Slowly, very slowly, Vera Claythorne and Philip Lombard lifted their heads and looked into each other's eyes…
"There's no one on the island – no one at all – except us two…"
Her voice was a whisper, and her eyes were angry and confused.
Lombard, his face giving nothing away, returned:
"Precisely. So we know where we are now, don't we?"
Vera frowned, her fingers clasping the skirt of her thin dress, her knuckles turning white.
"Indeed," she answered as frostily as she could manage. "How did you work that trick with Blore? How were you able to take his life when you haven't left my side?"
Surprise flashed over Lombard's face. He said, astounded:
"You think I am the killer, Vera?"
She blanched.
"I should prefer it if you refrained from the use of my first name, Mr Lombard."
"You've proven yourself to be a quick-witted girl, Miss Claythorne," Lombard said calmly. "So I do hope you will listen to me when I tell you that we are not alone on this island."
Vera released her dress and hugged her arms around her waist. She lowered her head, her hair falling into her face, and her eyes cast out across the ocean. It swelled and waved as she watched, and, for a second, she would have sworn that a child's hand peeked out of the water, reaching for her. Lombard took a step toward her.
"How is that possible? She returned, her eyes narrowing. "Everyone else is dead." She returned her sullen stare to Lombard, startled to see that he was approaching her. She scuttled backwards from the rocks, losing sight of Armstrong's body as she descended to the sand. "Or, perhaps, you are suggesting that one of the dead has risen and haunts us still?" She spat the words at him, intending them to sound ridiculous, but the flash of a drowned little boy, wearing a crown of seaweed, in the corner of her vision made her jump.
Lombard scoffed, taking a final glance at the doctor's body, before he pursued Vera.
"Is that what you're suggesting?" Vera's voice had a note of shrillness to it. "Are you suggesting–"
"No." Lombard cut her off. "No, silly girl. I am suggesting that one of us may not be quite as dead as we thought."
Vera blinked – once, twice. Then:
"Who?"
"Between the two of us, how many of the others can we pronounce dead without doubt?"
Vera lost her footing and stumbled. Her voice quivered as she responded:
"Well, Armstrong and Blore… They appear entirely dead to me."
"Hm," Lombard hummed.
"Rogers too…" Vera's voice was gentle.
"And we can both vouch for the death of Marston." Lombard thought for a moment. "I can't say that I ever closely looked at Mrs Rogers' body, but I am certain that, even if she were alive, she would not be the culprit."
"Mrs Brent…" Vera began. "She was… definitely dead…"
"Yes, I can agree with that." Lombard smoothed one of his hands over his face. Vera observed the movement carefully. "The general, too. I feel we can confidently pronounce everyone so far dead."
"But…" started Vera. "That would leave only judge Wargrave, and he was shot in the head."
"You know that my suspicions were on him from the start." Lombard's mouth lifted into a shameful imitation of a smile. "Tell me, dear, clever Miss Claythorne, did you personally look over the judge's body? Did you check him for a pulse? Or study the gun wound on his head?"
Vera shuddered, revolted:
"Of course not!"
"And tell me, who was the only one of us to closely examine that body?"
Lombard had persisted in stalking closer, and Vera had continued to stand just out of his reach. However, they were nearing the end of the beach, and then she would be out of sand to play cat and mouse upon.
"Dr Armstrong, Vera said, glaring. "Are you claiming to know better than a doctor about the symptoms of death? Or are you calling him incompetent?"
"Neither," Lombard shrugged, raising his arms, his palms open, showing he meant her no harm.
Why he has the face of a wolf, Vera thought. Why did I not see it sooner? Those pointed teeth… and cold, pale eyes…
She glanced down from his face, and her eyes danced over his body. Vera's mind brought forth a picture of him – stripped of all but the slightest covering. When they had been searching each of their rooms for the revolver, she had caught a glimpse of him. His chest was sleekly muscled, and his arms were strong and powerful. It was a body that could so readily belong to a killer – after all, that's what he was.
But it was also a body that had been difficult not to dwell on. In the moments where they had briefly been alone, or when they had talked, it had been difficult not to imagine how his body might feel against hers, or how his confident mouth might kiss her.
"Miss Claythorne?" Lombard was amused, like he knew what she had been thinking.
Vera gasped, realising he now stood less than a foot away.
"I – I'm listening," she said, flushing, her head turning out toward the surrounding sea again.
"I do not claim to know better than the doctor, nor am I accusing him of any kind of inability to declare death."
"What, then?"
"I am suggesting that he falsely pronounced old Wargrave dead – and entirely on purpose."
"Why would he do that!" Vera cried, irritated by this theory, and embarrassed by the feelings that his closeness was evoking in her body. "What could he possibly gain from that!"
"Perhaps Wargrave knew how much easier it would be to carry out his crazy plans when we all thought we only needed to worry about the living. Suppose he told Armstrong that faking his death would help uncover the killer? The two of them talked a lot, just between the two of them. It would explain who murdered Armstrong when the rest of us were in bed."
Lombard watched Vera for a response. She continued to gaze at the waves in silence. One of Lombard's hands rose from his side and reached for her cheek. Her eyes widened, and were drawn back to his face, as he cupped the base of her neck.
His palm was rough with use, but Vera delighted in the feel of it on her skin. She blushed as she thought of how it would feel on the bare skin of her body. Her stare dropped to his lips.
When she failed to respond, Lombard closed the distance between the two of them, pulling her into his arms. Her head fitted neatly underneath his own. They stood like that for a moment before he felt Vera's hands skim down his back.
"There is someone else here, Vera," he said, dipping his head so the words slipped straight into her ear. "We'll find whoever it is, and then we'll escape from this. I've gotten out of tighter places than this."
"Yes, Vera agreed. "By killing twenty-one men."
There was a distinct coldness in her voice that Lombard didn't like – but it was too late:
The barrel of his revolver was pressing into his ribs.
"I'm sorry, Philip," she said.
"Vera – no." Lombard's hold around her tensed.
"I won't fall victim to you like the others," she stated.
"For the final time, Vera: I am not the killer," he growled in a way that made her heart jump.
"I – I don't believe you," she said softly, digging the gun deeper into his ribcage.
"How could I have killed Blore? I was sitting next to you when it happened."
"A carefully rigged trick," Vera said. "Now, do you have anything further you'd like to say before you join everyone else?"
Lombard breathed slowly, the hand on Vera's neck stroking distractedly. His mind was working quickly – torn between tackling her to the ground and fighting her for the gun, and talking to her gently, convincing her that he was not the murderer.
"There is one more thing I would like to do," he murmured eventually, tugging her face up so they were nose-to-nose.
She persisted in glaring at him, but he could feel her skin shiver under his touch, her body arching into his, as he leaned forward. His lips brushed over hers – softly at first, and then he deepened the kiss, digging his fingers into the hair at the nape of her neck. Vera gasped, and he seized the opportunity, sliding his tongue into her open mouth.
Vera tried to pull away, but he held her firmly in place. She could feel his muscular body rippling under his shirt, and she pressed herself closer. His mouth had taken hers captive, and she was not complaining.
"Mm, Philip," she moaned as his lips left hers and trailed down her neck. She buried her fingers into his hair, dropping the gun as she did so.
He drew back when the revolver hit the sand and looked at her. Her cheeks were pink, her mouth was parted, and her hands were reluctant to release him.
"I don't want to shoot you," she said. "So, if you are going to kill me, I suppose this is the time."
Lombard chuckled.
"I'm not going to kill you," he replied. "But there really is someone watching us, and I think it's time we dealt with them."
He kneeled and retrieved the gun, tucking it into the back of his pants once more. Vera looked at him uncertainly. He pecked her on the lips and held her close again. "We shall both leave this place alive," he whispered into her ear. She relaxed against him, realising, unexpectedly, that she trusted Philip Lombard against her better instincts.
Lombard released her, studying her face. She smiled at him. It was a small half-smile, but it was enough to make him grin back at her. He took Vera's hand in his, running his thumb over her wrist, and began leading her to the house.