't quiet the part of me that desperately wanted to hear his voice. Only he could confirm that he was still the same person who'd offered me a bottle of water on the beach.
Somewhere on the island, Michael faced questions I couldn't answer and accusations I couldn't counter.
I dug my fingers into the rough stone of the wall, seeking something solid as my mind pulled me backward through time. The media firestorm starting to rage around Michael was sickeningly familiar. It was the kind of accelerated rush to judgment I'd witnessed after Marissa's accident.
Two days after the crash, local media began to question whether she'd been texting while driving. They'd based their speculation on nothing but comments from a bystander who "thought" they saw a phone. The lie circulated for days before the police report confirmed her cell phone had been untouched in her purse.
By then, it didn't matter. The narrative was already part of public consciousness. Even at her funeral, I'd overheard a distant cousin wondering if she "might have been distracted."
Now, as the sun dipped toward the horizon, bathing the parking lot in amber light, I recognized the same pattern unfolding around Michael. "SWAT Officer Involved in Island Killing" already presupposed guilt.
I wondered if Michael even had access to legal representation in Tahiti. Did Seattle PD have protocols for officers involved in incidents overseas?
Would the department stand behind him or distance themselves? My questions multiplied, each one heavier than the last.
When Marissa died, I'd been fortunate enough to have friends who formed a protective circle around me. It included colleagues who screened my calls, brought me food I couldn't eat, and sat quietly when words failed.
Who did Michael have? His brothers were an ocean away. His colleagues, too. And I was… what? A stranger who'd shared his bed for one night?