Page 79 of Sunburned

“But not in the Olympics,” Gauthier said, pointing at her. “My little sister is a swimmer. She had your poster on her wall in—”

Lambert cleared his throat, cutting his partner off. “We need to take statements from everyone who was diving today.”

“Marielle told us you need a room,” Cody said. “There’s an office upstairs. I can show you.”

“Do you need anything more from me?” I asked as they started toward the stairs.

“Not now,” Lambert answered. “But you will be here if we have more questions.”

—

I descended the stairs to my room, kicking myself for volunteering to speak to the police as I went over the half-truths I’d just told them about why I was here. Was there any way for them to learn about the blackmailer if I didn’t tell them? I had both the article and the letter the person had sent Tyson hidden inside the pocket of my jeans in my suitcase. But where was the money he’d taken out?

Their questions about who might have had reason to harm him indicated to me that they thought his death hadn’t been an accident, but they’d also asked whether I thought he might have been inclined to harm himself. So maybe they weren’t sure yet what had happened to him and were just covering their bases, not ruling anything out.

Still, I couldn’t help but think of Samira’s other dead husband and her drunken vitriol last night, of Allison’s almost eerie calm, and of Cody’s preoccupation with having everyone sign new NDAs. All these things were suspicious. Yet each made sense: Allison and Cody stillhad a multi-billion-dollar company to run, and whether Samira was more upset that her husband was dead or her meal ticket was gone—because God only knew what his will said—she seemed the right degree of upset, under the circumstances. Hell, everyone did.

Sure, Gisèle and Jennifer were more shell-shocked than anything else, but their relationships with Tyson were the least close. And what of Rémy and Laurent?

Who was Rémy? And what secrets was Tyson holding over Laurent?

I paused between the door to my room on one side of the hall and Laurent’s on the other. I raised my hand to knock on his door but stopped, knuckles inches from the wood, when I heard voices within. Male voices, whispering in tones so low I almost hadn’t heard them.

I glanced up and down the hallway and leaned closer to the door. I could tell they were speaking French, yet their voices were so soft that I couldn’t make out what they were saying. One of the men had to be Laurent, but who was the other? Rémy, most likely, I figured.

Rémy was a new dive instructor, and Tyson had appeared not to know him. Could he have been hired by someone to kill Tyson?

Laurent was who had hired him, I realized with a jolt of unease.

I hovered there, straining to listen, aware I could be caught at any moment if someone came into the hallway. But it was no use. Their voices were too low to make out.

I retreated to my own room, where I shut the door and lay on my bed, the wheels of my mind spinning as I listened for Rémy’s departure. I was getting ahead of myself. I didn’t even know yet what exactly had happened to Tyson.

A knock at my door jerked me out of slumber. I sat up, groggy and disoriented. Clearly the late night and stress had taken their toll, though I wouldn’t have imagined sleep possible in my agitated state. I blinked and checked my watch, surprised to find that more than an hour had passed. “Who is it?” I called out.

“Laurent,” came Laurent’s voice, in a whisper.

I opened the door and he quickly slipped inside and shut it behind him, seemingly no longer worried about what people might thinkabout the two of us being alone together. He was dry now, in a black T-shirt and gym shorts, and clearly on edge, his eyes sunken, jaw tense. Before I could ask him if he was okay, his voice was in my ear, low and urgent.

“Tyson was murdered.”

Chapter 27

“Murdered?” I echoed. My knees felt weak, and I realized I was gripping Laurent’s arm with claw-like fingers. “How?”

“Someone turned off his oxygen,”he whispered.“That’s why it was so hard to locate him. No bubbles. His tank was still half full.”

My head spun. “How did you find out?”

“I was the one who found him,” Laurent said. “He was in a cave off the Snares.”

Laurent steadied me as I lowered myself onto the end of the bed, then sat beside me, his body angled toward mine. “Don’t let anyone know I told you this,” he continued, his eyes deadly serious. “They told us not to tell anyone.”

“You don’t think he could have gotten disoriented in the murk? He could have had nitrogen narcosis or something and turned off his oxygen himself—”

He shook his head, and I thought of how hard it was to reach your own oxygen valve when you were wearing your tank.

“Maybe he hit it…” I suggested, but my voice trailed off as Laurent again shook his head. The oxygen valve was a big knob that had to be spun. We both knew you couldn’t accidentally turn it off.

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