Covered in gore and god knows what else seemed to be the least of my problems. Being trapped in this place, with these people. Could anything be worse? Of course, something worse always happens whenever someone asks that question, and this case is no different.

Right on cue, I hear Harry's bond-villain voice on the overhead speaker,

"Islanders, for this team challenge, you will have to complete a giant jigsaw puzzle split into three individual puzzles for each team member to solve. When all three puzzles are put together, they will spell out a message that will change the entirety of the competition. Each team member will have up to one hour to jet ski to our sister island across from us, complete their puzzle, and return. The last person to go has one hour to put their own puzzle together and assemble all three puzzles. As a team, you must select the person who goes last. But be warned, depending on how the three puzzles are put together, they can form various messages. Remember, your fate in the competition depends on the person you choose to go last. So choose wisely. "

And just like that, things got even worse. Because the two people who determine my fate in this freaking competition are two identical twin misogynistic finance bros. The clothes they were dropped in wearing before being ripped to shreds and stained with mud and blood had to be custom-tailored suits. Did they split their ticket as one person? Or were they among the second-chance people who didn't get a ticket? Who came into the game after the sunset yesterday and had to fight one of the originals for their spot.

Maybe one of them killed Delilah. I start to feel my hands ball up into a fist, but there's no point in beating the living shit out of at least one of them. It's two against one; it's not a fair fight. Actually, this whole thing hasn't been a fair fight. I wonder how many other people died last night…

There's no way this is real or legal. But what was I supposed to do about it? I am just a P.I. with zero experience in high-brow crime like this. Why did the Feds recruit me, of all people? Don't they have access to, like, everything? Don't they have an agent they could send undercover if they were really that concerned? They barely trained me and dropped me into this with no way to contact them besides a tiny red panic button. I don't even know if I still have that thing on me.

I pat myself down before the air horn goes off, I feel all pockets of my khaki cargo pants that are now shorts, and I don't feel anything. I look down at my black tank top, now a crop top, and it's not in my bra either. Fuck. I actually have to play this game. What if someone stole it?

Harry's cutthroat English accent reminds us again via an overhead speaker, what's to come,

"If you or any of your team members fail to complete your puzzles in an hour, you will be in jeopardy of leaving the competition."

Great, that's just great. These two meatheads looked like they were the kids in a doctor's office who'd be trying to shove a square block into a circle hole for 45 minutes, all grown up. And just looking at their matching douchebag crew cuts, I'm sure they still do that, but instead of the doctor's office, they do it in the bedroom.

The air horn shatters my eardrums, and my body jolts like a dog that sees a squirrel on its owner's lawn. I cannot let either of these Neanderthals go last.

Then I feel a baseball mitt of a hand in between my shoulder blades push me face down into the sand while the other wraps his paws around my ankles and starts dragging me away from the shore, away from the Jetski.