The lights flickered on and illuminated the scene like a spotlight hitting a stage, and for a moment Ashley was totally confused, as if she’d just been dropped back into reality after a vivid waking dream. A dream where there wasn’t a storm; the power hadn’t cut out. There wasn’t currently a man lying dead in the foyer. She’d imagined it all.

And then, with a tweak of Preston’s fingers on her arm, a rattle of fierce wind against the bolted front door, she blinked.

A back-up generator. A dead body downstairs. Seven strangers standing around in shock.

Someone had to do something.

Ashley drew in a breath and pulled away from Preston, taking the stairs two at a time. “Move aside,” she said to everyone and no one, seeing nothing but the body, all the blood. Someone said her name—Preston, maybe, or it might’ve been the other guy…Frank?

Pulse. Check for a pulse.

“What are you doing?”

That was one of the sisters, her tone sharp and scandalized, as if Ashley was somehow violating the body by pressing her fingers to the cold, clammy skin of the neck.

She couldn’t look at Larry’s head, turned slightly away from her as he lay face down on the luxurious marble floor.

Marble was such a hard material.

“I’m a nurse.”

No pulse. No breath.

Time of death…

“That doesn’t mean—”

Her knees were stained with blood now. There was a streak of it down the side of her left hand. “Someone give me a phone,” she said.

Preston joined her, then addressed the group at large, “She knows what she’s doing.” Then he put fingers beneath Ashley’s chin and made her look up at him. His eyes were almost frightening. “I’ll be right back,” he said, and she nodded, watching him walk away. His hands were balled into fists at his sides.

Maude handed her an iPhone, swallowing queasily. “Is he dead?” she asked, and then, immediately: “Of course he’s dead.” She made a face and looked away as Ashley took the phone from her.

Karen tutted. “This asshole’s blood is on my shoe.” There must’ve been a shocked reaction of some kind, because she sighed irritably and snapped, “Oh, as if anyone actually cares that he’s died.” But Ashley wasn’t aware of the reactions going on above her—she was too busy taking pictures. Gathering evidence.

Frank cleared his throat. “I care.” He sounded almost robotic.

“The man was a racist, misogynist bastard, and—”

“That’s not helping,” Ashley murmured, only half paying attention. She’d found something more interesting to observe.

Contusions on Larry’s neck, thick and red and fresh. The fall, the impact, his head cracking open—none of that had killed him.

The strangulation did.

“So what do you think?”

The conversation went on above her, the rough edge of shocked tones, people trying to stay calm and talk until this all made sense. She focused on taking pictures, on breathing, her mind working a mile a minute trying to piece all of this together.

“Obviously he fell from up there,” someone was saying.

“Jumped?”

“Probably. Just to ruin everyone’s evening.”

Except he’d been strangled. This wasn’t a suicide.

Someone had strangled him, and the only people in this entire building were the ones standing in this foyer, gathered around the body. All the other guests had left when Preston announced the storm, the staff having vacated with them. Seven people remained to play a game of poker, bolted into the building by the owner. There was no one else here—the storm had seen to that.

Someone in this room had strangled Larry Rohan to death, and now that person stood by his body, acting shocked and upset.

Heart ringing in her ears, Ashley looked up surreptitiously, casting her gaze over everyone while they bickered about the possible cause of Larry falling from the balcony above.

Frank stood to the side, alone. His skin was pale but his eyes steady, looking down on Larry with an impassiveness to his expression but a tremble to his hands, and he spoke as if on autopilot. Did he know Larry personally? Ashley couldn’t remember.

The sisters, elaborate makeup now smeared around the edges, looked a mixture between bored and disgusted. They were holding court, voices loud and brash, as if there was a certain thrill in finding a dead body. The excitement of drama.

Quietly, a few feet behind the others, the Xings stood muttering together, heads bent towards each other, concern etched into their brows. They were the only ones who hadn’t visibly reacted to the event.

Poker faces. Larry had been furious about it.

“I called the police,” Preston said, emerging from the small office beside the reception desk and rejoining them. As if it was their cue, the Xings’ muttering increased in ferocity. “But the roads are closed until the storm’s passed…”

Maude made a noise of horror. “So we’re stuck with him for the night?”

Solemnly, Preston nodded. “They told me not to move the body. Or touch it,” he added pointedly to Ashley.

Sighing and leaning back on her haunches, Ashley mouthed, “Can I keep this a while?” to Maude, holding up the phone.

Maude waved a hand. “There’s no signal up here anyway,” she murmured. Ashley nodded her thanks and tucked the phone into the front of her dress.

A weird silence followed, everyone staring at the body. Ashley felt removed from it and overwhelmed all at once, completely horrified by the events, but disconnected, her mind clear and ticking over.

Someone had been running upstairs—she’d heard the footsteps. And yet no one here seemed out of breath. No one looked ruffled, battered by the struggle. No one looked guilty.

But someone was. Someone in this room had killed Larry Rohan just a few minutes before. She stood side by side with a murderer and her stomach wanted to reject everything about it.

It was Bao, Chen’s wife, who broke the silence, taking two steps forward and sighing. “This is hideous,” she said, an understatement they all appreciated as everyone broke into murmurings of agreement, anything to fill the silence. “We can’t stay here.”

It seemed to spur Preston into action.

“Come into the kitchen,” he said. “I’ll make us all some tea.” He held out a hand to Ashley and helped her to her feet, brushing hair from her face as she steadied herself and smiled. “You okay?”

She nodded, but she didn’t mean it. She had a dead man’s blood on her knees and she knew, with a subdued throb of panic in her chest, that nobody in this room was safe—except one.

“I wasn’t planning on staying here tonight, to be honest,” she muttered to Preston, keeping her voice steady. She didn’t want to panic anyone else. “It was stupidly impulsive. And it means I don’t have anything to change into.” She indicated the blood on her clothes, grimacing privately to him.

Preston swallowed. “I can lend you a shirt, or—”

Bao took her wrist. “I have clothes for you,” she said kindly, while the rest of their party drifted past, heading in the general direction of the kitchen.

“You do?”

“We brought some, since we planned to stay here,” Bao said. She smiled reassuringly. But there was a glint in her eye that made Ashley hesitant to smile back. “Room 107, in the closet.”

“Thank you.” Ashley nodded, patting the soft hand still clutched around her wrist. “That’s so kind,” she added, because it was—and she was in no position to be choosy right now. She couldn’t spend the rest of the night in a bloodstained ball gown, and with little other option available to her—there was no way she would feel comfortable wandering around in a man’s shirt—she found Bao’s offer a welcome one. Bao was a little smaller than her, but Ashley was sure she’d find some looser clothes that would fit. “I’ll just help with the tea first.”

Bao smiled again and slipped a room key into Ashley’s hand. “Please,” she said, and Ashley could only repeat her thanks before hurrying off to find Preston, making a slight detour in the kitchen to wash the blood off her hand first.

She found Preston tucked over the stove, putting a kettle on to heat, while everyone else settled around a staff table opposite. When he realized Ashley had joined him, Preston released a quick breath, as if he’d been holding it.

“Drew and the others are fine,” he muttered to her. “They got back to the resort safely.” He must’ve called them after speaking with the police, and Ashley was glad he did. The worry would’ve plagued her mind all night had she allowed it.

“Did you tell them about this?”

“No. They’ll only panic.”

He busied himself with finding cups and spoons and sugar, and when he settled by the stove again, Ashley checked over her shoulder and then leaned into him, muttering against his ear, “You know he was killed.”

His swallow was thick and visible, and she watched the roll of it in his throat as if compelled by it.

“We can’t talk about it now,” he murmured back at her, his voice tight. She thought for a moment that he was annoyed with her, but then he found her hand and gave her fingers a light squeeze, offering her a private, intimate smile, the whole thing saying something like I know, and I’m with you.

Then he turned to address the rest of the party, and with a jolt Ashley realized the Xings were no longer present. She squeezed the key in her spare hand and glanced at Preston to see his reaction, but he appeared to not notice the absence—or at least, not show it.

“I know not everyone planned to stay here tonight,” he said, “but with the storm…” The kettle started to whistle. Ashley leaned behind Preston to switch it off and took a moment to rack her brain for any memory of the Xings slipping away—if she’d caught it out the corner of her eye while discussing things with Preston. But there was nothing. One second they’d been there, sitting with Frank and the sisters, and the next—gone.

“We only have a few habitable rooms right now,” Preston went on, “but we can make it work. Chen and Bao are already settled in a room—” Supposedly. Right now they weren’t anywhere.

“Ladies,” Preston said to the sisters, “you’ve got 108. There’s a small heated room in the staff quarters—”

“I’m calling dibs on that,” Frank said, lifting a hand, his head drooping low as he leaned forward on the table. “My things are already up there. I knew about the game, so I found myself a room…” The guy looked utterly exhausted—which, considering all he’d done was play a little poker and then stare at a dead body, didn’t make sense. Not when he’d been so alert and charming earlier in the evening.

Preston cleared his throat, whispering his next words more to Ashley than to the room at large. “Well, I planned to leave that room for you, unless…”

Oh.

Oh.

Share a room with a man she couldn’t stop imagining naked, or stay by herself while a potential murderer was lurking about. Better the devil…

“I’ll share with you,” she said quickly, and then immediately flushed a brilliant heat. There she was, practically throwing herself into his bed. “I mean if that’s—if that’s okay.” She couldn’t look at him.

He leaned into her space, dropping his voice. “There was no way I was gonna let you stay by yourself anyway,” he murmured. She couldn’t help the shiver that raced across her skin. His voice was full of fierce possessiveness or sinful promise, and either option lit her up on the inside, made her want to squeeze her thighs together.

He turned his more professional, kindly voice onto the others. “It’s gonna be okay,” he promised them. “Let’s just get through the night, and then the cops will be here to take care of things.”

“You say that like you think there’s something to be afraid of,” Frank said lowly. Half his face was cast in shadow from how he bent his head, and there was a tone to his words that made even the sisters look uneasy. “Larry committed a suicide.”

“Yeah,” Preston said, with a slight nod of acknowledgement. “Probably.”

Frank raised a thick eyebrow. “Probably?”

Ashley could feel Preston’s energy shift, like hackles rising on a dog—testosterone and stress getting the better of both men. She stepped forward.

“There’s no point speculating,” she said, and redirected the conversation to how everyone liked their tea.

Except the last thing Ashley felt like doing right now was drink tea and sit around for a chat, so with a few muttered words to Preston, she excused herself to go change. He didn’t want to let her go—at least not alone—but she didn’t leave him much choice in the matter when she reminded him of the boiled water going cold and then breezed out of the room.

The mystery of the Xings’ location was solved half an instant later, when Ashley nearly walked into them in the corridor. They were huddled together beside a darkened doorway, speaking Mandarin to each other in almost furious tones. For two people who’d shown themselves so quiet and emotionless during the poker game, their almost manic behavior now was enough to put Ashley on edge.

She picked up her pace as she passed them and they stopped mid-rant, watching her with eyes completely void of expression.

“I’m just—the clothes,” Ashley muttered, holding up the room key Bao had given her before.

Bao inclined her head, while Chen’s brows furrowed. “Take anything,” Bao said.

The only thing Ashley could think to do was offer an uneasy smile and say, “Thank you,” before hurrying off.

She had no real reason to suspect the Xings of anything, but they were the only ones acting oddly, and she couldn’t ignore that. Except that wasn’t quite true. Frank was a different man now to the one she’d met earlier—skin pale, countenance dark. And the sisters, too—strangely quiet and cold, when they’d been almost addictively vibrant before. Preston was definitely shaken, more subdued; and Ashley herself was certainly not unaffected by the events.

Everyone here looked as innocent or as guilty as the next, and she knew better than to judge on appearances alone. Killers did not go around wearing their crimes on their sleeves—at least not the good ones.

Ashley had nothing to go on but instinct—and her instincts, so far, were unproven. She wasn’t a seasoned detective, a ballsy investigator. She’d never dusted for fingerprints or assessed a murder weapon.

But she did have a ten-year love of crime TV drama under her belt and a decent idea of how these things pieced together, and right now she was picturing herself finding shards of the puzzle and putting them in the correct order. Her stomach lurched in excitement despite the darkness of the events.

But first, before she could even consider digging a little deeper, she had to get out of this bloodied dress. She’d long passed the point of feeling elegant—now the material itched, the hem kept catching beneath her heels, and the stained imprints on the front of the material clung to her skin with every step.

Finding the Xings’ room, she opened the door and left the key in the lock for them to find later, and for a moment she was blindsided by the utter beauty of the interior. She didn’t know what she’d been expecting—a basic bed, for the most part, and perhaps a closet. Something that screamed “unfinished potential”, just like everywhere else in this resort except the foyer, banquet hall, and ball room.

Instead, the room’s décor looked fit for a king—or a billionaire. With plush fabrics, dark paneled walls, Moroccan-themed accessories, and an oversized hot tub just visible around the corner of the bathroom.

Preston Alcott certainly had style.

But she wasn’t here to admire the décor or the tastes of the man who designed it—she had to find clothes and leave quickly, lest she impose too much on the Xings’ privacy.

Seeing no clothes laid out on the bed or the couch, Ashley headed to the closet, at the bottom of which she found a small suitcase. She opened it and, feeling a little skeevy about rooting through another person’s things, felt around until she came across a plain white blouse and a pair of dark pants. At the bottom of the bag was a small selection of socks, and after a moment of deliberation, she grabbed a pair—socked feet were better than heels.

It was as she was tucking the rest of the contents back into place that she saw it.

Towards the bottom, wedged behind a book on historical politics and sitting atop an ancient-looking hair brush, lay a single piece of frayed rope.

Just the right size to fit the marks on Larry’s throat.