Chapter 578

The stage radiated a manufactured heat, hot against Zorah's face as she swayed with the mass of moving bodies. Willemstad, Curaçao wasn't Paramaribo, Suriname. Not home. But the music, that raw pulse vibrating in her chest, offered a sorry substitute.

Jean-Michel, the artist everyone called JM, stood illuminated at center stage. He was gorgeous. Dangerously so. That was something Zorah had acknowledged from his initial hit. Her ticket was a birthday present from her sister.

"Enjoy," Sefora had told her over the phone. "You need to escape this constant doom and gloom."

Zorah knew Sefora meant well. Trying to survive in a new place left one gasping for any bit of oxygen. The beat thumped louder. She shut her eyes, and the press of bodies kept her standing as JM's latest ballad about heartbreak and recovery echoed around them.

JM finished. The lights came up a degree. He spoke into the microphone, his accent thick with island vowels. "Thank you, everyone! You're making tonight… unforgettable."

The audience cheered, nearly deafening in volume.

Zorah felt a hand on her elbow. A woman with fire-red hair, slicked back and secured tightly with hairspray. She looked like an off-duty music instructor. "He's incredible, right?" she yelled over the fading applause.

Zorah nodded, surprised by the touch. She offered a small smile. "He is. His albums don't do him justice."

"Tell me about it. This is my fourth time seeing him this tour." The redhead laughed. "I think I'm in love." She extended a hand. "I'm Marije."

"Zorah," she responded, shaking Marije's hand. "Nice to meet you."

"You new to JM?" Marije asked.

"Sort of," Zorah confessed. "First concert. My sister got me the ticket."

"Well, stick with me. I know all the best spots for drinks after," Marije responded, winking. "He frequents a place near the marina."

The band restarted. Another song about losing everything.

As JM sang, Zorah watched him. His eyes moved from person to person. It almost seemed like he was scanning, searching, even.

She shivered. Maybe Sefora was correct. She was viewing the world through a cracked lens. Still, the stage felt wrong. The lights too brilliant, the sound too encompassing, the fans all too eager.

Marije put an arm around Zorah's shoulders, pulling her into the crush of bodies jumping to the drumbeat. For a minute, Zorah forgot the unease. The happiness radiating from Marije, the feeling of community, and being connected. But she saw JM looking directly at her.

And he smiled.

Later, Marije led her through the streets of Willemstad. The air cooled to a welcome balm, carrying the brine smell of the harbor. Bars spilled patrons onto the sidewalks, laughing and talking.

"Here we are," Marije announced, stopping before a bar painted a garish green. "'The Drunken Parrot' It's awful, I know, but JM likes the pirate kitsch."

Inside, the air smelled of stale beer and sweat. Dim light coated worn tables, where men played dominoes loudly. At the back, tucked in a shadowed alcove, sat JM with a small group.

Marije steered Zorah toward them. "Jean-Michel! Good to see you again!"

JM glanced up, his face relaxing into a genuine smile that wasn't for performance. "Marije. Good of you to come. And who's this?"

"This is Zorah," Marije replied. "She's new to your music."

"A pleasure," JM greeted, extending a hand to Zorah. His skin was soft, surprisingly so, for a man who seemed to occupy so much space. "Welcome."

Zorah shook his hand, the pads of his fingers ghosting against hers. "Thank you." She tried to ignore the renewed shiver traveling down her backbone.

JM gestured to the empty seats. "Join us. What can I get you to drink?"

They sat. The conversation started slowly but increased like a flame under dry grass. JM, disarmed outside the glare of the stage, was sharp.

Zorah found herself talking. About Suriname. The constant struggle. About leaving behind everything she knew for the promise of something different.

JM listened, truly listened. "It takes courage," he remarked. "To recreate yourself. Most people stay mired in the familiar." His gaze remained, but she fought the comfort this stranger had so easily offered.

Another round came. Then another. The group decreased as people gave their goodbyes. Soon, it was just Zorah, Marije, and JM.

"I should go," Zorah said. The alcohol had warmed her. A dangerous thing, perhaps. But it seemed almost manageable under the bright moon. "Long day tomorrow."

"Nonsense," Marije protested. "One more. Then I'll take you home. My apartment is only ten minutes from here."

JM raised an eyebrow. "Don't let Marije drive if she's had too much, now." He chuckled. A low sound that rumbled. It sounded more like a warning than a joke.

Another drink. The talk became sluggish.

The final thing Zorah could recall was Marije saying, "Bathroom break. Back in a minute!" Then turning to JM, she noticed him reach beneath the table. It must have been the end because that memory faded quickly to the taxi ride.

The inside of her apartment was just as she left it. Untidy.

The light woke her slowly. Head splitting, the remains of something loud. The clock on her bedside was almost five. The sunrise already peeking its head into the darkness.

She lifted herself up slowly, cringing, looking for some relief from the chaos in her brain. That's when she noticed the note on the bedside table.

Meet me at the dock. JM

Below the dock, an old warehouse sat. Rotting wood and metal that looked like it hadn't been used in a decade. She took a deep breath, fighting the questions, and headed to the door.

He stood there, staring out at the ocean. Still wearing the shirt from the performance, the sunlight painted his silhouette onto her tired eyes. She waited, deciding what words should leave her mouth first. But he was the first to make a noise.

"You are just like them. Everything I am looking for. Like she was."

His eyes pierced through the morning calm like lightning. He began walking. Getting close. The dock planks swayed with each stride, causing Zorah to take steps back in tune.

"She? Who are you talking about? I barely know you, do you think these games will—"

A photo slapped across her face, forcing her head to snap back, the image of a pretty blonde woman in an advertisement dress from the city center staring back with lifeless eyes.

"You remember her. This island is not big as it seems."

She could do nothing but stare at the woman in the photograph. When had she seen her? Who was she? The wheels in her skull began turning rapidly. Her last thought was, what had she gotten herself mixed up in.

He went back to starring out towards the sea.

"It all started the year prior, they'd all been after her you see," JM started. "The beauty radiating. Never-ending. That's why she was my initial target."

"Target?," Zorah whispered, beginning to take in everything. "You are the one murdering these women?"

He let out an uncontrolled snicker. A short burst of something so loud, so painful, she could feel the vibrations in her bones. A predator.

"The details are unimportant. Except she knew, the day I got close enough. Her sister warned her as you do me now."

She stepped off another foot. She reached the end. Water sat below. He could see the calculation. As did she.

"Now you are trapped, but if you cooperate, you will not need to perish. It all just needs to proceed like with them," he spoke with his hand reaching out to grab Zorah back to safety.

This all meant one thing: the man in front of her killed his fans. One by one, selecting women that were brand new to the scene. She thought back to the redhead. "Was Marije another target as well?"

JM stopped cold. He looked toward her then shook his head, his hands still reaching out but with a change. It now expressed desperation. This angered her the most.

"Yes, that woman Marije was after her constantly, as all those dimwits were. That one was spared by my own hand due to this being perfect!"

Zorah started. She now had all the info. Marije may be in danger still.

Then she realized: Sefora may be next.

"But not if I have anything to say, this has to stop," as Zorah pushed with both her hands. His weight gave way easy with shock from what had happened, plummeting, down with force. Then… silence. The fall created its last echoes, leaving behind an uncertain calm.

The rest occurred in something of a day-mare, a hazy nightmare. Contacting the authorities took time.

Speaking with detectives who assumed a woman from the mainland could never understand what it meant to grow up within poverty's grasp and become the hunted became a constant fight. Reaching out to her family brought no support; no understanding.

Only lectures and accusations. She lost what few connections she'd started forging. Marije stopped returning calls. Each day blurred more than the prior.

Months later, Zorah found herself drifting, going. But never truly surviving. Returning to Suriname had no solace. She sat upon the sand, thinking what next to do.

The answers came, her head lifted to the sea breeze's caress as its promise sang: peace awaits beneath the waves. The ocean took. Its return… silent and cold.