A cruel irony lodged itself in my mind. I'd come to Tahiti to say goodbye to someone I'd loved. Instead, I'd connected with someone new, only to watch him vanish into a crisis that broadcast his name and questionable "facts" across continents.
My phone remained silent in my palm—no response from Michael. There was no breaking news that might explain where he was or what happened after the confrontation.
I stared at the screen until it dimmed, my reflection faint in the black glass. It was a pale outline, hollow-eyed, waiting.
My phone buzzed with a photo app notification."Your memory from three years ago today."
It was a blurry picture of Marissa and me on the Bainbridge ferry. She had windblown hair, no makeup, and her eyes squinted into the sun.
I'd taken the photo right before she grabbed my phone and made me pose for one, too. Neither shot was good.
She'd laughed so hard when she saw them. "You look like a sea-worn scholar in exile."
The ache hit me low in the gut—sudden, deep, stupid.
"I don't want to lose someone else. Not like this."
I stood up too fast. My legs tingled from where I'd been sitting too long. I needed movement. A task. Something I could control.
Back in my room, I stepped into the shower and twisted the knob to its hottest setting. Steam billowed around me as I scrubbed at my skin with mechanical determination.
The resort-provided soap smelled of coconut and vanilla—a tropical indulgence I could no longer enjoy. I scrubbed harder, watching rivulets of gray water swirl down the drain, carrying away soot and ash.
The mirror revealed angry red patches where I'd scrubbed too roughly. My eyes appeared hollowed out.
With a towel wrapped around my waist, I retrieved my leather-bound journal from the bedside table. The familiar weight of it anchored me to routine.
I ran my fingers over the embossed cover, tracing the patterns Marissa had chosen when she'd given it to me. "For the thoughts that need more than margins," she'd written inside the cover.
I'd started countless investigations on the pages—historical puzzles, research questions, and lecture outlines. My methodology never changed: observe, document, question, and connect. Analyze not only what happened but also what was missing.
I opened to a clean page and wrote:
Explosion at Vaitea Marina – Preliminary Observations
I hesitated briefly and then began my list:
• Attacker in tactical gear, masked
• Michael unarmed. Responded as a trained professional
• No ID presented. Visual confirmation of Lars Reeves? None.
• Michael not yet in contact. Legal representation? Unknown.
I underlined the third point several times, the pen digging into the paper. No visual confirmation of Lars Reeves reported. How did they know?
The fourth point troubled me the most. I glanced at my phone again, its screen dark and silent. Still no response.
I added one more bullet point:
• Identification of Lars Reeves—how so quickly? Body burned beyond recognition.
My academic mind churned through possibilities. Dental records? It's impossible in hours. Personal effects? Perhaps, but unlikely, if he'd been in disguise. A confession from Michael? Doubtful.
Something didn't add up. The historian's instinct that had helped me reconstruct narratives from fragmentary evidence sounded alarms. The story presented so far was too neat and convenient.
I tapped my pen against the page, adding another observation:
