18th December 2017

This was the day. The day the invitations for Hector's honey trap went out.

At precisely ten in the morning, eight bike messengers with identical envelopes dispersed from the hotel garage.

They headed into different parts of the city and its surrounding suburbs with one simple aim: to deliver those envelopes, with their printed names, into the hands of the people they addressed.

One messenger arrived at a sleek new apartment block in Annandale and rang the bell for one Bhawani Dhungel-Garcia, whose reaction at having to go down all the way to fetch the 'signature required' parcel meant she sent her obnoxious, overgrown child Vinay down to fetch it. An act that may as well have said, here I have no secrets from my son.

The twat, on his way back up to the apartment, ripped open the envelope as if his name had been on it and read the exclusive invite before Mum even got a peek at it. And as he entered the apartment, he couldn't help himself further. "Look at this, Ma. It's some fancy-pants invite."

The invite was indeed fancy. Hector had spared no expenses, and with Brady's wordy acumen, they'd together fashioned an alluring invitation to join a 'Journey to celebrate the wonderful Devi Dhungel' trip, back out at sea, courtesy of an anonymous benefactor. The whole envelope was satin cream, with a gold foil, embossed name in a fine font. Inside, the invitation itself was printed on luxuriously thick paper that felt wholly wonderful to touch. Besides the lux feel of the invite, there was something else more intriguing within it that had the twat salivating.

When Bhawani excitedly leaned over his shoulder to get a look at this 'fancy-pants' invite, on the account that the twat wouldn't give her what was essentially her mail, she seemed blasé. Perhaps she was grieving? "I'm not going," were her words.

"Why not?" Her twat frowned. "It's a free trip and we're not doing anything next week. You should go. Enjoy the sun and the sea. The free food, and win that money."

"It's a scam. Someone heard our names in the news recently." Bhawani pointed at the vague signature: Your well-wisher. "Could be anyone."

The twat's defence to this was, "If it's real, I think you should go. Get out of this apartment. Go. Take a chance to say a prayer for Thulo Mummy on that yacht. It might give you some peace."

And so Bhawani pondered the possibility. Would it give her peace to say goodbye to her sister, especially given what she knows? Did she want to go on that yacht again after what happened to her, and to Didi? Was it a good idea?

#

At a motel near Haberfield, a couple of suburbs down from Bhawani's, Marvin Garcia was tickled pink to receive such an exclusive 'fancy-pants' invite. He for once couldn't wait for a chance to get out of his long-term motel stay and pretend he still had the means to live high. "Fuck yeah!" were his precise and colourful words upon reading that invite.

A bit of a ride south-west of the city, in Earlwood, Chef Tobias Fletcher was surprised at the invite, assuming he had no friends in high places. He gleefully entered the old house his mama had left him, delighted at the prospect of being a guest on a yacht he had always crewed on. That was until he read a little further down the letter, only to realise he wasn't being invited as a guest at all.

So much for friends in high places.

Anyway, it was the only invite that went out that day that wasn't identical to everyone else's. It was a job offer. 'Please be our esteemed chef,' was basically the gist of it, and the amount offered for the two nights exclusive trip had him nearly scraping his jaw off the floor.

He was the second person to jump on the phone and RSVP his resounding, "Yes."

When a courier arrived at his Darlinghurst office at ten thirty that morning, Don Nguyen inspected the envelope for a good minute before ripping it open and reading its content. To say being invited by an anonymous benefactor on a fancy trip, this close to Christmas piqued his interest, was putting it mildly. He pondered what it meant, all day. And as they say, curiosity gets the cat, so he too rang the listed number just before closing up shop. When he got through to an automated voicemail, he darn-tooting left a, "It'll be my pleasure to join," message, making sure he stated his name clearly, should there be more than one Don Nguyen invited.

Unlikely.

Then there was Lane Cove, a suburb popular for its Italian food. In an old shack of a house there, on the second floor, Ryan Peck or Pecker, the boy-toy who had weeks earlier hoped to marry Devi and live big, was busy banging a 'hot chick' he'd brought home from a club last night. This man, who was prone to overstaying his welcome at various one-night stands and then rushing off in the morning—before his bea-at-the-time figured out what he'd been up to all night—had a random chick over his place for once. And he wasn't about to tell her to leave, yet. She was a good lay, and he was in a banging mood, so instead of shooing the girl away, he'd begged her to stay longer, growling at her that 'he'll give her a good time'. And boy was he giving her a 'good time,' driving his member into her to a chorus of moans when the knock on the door sounded.

TAP-TAP-TAP.

In true-blue Aussie, manly-man fashion, Pecker flung the door open, not bothering to hide his pecker, and grunted, "What?" To which, a very startled young messenger fumbled—trying not to eye the junk in front of his face—and handed the envelope over.

When Pecker, distracted by the envelope, closed the door and ripped into it, the 'chick' asked, "Who is it, babe?" a question that elicited the following response as soon as he finished reading the letter.

"This chick I used to sleep with, and was hoping to marry and take her fortune once she carked it, died a couple of weeks ago, and some weirdo is inviting me to a two-day trip on her private yacht, in honour of her memories. There's a memorial ceremony planned too and a million up for grabs."

"A million?" The chick propped up on her elbow, practically salivating, and pivoting to a more tactful response. "A private yacht? I've never been on a private yacht." She batted her thick false lashes at Pecker, pulling him back into bed. "I'd kill for such an opportunity."

"You should come with me," Pecker perked up and so did his lady.

Ryan Peck would have been the third person to call in his RSVP if he wasn't a little tied up just then.

Thus without planning or much of a warning, Hector and his band of merry men would have the honour of Ryan's latest bea joining them on board—even though the invite said nothing about guests being able to bring guests.

Some people!

Then there was the bar down near Bondi Beach. At around midday, as Miles, aka, Adrian Woodrow, Devi's old assistant with a grudge, was wiping down tables, a bike messenger panted their way up to the counter, asked for him by name, and then requested a pint of cider while Miles read his mail. He was the third person to RSVP his attendance. After all, there was a chance he could win a million dollars! It was the least he deserved after all Devi cost him.

And last but not least, almost an hour inland, in Auburn—requiring the poor courier to catch a train—Unati Slater, Devi's latest disgruntled former employee, had only just arrived home from an unsuccessful interview at a literary agency looking for a literary assistance when the buzzer to her shared apartment sounded. When the courier knocked on her door, she'd also just dropped the bottle of ice-cold cola, which went all over the floor, requiring her to get down on her hands and knees to clean up. Given her rotten mood, it was the last thing she wanted to do.

She almost barked at the poor, scrawny dude who held out an envelope with shaking hands after confirming she was 'Unati Slater'.

"Fuck that bitch!" were her words once she finished reading the invite and in her anger—albeit not caused entirely by Devi this time—threw it into the bin, envelope and all. She'd be caught dead 'honouring' that woman's death.

But at midnight, she too would fish out the invite from the bin, soiled by her half-eaten dinner, wondering 'Should I?'

At around eight the next morning, she too decided, 'Yes, I should,' and dialled that unlisted, unnamed number.

That same morning, when Vinay Garcia, the twat, returned to his own place, that exclusive apartment his aunt allowed him to squat in rent-free, an apartment he'd sublet and was actually earning extra cash from in Woolloomooloo, an envelope, signed by the flatmate sat waiting for him on the coffee table. He was sure to dial that number as soon as he finished reading the last digit. His mum might be a fool, but he definitely wasn't. There was no way in hell he was going to miss an all-expenses paid trip, no matter how weird the timing of the invite was. And then there was that sweet, sweet money he was determined to win.

Thus, the honey trap was set, with almost every suspect RSVPing 'Yes,' except the maid, of course. The maid who'd left Sydney for Melbourne, or at least that's what Hector's digging had brought to light.

(...Continued in part B...)

A/N: Sorry about taking a while longer to do this update. I've not been physically able to write this week and there's a good reason for it. I'm now a new Mumma, and I've been recovering from it and soaking up my new bub as much as I can. In between learning how to take care of a gorgeous new human, I've had very little time or energy to write. 

I started writing this chapter before the birth, and have spent a few hours since last week, trying to get it done. I'm not done yet, but I thought I'd give you half the chapter at least. I hope you'll enjoy reading it, and bear with me while I try and find some hours in the day to write. 

Have a great day. And thank you for your love and support. 🧡