"Start from the beginning. Again. What's your name?"

Devi rolled her eyes, straining against the strap tying her to the hospital bed as if she was a dangerous prisoner and not a near-stabbing, near-drowning victim of horrible circumstances who just happened to wash up on the shore of one of the slowest townships she's ever come across. "Is this absolutely necessary? I have a cast on my leg and a couple of broken ribs. Where the fuck am I going to run? I'm the victim here, mate."

Inspector Hector Juan Martinez eyed the restraint. "Name. Age. Where you're from? And explain everything again—slowly."

"I already told you my name a gazillion times."

"Gazillion is not a word." He scoffed into his notepad. "And she says she's a writer."

"I am a writer!" Devi snapped, trying not to scream and rip open the large gash on her stomach that had required twenty stitches—the result of hitting rocks on her way to their shore. Nor did she want to puncture her lungs. "I'm a fucking six-time international best-selling author. There's even a movie on one of those new streaming things... Netflix. A show based on my books. Everyone knows who I am. Everyone!"

But obviously not the Inspector. His brow arched up in question instead. Netflix? What's that? It seemed to ask and he chose that very moment to yawn at length, having had little sleep the night before. He'd been far too busy shooting opponents and yelling, "Victory!" while playing video games to care what time it was.

His yawn rendered Devi Dhungel not only flabbergasted, but offended. She'd never been this offended in her entire life, and she'd been through some hairy, hairy things—such as the stabbing.

"Who's your boss? I want to talk to your boss!" she demanded. "I've been stabbed, at my birthday party, on my yacht, by someone. Not to mention I survived near-drowning. I have several broken ribs, a shattered ankle, and a possible contusion, and I'm still more alert than YOU. Someone get me a man who knows what he's doing. NURSE! NURSE!"

"No need for hysteria, Mrs Dungal," the Inspector said in the most brazen, bored tone.

"Ugh, it's Dhung-gel, like gail, not dung, asshole! And I'm no missus. I'm not married."

"No surprises there," he mumbled.

"Excuse me? I could marry ... if I want to."

"I am the police in this town, Ms Dhungel. The only police on duty until the New Year. Take it or leave it." Inspector Hector shifted on his stool, pointedly holding out his notepad to the less-bloaty, less-blue body that was currently cussing him from one of the few hospital beds they had, in the world's tiniest hospital in the middle of fuck-all no-where. His patience was running thin. "Start from the very beginning. Again. And I'll see what we can do about the restraint for you."

"We? Do you often refer to yourself in the third person?"

Inspector Hector's brows rose high. Keep it up and "we" shall leave you tied to your bed.

"Ugh, fine." Devi groaned. "Once upon a time—"

"I said tell me what happened, Ms Dhungel—not narrate a story. Your name is Devi Dhungel, you're a famous writer, or so you claim"—Hector threw Devi a pointed look—"and last night you turned up on our beach, looking like you had an accident—"

"It was not an accident. Someone stabbed me. Or did you miss the knife sticking out of me like a bloody flagpole?" Devi pursed her lips, wincing as the cut on her lip got beneath her teeth.

"Noted." Hector scribbled in his notepad to the annoyance of the woman. "Let's for a moment assume you are who you say you are and someone stabbed you—what were you doing last night?"

Devi Dhungel's left eye twitched rather severely, and a vein popped up on her forehead. Is this town full of morons? "I told you. I was celebrating my forty-third birthday, on my private yacht out at sea, with some close friends and some family"—she sneered at having to mention them—"and ..." This is where Devi struggled. And then what?

"And then?" For once, Inspector Hector seemed genuinely interested in her story, right when she couldn't go on.

Devi tried hard to remember what exactly had happened last night, but all she could remember were snippets. Sizzling fast flashes of memory, all incoherent, all choppy, all jumbled like a bag of Scrabble tiles. Champagne, lots of champagne. Her antique gramophone playing some classical music—Chopin, maybe—and perhaps she'd kissed someone. A blurry man's face kept popping up like uninvited advertisements. Bobbing up and down in the rough sea of patchy memories, flashes of it. The only clear memory was of her stepping aboard MARG last one afternoon for the trip. She'd been happy. The sun had been nice and warm and the sea calm.

In fact, Devi couldn't quite recall the last year of her life. What had she done?

"Anything you recall? Anything at all." Hector prompted.

But no matter how hard she tried, besides that one clear memory of stepping on board, she couldn't remember how she'd ended up on some backward town's beach minus her Capri pants, sporting her gorgeous Camilla kaftan, and a twinkling of bangles. Had she got lucky last night, and then someone stabbed her? Maybe because of it? Why else would her pants be missing?

Devi's eyes widened as wide as they could, given they were still swollen like a plump turkey. Did I have sex with...? No. She shook her head. She'd promised she would not go there ever again, never again, not since the last time her sister had nearly caught them. "I can't remember."

"Okay. You said you were on a boat, partying. Do you at least remember what you were doing at the time of the stabbing, Ms Dhungel?" the inspector asked again.

Devi met his eyes—in which she could see a lot of sympathy for someone who still doubted her in more ways than she could tell. After all, Hector was a trained police officer and, as such, he was adamant that unless he had proof, he wouldn't take everything said to him at face value by strangers. And currently, the only stranger in town was the swollen and bruised woman lying in that bed in front of him. The hospital's only patient. One who looked like her face had been kissed by multiple jellyfish stingers. She was a stranger and, by that merit, seen with suspicion. It wasn't often strangers came to Mystery Cove.

"I..." Devi blinked her one good eye and tried to think back again. She could feel the moment a sharp pain had lodged itself in her right shoulder, the moment someone stabbed her—with her ceremonial khukuri at that. But what was her knife doing on her yacht? She usually kept it in her home, locked away in a display cabinet. "I don't recall... Maybe I was going to my room?"

"Let's try another question then. Why would anyone want to stab you in the first place?" other than being annoyed by you?

"No, no, no. For heaven's sake, are you even a copper?" Devi shook her head. "You're asking all the wrong questions. Have you met me? I suspect many people would like to stab me... including you, and I barely even know you."

"And what sorts of questions should I be asking?" Inspector Hector growled to hide the blush creeping up his face, feeling more than a little attacked. What would the woman know of his job? According to her, she was just a silly little writer, who probably wrote sappy romance—on the account she was a lonely spinster, one who annoyed someone enough that they tried to kill her. He hadn't known Miss Devi Dhungel long, but even the usually patient inspector was losing his cool.

"Why? You need to ask me why someone wanted to kill me."

"Kill you?" Inspector Hector shot up to his feet. "Now, Ms Dhungel, that's quite an accusation!"

"Oh, bite your tongue. I'm not accusing you, am I? Unless you were on my yacht—wherever it is now—creeping up on me!" Devi yelled, forcing the oddly silly young man back on his stool. "Why else would someone stab me—with my own knife, mind you—if they didn't intend to kill me and push me into the sea?"

"Someone pushed you into the sea? Thought you said you can't recall."

"How else would I get in the water unless someone threw me in? Possibly after I fainted?" Devi frowned at him. "I obviously didn't throw myself in. I'm not a good swimmer, so I doubted I jumped in for a midnight swim."

Hector had to agree for once. The woman made sense. For once. Why would she throw herself into the sea, especially given that it was storming offshore last night? Not exactly swimming weather. No fool would jump into dark churning waters willingly. "So, why would someone want to kill you, Ms Dhungel? What did you do or think you did to provoke this?"

A flash of an image skipped through Devi's mind. She'd kissed someone. But who? There were a few people on the yacht she'd be caught dead kissing... Yet, she couldn't shake the fleeting memory tingling on her lips. It was a passionate kiss. Could it be...? She wondered again, and for the first time since her interrogation that morning, since she'd come to, Devi sighed. Finally, the guy was asking the right questions, albeit with her prompting, and she had no satisfactory answer. If this were her book, she'd dump her main character. Herself!

"It's not what I did, I suppose." She dropped her head on the pillow and stared at the ceiling, tired. A flash of a conversation with her lawyer flickered at the back of her mind. "Who am I to do anything to anyone? But, I suspect it—maybe—had something to do with what I was about to do?"

"What were you about to do?" the inspector breathed.

"I think I was about to change my Will?" She finally met his quizzical face and saw comprehension dawning. "I told you. I'm a famous author, with book deals and film deals some may kill for."

"But how would that benefit them by killing you?"

Ah, and he'd been doing so well. It took all of Devi's patience not to groan out loud. "I mean, I'm a rich woman, Inspector, before I even became an author. I married a rich guy—who carked it early. But essentially, I'm a lonely, but rich woman. And maybe last night someone learned what I was about to do and tried to kill me for it."

"Because you were about to cut them out of your will?"

"Perhaps. Can you think of any other reason?" she fired.

Well, technically, Hector could. Annoyance, for one. If she got under someone's skin like he thought her capable, perhaps it was a crime of passion. "Do you suspect anyone?" he asked.

And boy, did she suspect anyone? Try all eight of my likely guests, Devi Dhungel blinked. As far as she could tell, any of her closest family and friends could have wielded that knife last night. Especially if they'd discovered her in bed with the one man she'd vowed never to touch again. If that had been the reason for it and not the Will.

That face that had been blurry earlier suddenly leapt to her memory. Her younger sister's husband—separated now—and for the past few months, her secret lover. The man who'd gotten away as it were—her best friend growing up. The one man who meant everything to her. A man she'd mistakenly had a one-night with back in university and never quite fell out of love with again. Not that he knew, nor was she going to admit it, to anyone.

"Well? Any suspects, Ms Dhungel?"

Devi bit her lip and shook her head. Try everyone. Except the man I love...

"And where is your boat right now?"

"Yacht! At the bottom of the ocean for all I know."

"Her name?"

"Whose?" Devi shot him a look.

"Your yacht's."

"Marg." Devi tried not to think of the man whose name had inspired it: Marvin Garcia.

"And how do you spell that?"

Devi rolled her eyes and spelled it out for him.

Inspector Hector then rose from his stool, slipped his notebook into his pocket, took out his phone, and snapped a picture of Devi to her surprise.

"What was that for?"

"For the file." Hector nodded.

"Then you should also take photos of all my injuries."

"Whatever for?"

"Evidence, Inspector. Evidence! They won't look like this forever."

"Ah, right. Almost forgot about that." He stifled another yawn. "I'll send young Hunter down in a moment to take them. Anything else?"

"Yes, can I get a phone call so I can contact my people?"

"The people who tried to murder you?"

"No. My agent or my lawyer. They should know what happened."

"In due time, Ms Dhungel. First, I gotta make sure you are who you say you are." He turned and pulled the curtain aside, catching the burly nurse, Lewis, trying not to look like he was eavesdropping, sat on a stool a few feet away, pretending to read a decade-old magazine.

"Wait, where're you going?"

"I'm going to figure out if the things you say are true. Then, if they turn out to be true"—he eyed her restraint—"I shall be back."

"It's all true. Why wouldn't it all be true?" Devi called after him as he left the empty ward. "For fuck's sake. I can't even walk, man. And I have a catheter in my urethra!"

"We shall see, Ms Dhungel. We shall see!"

When Inspector Hector was out of earshot, Devi Dhungel made the most impressive impression of the young cop. "We shall see, Ms Dhungel! Asshole."

"That was a good one. But don't let him see you do that. The man's ego is the size of a small pea!" Lewis chuckled, looking impressed as he eased to her side, holding a pan clanking gently with its contents. "Speaking of the catheter—It's time we run some blood tests and see how your kidneys are doing. Your urine doesn't look too good."

Alas, pea-sized ego or not, Inspector Hector was all Devi had at that very moment to solve the biggest whodunit of her life. Someone she knew—and perhaps loved—wanted to kill her but failed. Not that they knew it. But who?

And with it, a tiny seed of an idea brewed at the back of her mind.

Her next book.

"A deathlike no other," she tasted the title in her mouth as the kindly nurse upped hermorphine dose and she slipped into a quiet little slumber. "It has a good ring... no?"