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“My editor thought otherwise, so he sent me in to expose this show as a fabrication. But so far that hasn’t been my experience. Everything looks above board. Not a message my editor wanted to hear, mind you. I can tell you he was pretty disappointed.”

“Well, you can tell your editor he can go and boil his head!” Clint said, and stormed into the house. Then, apparently having changed his mind, he came storming out again. “On second thought, why don’t you stick around?”

“Stick around?” asked Jack Davenport.

“Stick around?!” asked Odelia, aghast.

“Yeah, if you promise to give the show a good write-up, you can stick around. If not, you can go to hell.”

“I’d rather stick around, sir,” said Jack.

“Great. I look forward to reading your article,” said Clint with a nod.

“You can’t do this!” Odelia cried. “He broke into my room!”

Clint shrugged.“Nobody’s perfect.”

“I’m sorry, Miss Poole,” said Jack later, as he and Odelia were seated at the breakfast table. “I know your work and I’m a great admirer. So when my editor told me to film all the contestants in their sleep, I balked at the idea. But he told me that if I didn’t do it, he’d send someone who would. And I need the job. My wife is pregnant with our first, and I can’t afford to be out of work right now. You know how hard it is to be a reporter these days. Not a lot of jobs to go around.”

“I still think it’s a pretty crap thing to do,” said Odelia as she bit down on a chocolate croissant with cream filling. The food at the resort was amazing. If she wasn’t careful she’d go home ten pounds heavier than when she set out for Thailand.

“I hope you can forgive me,” said Jack.

“I actually thought you were a kidnapper.”

“A kidnapper!”

“Yeah, the way you came after me this morning.”

“I was just trying to get a couple of good shots for my article. And when I saw you take off running the opportunity was too good to miss.” He thoughtfully took a sip from his coffee. “What were you doing in that shack if I may ask? It almost looked as if you were on the phone with someone, which of course is impossible, since candidates aren’t allowed to have phones.”

Odelia studied the guy. Now that he’d told them his name, she knew who he was. She’d read his articles. He was a pretty sharp observer, and a great writer. What he was doing writing for a tabloid she didn’t know. Then again, as he said, it wasn’t easy finding work as a reporter these days. She wondered how much to tell him, then decided to trust her gut.

“I’m not here as a candidate, Jack. I’m here as a reporter. Some of the contestants from previous editions have gone missing, and I’m trying to figure out what’s going on.”

Jack whistled through his teeth.“Now that’s the kind of story I wouldn’t mind breaking. Missing, you say? How come I haven’t heard about this?”

“Because their families haven’t filed missing person reports. They’re still in touch with them, through email and letters and postcards. But it’s too much of a coincidence that five women, all of them former contestants, would take off like that.”

“Yeah, I’d say the odds of that happening are pretty slim.”

“My fianc? is a cop, and he’s on the other island checking things out over there, while I’m here, trying to see if I can find out what’s going on.”

“And you thought I was involved,” said Jack, nodding.

“Can you blame me?”

He shook his head and smiled, then fingered his scar absentmindedly.

“Can I ask you a personal question?” asked Odelia.

“I fell from my bike when I was five,” said Jack, anticipating. “The doctor who patched me up did a pretty lousy job and the wound got infected. I could get it fixed, but I’ve found that it actually helps in my line of work. The bad guys figure I’m one of them, and the good guys feel sorry and get gabby.” He grinned. “So I just leave it. I call it my lucky scar, and my wife doesn’t seem to mind.”

“You know?” said Odelia, throwing down her napkin. “We could team up. Whatever we discover, we share the credit. What do you say?”

“Oh, I’d love nothing more,” said Jack. “Spying on reality show participants isn’t as exciting as it sounds.”

They both laughed, and shook hands on it.

Chapter 25

“So we’re not going home?” asked Dooley sadly.

“We’re not going home,” I said, just as sadly.

We were both lying on the beach, watching the Passion Island contestants being dragged around the Gulf of Thailand on jet skis. And when I say we were on the beach, I mean, of course, on the edge of the beach, safely and comfortably nestled on the terrace of one of those beach restaurants that appear to infest beaches the world over, and offer refreshments, ice cream, and the opportunity for a sanitary break if so desired, though of course most beachgoers use the wide-open oceans or seas as their convenient latrine.

“Jack Davenport,” said Dooley, and in his eyes was a look that said what exactly he thought of this reporter.