About this ebook
An exclusive invitation to a luxurious island resort should be the holiday of a lifetime for Emma. But beneath the lavish settings and indulgent amenities, lies a sinister plot waiting to be uncovered.
Emma's boss, Rebecca, gifted her the ticket to Hotel Horizen's grand opening, but Emma has her own agenda - to write a tell-all article about the rich and famous guests. Little did she know, this weekend would become a nightmare she never could have imagined.
As she delves deeper into the secrets of the elite, Emma realises she may have bitten off more than she can chew. Will she uncover the truth and make her mark as a journalist, or will she become the next victim in this twisted game of power and deception?
If you enjoyed "The Guest List" by Lucy Foley or "One by One" by Ruth Ware, you won't want to miss this gripping thriller.
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Long Weekend - SM Thomas
Long Weekend
SM Thomas
AR Hurne
Copyright © 2024 SM Thomas
All rights reserved
The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.
Edited by:
Allison Reinert, A Favorite Pen
Cover Art by:
Adrijus – Rocking Book Covers
ISBN: 978-1-7396769-8-8
For DH, AH and RH - none of this would be possible without you.
Contents
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Epilogue
Acknowledgement
Chapter One
This is the one and only time we will tell Emma’s story in this level of detail. Although we understand that the press and public are keen to learn about the events that took place during those four days, we hope that by presenting Emma's story in this way, we can have the space and time to process that weekend privately.
We understand that by releasing this book we will no doubt inspire further headlines but at least they will no longer be guesswork. Or, let’s be honest, at times slander, to those who died during those nightmarish four days. Hopefully, this will satisfy your appetite for this case and the world will eventually lose interest in this story. I'm sure there will be one or two true crime podcasts out there that will feature Emma's story as an episode but other than that we truly hope that her name and experiences disappear into obscurity. We don't want to think of her in that way, living through that experience, any more than we have to.
To assure you we have cooperated with the police throughout their investigation, and that we take our responsibility to this case seriously, all of the text that follows in this book has been scrutinised by them. They have allowed us to publish it in the belief that it may help in the eventual arrest of the culprits of these appalling crimes. We will not publish any of the photographs taken on Emma’s camera from that weekend. The police have returned the memory card to us and we're currently discussing how and when to dispose of it. There are images on there that certain families never need to see; that no living person outside of a courtroom ever needs to see. The card is being kept secure in case the police require further copies for evidence for any possible future investigations. This is the only reason we haven't shredded it yet. Once convictions have been made though, we will make sure that those photographs never see the light of day.
You are about to read Emma's first-hand account of that long weekend, written as she lived it. I'm sure some will disparage this as being the truth, but that's for them to decide. We're not here to convince anyone one way or another. We just need to share Emma's story. We need her words to mean something. Writing has always been therapeutic for her. Since she was old enough to hold a pen she made it a habit to keep a diary. Everyday occurrences from the mundane to the dramatic, were recorded in her handwriting for posterity. Her mother used to joke she was always working on her biography and now that gentle parental teasing has come to fruition.
We all need emotional crutches to survive, especially those who have experienced trauma. If Emma hadn't had her notebook during those four days I truly don't believe she would have remained sane. She would have been driven mad by the horror she witnessed. The terror she heard. The grief she felt.
But I'm getting ahead of myself here.
I'm sure you, dear reader, would love to skip ahead to the final chapters but please resist the urge. This story is about so much more than death. Racing ahead for the gory details might lead you to miss all the nuanced moments that happened during that time. You'll miss the memories of the people she met and their legacies. The moments of kindness and solidarity. The secrets that were unearthed.
So please, I implore you, allow Emma to guide you through this story as fate guided her through reality, and then, hopefully, when it's over we can part ways as old acquaintances. A face whose name you can't quite place. A fuzzy memory of a time long ago.
Hopefully, you'll forget all about us in a few years; I only hope we’re as lucky.
Christopher Bailey
Attorney - Hanson, Cherry & Kearney Associates
Chapter Two
I can’t deny the bubbles of excitement in my stomach as I’m driven to the airport in a private car. So this was how Rebecca lived. It must be nice to be the boss. Must be nicer to be the daughter of the man who owns the company but still - resentment aside, this peek behind the curtain of how the other half lives will be enjoyable.
I know Rebecca offered me this ticket as a way to placate me after turning down my request for a pay-rise last month. All it’s done so far though, is show me a lifestyle that will be forever kept out of my reach if I keep being her assistant. She’s never going to promote me or recommend me for a different position in the company - one with an actual career ladder, because heaven forbid, she might have to learn how to use PowerPoint herself.
True, at just over fifty thousand pounds a night, the monetary value of this holiday far outweighs the meagre five percent uplift I was asking for in my annual salary, but a once-in-a-lifetime trip is hardly something I can take to the bank and use for something useful. My fridge is on its last leg but I can hardly use photographs from one expensive vacation to replace it when it eventually dies. I guess it will be a diet of instant noodles until I can afford to get it fixed. Again.
I try hard to focus on the positive aspects of my life right now. Trying to remember all the notes from the gratitude journal Mum gave me for Christmas. Only five other people in the entire world are going to experience the level of decadence that awaits me at the Hotel Horizen. An uber-exclusive resort, set on a small private island, featuring a gated community of six luxury apartments on a complex that boasts a swimming pool, tennis court, Michelin star restaurant, and all the beauty treatment facilities you could wish for. At least I’ll be able to cling to the memory of these four days when I’m eating my fifth dinner in a row of the supermarket's finest own-brand noodles.
Nervously I pull at the shirt I’m wearing, it’s not quite designer but I think it’s passable. I spent all of last week scouring the charity shops nearby to try and dredge up something that wouldn’t make me stand out as the outsider that I am. Rebecca had also given me a few hand-me-downs over the years we’ve worked together, and as I have a less-than-stellar social life, they’ve all lived in my wardrobe in the bags she passed them to me in. People who have money in life don’t flaunt it. The clothes that they wear are of good quality but aren’t flashy. That’s what new money does. Some of the wealth present this weekend will be nearly as old as the salt in the sea.
What my uptight boss Rebecca doesn’t know though is that as well as writing a fluff review piece for her magazine, I’m also going to write an exposé on the wasted decadence I’m about to find myself thrust into. A true glimpse behind the gilded curtain, I want to use my platform, my voice to highlight the difference between the rich and the poor. Between them and us. Hopefully, it will pay off and I’ll be able to quit being her assistant. If it doesn’t, I’ll be unceremoniously fired so I guess I’ll be living on instant noodles even without my fridge breaking. Like Dad always used to tell me though, you miss all the shots you don’t take.
I’ve never been to a private airport before, and the lack of security presence unnerves me. There’s no queue of stressed families and individuals desperately trying to reach the lounge so they can enjoy an overpriced coffee and a glossy magazine. There’s no bored security guard slowly waving us all through the full body scanner or mishandling our personal possessions through the X-ray. Nobody even asks to look at my passport. It’s assumed everything is legitimate and I’m welcomed on board the plane with a glass of champagne and find a cashmere blanket waiting for me in my seat. Well, I call it a seat. It’s more like a double bed - far comfier than the one I have at home. I’m the first one to board and I’m enjoying the solitude when it’s broken by the arrival of my fellow guests.
First to step foot on board is Fiona Appleton. Her family owns the largest money printing press in the world, if you have a note in your pocket, the chances are the Appleton’s have their fingerprints all over it. Unlike a lot of inheritors of family wealth, Fiona still works at the company. If reports are to be believed, she works harder than anyone else in the business, taking the legacy of her father’s family seriously every day of her life. She’s a striking woman, which isn’t surprising given the perks her wealth affords her. Perks that were almost taken from her thanks to her grandfather. But thankfully the racist old coot popped his clogs before he could disown Fiona’s father for having a relationship outside of the ‘norm.’ And by the ‘norm’ I mean outside of the curdled eggshell their family tree was so fond of. Her parents faced a lot of hardships from both within the family and the boardroom but they rose above it all and eventually produced Fiona. It’s something she discussed much more eloquently in the biography she released last year, which I may have read more than a few times.
She’s forty-nine years old, married to the job, and doesn’t look a day over thirty. I can tell from her hand luggage that an apothecary of creams and lotions helps her maintain her youthful complexion, as well as a subtle facelift she gets topped up every few years. The gossip forums I lurk on are always full of candid shots of her leaving a surgeon’s office but they’re never clear enough for any of the major magazines to publish so nothing has ever been confirmed. I’m definitely going to spend some time this weekend peeking at her face for some tell-tale scars. She smiles at me warmly and I feel bad for concentrating on her vanity rather than her achievements in life.
Hello, I’m Fiona.
She offers me her hand to shake and I take it. Her grip is firm but friendly. She isn’t trying to intimidate me. I’m Emma,
I reply, waiting for her to ask me what it is I do or who I am. But she doesn’t pry, instead taking the seat across from me. She places her bag beside her and turns to engage me in conversation, but before she can we’re joined by another guest.
Robert Castro, of the Castro Family. A long line of famous actors and heartthrobs that have ruled over Hollywood for a century. Their names on movie posters always guarantee a smash hit and just like his father, Robert has left a trail of broken relationships behind him, both his own and others. Robert, or Bobby as he often goes by, is forty-two years old and has never dated a woman over twenty-eight. Both of his ex-wives had been twenty-five the day he’d put expensive, one-of-a-kind, rings on their fingers. Both were served divorce papers by his assistant on their twenty-seventh birthday.
I can’t hide the flush that rises to my cheeks as I remember the teenage crush I had on him after his first big blockbuster- the movie that cemented him as a star. Before then, he’d mostly starred as the funny best friend in romance flicks or had brief stints in various soap episodes. I watched his entire back catalogue in the first month after falling under his spell in the cinema. My mum used to groan in good nature as I suggested yet another of the films that held his name in the credits as our weekly movie. I loved Friday nights growing up. We’d all snuggle up under one blanket on the ‘big sofa’ and watch a movie together. No phones, and no interruptions. Just us sharing 120 minutes together.
My dad would half-heartedly remind me I wasn’t allowed to date until I was at least twenty-one, making throwaway comments about Robert Castro’s suitability as a husband until I’d huff out loud and defend the new love of my life. My friends were all in the same boat. Bobby Castro was the perfect man as far as any of us were concerned. One day he’d walk past our classroom and notice one of us. We’d catch his eye and the rest would be history. It didn’t matter that we lived in a pokey small seaside town that nobody had heard of and that he lived on the other side of the world in the States. One day he would find us. We knew it. And finally, he had.
My hand longs to grab my phone and snap a photo of his profile as he takes the seat just behind Fiona. The girls in the long-discarded message chain would flip out at my proximity to him. Of course, we’d all grown up since then, most of them had found adequate husbands of their own and settled into the life they were always meant to inhabit. Plus the seemingly never-ending articles about Robert’s ‘love-them and leave-them’ approach to life quickly ground our rose-tinted glasses to dust. He wasn’t the perfect man. He was just a good-looking one. There is a stark difference between the two.
By the summer of that year I had gotten over my crush on Castro Jr. I'd moved on to the next up-and-coming heartthrob but I couldn’t help the nostalgic swell of excitement growing in my stomach at the idea of spending a long weekend with him. Perhaps some of those steamy teenage fantasies I’d indulged in could finally come true? At thirty-two I was a little out of his typical age range, but so long as he didn’t see my passport, I was sure I could still pass for late twenties.
I had to hold in an audible groan as the next guest boarded. I saw his name on the itinerary but had desperately hoped he wouldn’t be able to make it. Lucas Jones. Twenty-eight years old and already a millionaire at least eighty times over. He started building his online persona at eight (thanks in no small part to his parents) and over the last twenty years had become the most watched person on the Internet - which is no simple task considering the sea of influencers and celebrities constantly vying for his crown. As a child he reviewed toys, as a teenager he would livestream himself playing the latest games, and now as an adult, he reviewed products for whoever offered him the most cash. Maybe I was just being cynical. Maybe his tastes were as eclectic as his social grids made out.
Despite only being four years older than Lucas, I can’t help but feel like an old woman as I take in his appearance. Wireless headphones hanging precariously out of his ear, branded laptop bag slung over one shoulder, whilst the other had a tablet tucked into his armpit. His sunglasses were folded and perched on the neck of his white t-shirt and as much as I hate to admit it, the tightness of the shirt was just right - just enough to let anyone interested know that he had more than a passing interest in his home gym.
Next to board was an ex-politician who would now do anything for money, Michael Samson. If I thought Lucas’s arrival signaled the barrel we were scraping, then Michael's arrival showed me just how wrong I’d been. Aged forty-six and on his second wife: an aide he just happened to fall in love with shortly after his first marriage ended. He had been forced out of politics when his peers became too ashamed of his antics and didn’t want to watch his back anymore. A few leaked memos here and there and life in the House of Commons was over for poor Mr. Samson. It didn’t help his cause that those leaked memos exposed quite how terribly he failed the country time and time again.
And so began the publicity campaign, because without attention or adoration from the general public, Michael would fade away into obscurity. Something he absolutely couldn’t stand for. First came the reality shows where he made cringe-worthy small talk with the other contestants as he willingly undertook any and every task that was put before him. He was a team player. He was one of us. Yada yada yada. Then came the singing contest for charity, see, he could laugh at himself too. Isn’t he a good guy? And finally, he landed a regular spot as a correspondent on a popular panel show and now it felt like his murky past had never happened.
I watch as he makes a spectacle of greeting the cabin crew, repeating their names back to them to show he is committing them to memory. Finally, he turns his attention to the four of us already seated. I hear the background noise of Lucas’s music grow in volume and have to bite back a smirk. It seems I wasn’t the only one on board who dreaded the idea of being stuck in a luxury tin can with the man. Noticing that nobody was reaching out to shake his hand, Michael smiled to himself, shrugged his shoulders, and disappeared from my line of sight into one of the front seats. I can hear him muttering to himself about the attractiveness of one particular hostess in his plummy English accent - the kind you only obtain with a privileged upbringing - and a shudder tickles down my spine. I guess his second wife is no longer ticking all the boxes for him.
I can’t help but notice the cabin crew as they check their watches regularly. Clearly, the last guest to join us is running late. They whisper between themselves and I watch with interest as they try to mask their annoyance behind professional smiles. I was all too familiar with that habit having to employ it myself many times when Rebecca would ask me for something far-fetched. Or blame me for something she’d forgotten. I try to flash a sympathetic smile towards the cabin member nearest to me and then remember that as far as she was concerned I was like every other passenger here. Full of wealth and luxury, unable to relate to their daily struggles.
I’m so sorry!
A woman’s voice calls out to them as I hear heels teetering upon the stairs. An enormous hat enters the cabin before its owner does. I am so, so sorry.
She reaches out to the crew and shakes each of their hands as she moves down the aisle toward the last vacant seat. She makes eye contact with them ensuring that they feel the sincere depths of her apologies. It was working. The crew all smiled back at her with genuine warmth in their eyes. And I wasn’t surprised, she had, after all, built an entire brand based around kindness.
Her name was Penny Atwell