Kyla’s Secret

Kyla glanced behind her, making sure there weren’t any large swells coming her way that could make exiting the warm waters of the Pacific a bit of a challenge. She moved as quickly as she could, the undertow pulling at her ankles as if the ocean were reluctant to let her go. The palm trees swayed gently in the wind, and Kyla was never happier to be home. She may have had the desire to venture to unexplored places with different types of climates, but in the end, there was no place like home. There simply weren’t many places you could go where the weather was perfect year-round. Kyla was a woman of privilege, coming from well-to-do parents who spoiled her—and she knew that. Otherwise, she might have had to settle for the Big Island, which wasn’t nearly as beautiful, luxurious, laid-back, or crime-free. Clad in her hot pink bikini, she pinned her hair up, sat on her rainbow-colored blanket, and began rubbing tanning oil on her arms, legs, and belly. When she realized an old couple was observing her—perhaps wishing they were still as young and supple—she started to giggle to herself at the thought of Ka’anapali having a two-time murderer in its midst, even if she wasn’t exactly a “murderer.” Her final moments in Sacramento had been beyond stressful. She still couldn’t believe the nightmares she’d endured. It was the kind of thing that was only supposed to happen to other people. After she’d thrown the Kindle down into the well, she hadn’t wanted to shoot Corrine for fear the shot would be heard by the closest neighbors, nor did she have time to wait for her to bleed to death. Therefore, she found a heavy rock and smashed it over the officer’s head. It took everything she had—and then some—to hoist the woman’s body over the lip of the well and down into it. At first, she was afraid Corrine would get hung up along the way, even after she pulled off her clothes, shoes, and utility belt. Little by little, the body slipped down the inner tube, much to her relief. She knew that the farther down it went, the less likely it was to be discovered. She then threw Corrine’s clothes, guns, shoes, and utility belt down as well and poured gasoline into the well from a can she’d found inside the garage. This not only made the tube slippery for anything that had gotten stuck along the way, but she’d heard the smell of gasoline would throw search dogs off the scent. She also poured some along the back of the house, and then heavy rains that had hit the area that night—much to her delight and relief—washed away any traces of blood and the gasoline odor. If the smell had been too obvious, it would have pointed authorities in the direction of the well, just as the scent of blood could have drawn the dogs to it. But there would still be just enough gasoline for the dogs to detect. Although it was a known fact that she had been living with Corrine, she wiped down most of the surfaces she might have touched and checked Corrine’s computer as well. Never before had she wished she was an expert! She was at least smart enough to know that there could be other copies of her pushing Meagan to her death on God knew how many devices, as well as sites online. Life was a gamble, and she would surely have to take her chances and hope that no copy she was unaware of would ever be found. That was really all she could do anyway. She sat at Corrine’s kitchen table and wrote a Dear John letter that she backdated by a few days in hopes of convincing whoever found it that she’d left days earlier than she actually had. Not wanting any evidence of someone being at the house past the time Corrine’s absence would be noticed, she packed her belongings, some food from the kitchen, and grabbed a stash of cash she knew the corrupt officer had kept in a jar in the back of one of the cabinets. The last thing she did was make sure Spotty had plenty of food and water. Surely someone would come to the house long before he could eat and drink all that was there. No need to let an innocent animal suffer despite the unfortunate circumstances surrounding its owner. Once she was as sure as she could be that nothing would point to her directly—even if she might be asked if she had any clue as to the officer’s whereabouts—she called for a cab and checked into a hotel the following morning. She’d barely slept a wink the night before and was exhausted by the time she reached the hotel. All she wanted to do was sleep. Instead, she booked a flight home and then slept until her empty stomach woke her up. Her parents eagerly awaited her arrival at the airport the following day. She ran into their arms and burst into tears. “It’s okay, baby,” said her mother. “You’re home now. You’re safe.” If only they had known! Yes, she was home—but was she safe? As expected, the police did question her by phone, but she held fast to her story about moving out since they agreed a long-distance relationship wouldn’t work, and Kyla really missed her home anyway. She didn’t lie about when she left the house because she knew that could and would be verified. They asked a few other questions. Did she know of anyone the officer had been having problems with? Nope. Did she mention taking off anywhere? Nope. They also asked for the hotel she’d gone to, as she figured they would, and she promptly gave them the name of it. Hoping she’d been convincing enough, Kyla was determined to get on with her life. Every day she told herself not to worry about the past unless it actually did catch up to her. No one had to know. It was her secret, just like Meagan was. It would be the one thing she never told anyone about or wrote about. She couldn’t help but think about it and remember it at times—hey, she had killed two people—but she could keep it from going beyond her thoughts and memories. A few weeks later, she left work one day determined to get started on her newest assignment, which was a trip to the Big Island to investigate a private company’s fraudulent scam they were suspected of running. Her parents took her out to dinner a couple of nights before she was due to set sail on the magazine’s private catamaran, used to cart its employees from island to island. “I’m almost afraid to take off, even if it’s just to sail a hundred miles away instead of flying a couple thousand miles away,” Kyla confessed as they ate. “Aw, honey, you’ll be fine,” said her mother. Her dad added to her reassurance with a smile. “Yeah, I know. Life does have to go on, doesn’t it?” “Agreed,” said her mom. “Now, how about some of that famous blueberry pie we love so much?” They finished their meal and enjoyed one another’s company a while longer. At home, Kyla went to the guesthouse and was plagued with nightmares all night long. Meagan, back from the dead, chased her with an ax, maggots crawling out of her partially deteriorated eye sockets. Corrine crawled up the well, barely recognizable, and chased her with her gun. She woke up screaming as the sound of gunshots faded from her dreaming mind and she crossed back into the realm of wakefulness. Kyla was sweating, exhausted, and anxious as hell. She told herself it would get easier someday—that she’d done the right thing and shouldn’t have it weighing on her conscience so often. But would it really get easier with time? Kyla was glad she had the next day off so she could go hang out at the beach and restore her energy for tomorrow’s trip to the Big Island. “Come on, you’re a wreck,” she told her mirrored reflection once the sun was up that morning. “Get a hold of yourself.” She threw on a turquoise bikini with deep purple rhinestones and grabbed a lemon-yellow towel and her new Kindle. Then she hopped into her compact sports car. It was still fairly early, so the beach wasn’t very crowded yet. She read for a while and then cooled off in the soothing waters once the temperature began to climb. She squeezed the water out of her hair as she made her way back to her towel, this time lying on her stomach instead of her back. She leaned her chin on her forearms and casually scanned the people who were out and about. There were more people around now. The usual mix was present—families, young adults, but mostly older people. Then one person, in particular, caught her eye. She raised her head slightly but tried not to appear as if she were staring. About forty feet away from her, a woman sat reading who bore a remarkable resemblance to Zoey Scalia. The woman’s left side was facing her. Kyla studied her profile intently, her heart beating faster by the minute. She couldn’t see her face, but her height, body type, hair length, style, and color all seemed to fit—as did her mannerisms. Kyla remembered her saying she also did detective work. Her mind spun a moment longer, and then she decided to approach the woman. That way, she would either see it wasn’t her and ease her fears and suspicions, or she would surprise her by confronting her—knowing that if it really was Zoey, she would no doubt eventually confront her anyway. The woman got up and began walking away seconds after Kyla rose from her towel. She quickly gathered her stuff and followed, but soon lost sight of the woman in the maze of curvy walkways flanked with flowering plumeria and hibiscus bushes. She was just about to get into bed that night when there was a knock on the guesthouse door. Believing it was her mother, she opened the door without any reservations. But it wasn’t her mother. It was Zoey. “Hey, Maui girl,” said the tall Italian woman. “You didn’t think you could keep your secret forever, did you?”