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gas. The wheels spun a bit on the dry ground but grabbed quickly enough, and then his Jeep shot down the road at a breathtakingly fast speed. They reached Deadman’s Curve. Carrow took it at forty miles per hour. Way too fast, she thought as the Jeep tilted sharply to one side. She clutched the handle above the door and willed herself not to say anything. Despite his speed, Carrow handled the car with confidence as he wound around the side of the mountain. At the halfway point he took a switchback, downshifted again into second, and the Jeep began to crawl upward, its engine whining with the effort to climb the hill, which blocked the low lying mangrove swamp from the rest of the island.
    When they were at the top, Carrow’s house came into view. It was a series of structures, all one or two stories interconnected with pathways and open air courtyards. Emma knew from the other island residents that Carrow employed a staff of fifteen and that the house was almost always filled with celebrities and the glitterati of the music world. It was two days after New Year’s, and the entire island was full to the brim with rich, globe-trotting people anxious to play as hard as they could until driven back to their daily lives after New Year’s. Carrow screeched into the horseshoe drive and slammed on the brakes. He reached over and indicated the bottle.
    â€œMay I?” he said.
    She handed it to him. “Sure.”
    He unscrewed the top and Emma watched him gulp down some more of the liquid. He offered it to her but she waved it off.
    Music echoed on the night air and a babble of voices came from behind the villa. The front of the house blazed with light thrown by two enormous lanterns placed on either side of a massive, carved wooden door. Carrow waited for her to climb out of the car and then got out himself and started toward the entrance, his right hand firmly clutching the bottle’s neck.
    A woman strolled out from next to the house, wearing only a white string bikini bottom with ties at each side and flip-flops. She was tall, emaciated, and had sharp-edged cheekbones and long honey-colored hair that reached the middle of her back. She carried an open whiskey bottle in one hand. Not the same brand that Carrow had, Emma noticed. She recognized the woman’s face but couldn’t place the name. She glanced at Carrow, but he seemed unconcerned at the woman’s topless state.
    â€œHey, there you are,” the woman said. “We were just looking for you.” She peered at Emma. “Who’s that?”
    â€œMs. Emma Caldridge, meet Britanni Warner.”
    The woman’s face lit up. “Oh, yeah, the botanist!”
    Carrow shook his head. “Chemist, isn’t it?” He directed his question at Emma.
    â€œBoth, actually. I study plants for their use in cosmetic applications,” Emma said.
    â€œThat’s right,” the woman said. “Cindy told me about her. Her lab makes the ‘Pure Colors’ makeup line that Cindy reps.” Emma realized then where she had seen Warner before. She was a famous model, and the face that represented a second line of makeup sold in high-end department stores. “Are you here for vacation?” Warner asked her.
    Emma shook her head. “Work. The company that you mentioned is the one paying for me to be here. I’m on the search for new botanicals.”
    â€œShe’s staying on the East Hill at Blue Heron.”
    â€œI know it. Nice location,” Warner said.
    â€œThe view is spectacular,” Emma said.
    â€œI’m taking her to Martin’s room.”
    Warner grimaced. “He’s still sleeping. I hope you can help him. I’ll be at the pool.” She nodded to them, and Emma listened to the sound of her flip-flops snapping away.
    Carrow waved her into the front door. The living room lights were set low. Wicker furniture and bamboo coffee tables sat on dark wooden floors. A bank of glass