Free Rebel Island by Rick Riordan Page A

photo album, still seeing the picture that he’d burned long ago: his wife smiling in front of the Rebel Island Hotel, smiling for another man.

13
    I had to give Jose and Imelda credit. It’s difficult to set an elegant dinner with the dining room windows boarded up and the floor littered with broken glass, but they’d done their best.
    Most of the furniture had been scooted aside, leaving one large table with clean white linen and settings for ten. Apparently Jose and Imelda would not be sitting with us, which I thought a bit formal for a natural disaster. On the other hand, two more chairs would’ve brought our number to twelve, like the disciples, and I wasn’t anxious for this meal to resemble the Last Supper.
    No electricity, so the food was nothing fancy—bean tacos, Vienna sausage and crackers, apples and cheese, still-cold beer, wine, bottled water.
    As Maia and I took our places, Mr. Lindy was in deep conversation with one of the college guys—the big bald one, Markie, who looked like a bodyguard version of Humpty Dumpty. Lindy was drawing on a napkin, showing him something like a football diagram. Garrett was telling Lane Sanford a joke, and Lane was actually trying to smile. Alex Huff was pouring Chase a glass of wine, explaining the difference between merlot and pinot noir, and Chase was looking very confused. Imelda and Jose bustled around setting out plates and trying to keep candles lit, since the flames kept sputtering and dipping. There was no dinner music, but the storm against the plywood provided a rhythm track of pops and thuds and atonal moans.
    There were two empty seats. One for our missing manager Chris Stowall, I guessed, and the other…Ty, the third college guy, was also not here. Maybe I shouldn’t have put off Chase when he wanted to talk about his friend.
    Once everyone was served sausage and fruit and wine, Alex got to his feet and tapped his glass with a fork.
    He’d taken a few minutes to wash up. He’d bandaged his cuts, so his face now looked like it had been properly barricaded for the storm. “Well, here’s to…making the best of it.”
    “And the body in the basement,” Markie added.
    Alex winced.
    “Hey, c’mon,” Garrett said. “Everybody relax. Listen outside. The storm’s lightening up.”
    “That is the eye coming ashore, señor,” Jose said as he refilled Garrett’s glass.
    Everybody looked at him.
    “I have been in hurricanes before,” Jose explained uncomfortably. “That is the eye.”
    “Well, whatever it is,” Alex said, “we can use the break. We need a little time to just relax and forget about…you know.”
    He glanced at me, silently pleading. Being the heartless guy I am, I said, “We shouldn’t relax.”
    Now everybody looked over at me. I had a general idea how a cancer doctor must feel coming into a waiting room. Nobody wanted to hear what I had to say.
    “Somebody slipped this under my door.” I set the envelope on the table. “It would be helpful to know who.”
    Facial expressions are important. In those first few seconds, I tried to register everyone’s. Alex I’d already tested, and unless I had completely misread him, the envelope was a total mystery to him.
    Chase looked confused and uneasy, but he’d looked that way before. His friend Markie glared at me, holding his fork like a dagger. Benjamin Lindy narrowed his eyes. He barely glanced at the envelope, and seemed much more interested in what I might be thinking. Lane Sanford looked terrified, as if her ex-husband might leap out of the envelope at any moment. And Jose and Imelda…they stood in the background, trying to be inconspicuous, but I saw them glance at each other. I wasn’t sure what they were communicating.
    “A death threat?” Garrett asked me. “The killer wrote to you?”
    “This isn’t from the killer,” I said. “This is
about
the killer, a man called Calavera.”
    Again I checked everyone’s reaction. I couldn’t tell much.
    Jose cleared his