Instantly he recoiled at the voice inside his head – he wasn’t still that dependent, surely? He didn’t need them that much – not now? Not after the last stint in rehab, when he’d really, truly, thought he didn’t need them in the same way; that he could take them or leave them.
No. It wasn’t withdrawal or cravings that was messing with his head. It was allthis. Hannah’s death, getting lost in the jungle, the whole disaster of coming here.
He should never have got on that plane. He should be at home in his apartment right now, catching up on work emails, the dog snoring at his feet. He could have avoided ever being part of this, ever having to see the horrors of the day.
He turned back to his bag, checked again to make sure no one was awake, watching him. Because it wasn’t only the remnants of what was inside his pill packet that he needed to protect now.
There was something else in there too; something he was keeping a tightly held secret from his companions.
Just for now; just until he knew what to do with it.
Ben thought back to the moment he’d first seen it. When he’d pushed through the trees and taken in the horror in front of him; when, after a moment, he’d realized what – andwho– he was seeing, his body had responded without his brain’s command: he had moved towards her, fallen to his knees, let his hands sink to the earth near her head.
He was at once repulsed by her body, and at the same time compelled to move closer to her; as if to confirm this was really, truly her – the same Hannah whose voice could both energize and soothe at the same time; whose facial expressions could tell a hundred different stories at once. That woman, who was so vibrant, so full of life – how could that be the same person that was now inhabiting this lifeless, bloated corpse?
And then, as his eyes moved over her, they had latched on to something else, something he’d not expected to see. It was poking out the top of one of her unfurled hands, but buried almost underneath it – as though she were both trying to tuck it away and make sure it would be found.
A photo.
Four inches by six, printed on shiny paper. He’d almost said it out loud, that he’d seen it. He was so close to doing that, to telling them, wondering out loud whose picture it was, and why Hannah was holding it when she died. But at the last second he decided against it. Quickly, with no more than a brief glance at the stranger in the photograph, he shoved it into the side pocket of his rucksack, not knowing exactly why. But if he could work out who it was, perhaps it would help to incriminate the right person – and shift suspicion away from anyone else who’d happened to be there, who might be seen – wrongly – as a suspect.
Ben looked across at the others: all four of them seemed to be resting now – or at least, they were all lying on the ground, turned away from him.Perhaps now is a good time to take a look at it?If he kept the flashlight on, but turned his back to the others, he could focus the beam on the photo without them noticing.
He glanced behind him again, waved the flashlight across the faces of his companions; yes, they all had their eyes closed. He turned back to his bag, rooted around in the side pocket, and felt his fingers touch the edges of the picture. He pulled it out, turning the flashlight onto it as steadily as he could with trembling hands. He paused, the roar of blood in his ears nearly drowning out the rainforest’s nocturnal cries, and stared at it.
The woman in the picture was unfamiliar to him; he didn’t recognize her face, and he was sure he’d remember seeing her, if he had. She was cute: tan skin, choppy, bobbed hair and bright blue eyes looking up under heavy lids; brows raised teasingly, as if to say,Get over here. She was smiling broadly, showing neat rows of teeth, and Ben could just tell she had one of those deep, throaty laughs that always made his heart thump a little faster. She seemed to be in a bedroom; Ben could see the shape of a pillow behind her, but nothing much else. There were deep grooves criss-crossing the centre of the photo, as if it had been folded up and carried around; tucked in a pocket, or a wallet maybe. But no other clues as to who she was. Was this woman in the picture Hannah’s killer? Or might she know who was? Ben wanted to will the photo to talk back to him; to ask this person all the questions turning over and over in his mind.
He flipped the photo over, scanned its back for any lettersor dates – anything that might give him a hint as to who this woman was, or why Hannah died holding her picture. He found nothing; just a blank white surface.
He sighed, folded the picture carefully back up and tucked it in his bag. He should tell the others about it – he should show it to them, see if they could shed any light on it. It wasn’t that he didn’t trust them exactly, though he doubted he was the only one holding things back. He just needed to find a good moment, that was all. In the morning, when they all got up, he’d tell them about it.
Until then, just for tonight, he’d keep it to himself; a secret he could grip close to his chest.
It wasn’t the only secret he was keeping, of course. But there was no way in hell he could let the other one slip.
He needed to be far away from Costa Rica before anyone here found that one out.
MIRA
Mira opened her eyes and the memories of the day before flooded her brain in a sickening rush.
First, the mudslide, the desperation of almost suffocating, being buried under piles of earth. Then the sheer, devastating horror of finding Hannah – of grasping that someone could have done that to her, plus the confusion over the timings. Then the sinking realization that they were lost; that they weren’t going to make it out of the rainforest before nightfall.
Confronted with this onslaught of thoughts, she felt strangely numb. That was the only way to describe it. As if she were now frozen in time and space, unable to feel anything except the sharp, stabbing pain around her ribs – and a cold ache in her chest that told her something awful had happened. She’d felt this coldness before, more than once. The day the doctors had first given her the diagnosis. Then having to tell Ezra; the dread written across his face.
And again, when they’d told her that unless she continued with more and more rounds of invasive, painful treatment, then she’d likely never recover.
A sob rose up in her chest. She shouldn’t have come here;it was so stupid. What had she done? What had she beenthinking?
Lying on the application form, pretending to be in the best of health. And worse perhaps, lying in the video to Hannah, and even now letting the others think she was better: basing her whole story about why she wanted to come here on a series of mistruths.
The truth was different: the truth was that her cancer was not gone; it had never been gone. To her family’s despair and her husband’s fury, she had simply refused to undergo more treatment, seemingly content to let the cancer grow and mutate inside her body until she was nothing but tumours.
She’d just wanted to experience something of life, one last adventure. So it had seemed worth it, lying to come here, if it could give her that. But she hadn’t thought about the impact of her lies on everyone else. She hadn’t realized how much she’d be slowing them down, how much she would need their support – yes, even without the mudslide, even if Hannah were here and alive and everything was going exactly to plan. Even then, she’d have struggled, she’d have needed them to help her the whole way; she’d never have managed it alone.
And now they were lost out here, and Hannah was dead, and she was slowing them down. She could see now that telling her lies had been a reckless thing to do; it was selfish. Her husband had told her that, over and over. And he was right. How could she justify it now? Especially if her dishonesty led to any of them coming to harm –moreharm.
To make matters worse, she couldn’t ignore the signs her body was giving her now, more furiously.
