The concierge calls my villa at three-fifteen the next afternoon. A package has arrived. Priority international courier. Signature required.
I walk to the front desk alone. Jayson and Oakley are at the pool. I saw them from the terrace before I left. She was lying on the lounger next to his. The one I'd reserved weeks ago.
The box is smaller than I expected. Rosewood, polished dark, with brass hinges that look like they've been there a hundred years. My name is written on the shipping label in careful block letters. No return address.
I sign for it. The concierge smiles and asks if I need help carrying it back.
"No," I say. "I'm fine."
I take it to the villa. I lock the door behind me. I don't know why I lock it. Maybe because I want to be alone when I open it.
The box sits on the bed. I stand there looking at it for a full minute before I touch the latch.
Inside, wrapped in silk the color of old ivory, is the megaphone. Brass and dark wood. Heavier than it should be. The metal is warm against my palms even though the air conditioning has been running all day.
I lift it out carefully. There's a note underneath. Cream cardstock. My grandmother's handwriting in black ink.
*You already know what to do.*
Five words. That's all.
I hold the megaphone and feel something hum through it. Not sound exactly. More like a vibration that starts in the metal and moves into my hands. Up my wrists. Into my chest.
I think about the story my grandmother told me when I was twelve. We were in the library at the Hamptons house. She'd shown me the megaphone for the first time. Told me it had been in the Wilson family for five generations. That it compelled truth from anyone who spoke into it. That lies spoken through it came back as consequences. Physical ones.
I'd asked if it was real. If it actually worked.
She'd looked at me with those sharp gray eyes and said, "You'll know when you need it."
I wrap the megaphone back in the silk. I put it in the box. I slide the box under the bed, all the way to the wall where the shadows are deepest.
Then I go back to the pool.
Jayson and Oakley are exactly where I left them. She's talking about some bar she went to in Thailand. He's laughing. His hand is resting on the edge of her lounger.
I sit down on the third lounger. The one in full sun.
"Hey, babe," Jayson says without looking over. "We were just talking about doing the sunset cruise tomorrow. You in?"
"Sure," I say. "Sounds great."
Oakley glances at me. Her sunglasses are mirrored. I can't see her eyes.
"You okay?" she asks. "You look weird."
"I'm fine," I say. "Just hot."
I smile. I've gotten very good at smiling.
That night at dinner I suggest the campfire party. I make my voice light. Enthusiastic. I lean forward like I'm sharing something delightful.
"My grandmother sent the most incredible thing," I say. "This antique megaphone. It's a Wilson family tradition. We do this game where everyone takes turns holding it and says their most honest truth. Like truth or dare but just for the truth part."
Jayson raises his eyebrows. "That's very you."
"It's fun," I say. "I promise. And it's our last night here. We should do something memorable."
Oakley shrugs. She's picking at her fish. "Sure. Why not."
"Perfect," I say. "I'll set it up with the resort. They do beach bonfires every night. We can join one."
Jayson reaches across the table and squeezes my hand. "You're the best, you know that?"
"I know," I say.
I squeeze back. I keep smiling.
The next two days I perform normalcy like it's my job. I laugh at Jayson's jokes. I defer to Oakley's restaurant suggestions. When she says she wants Thai food instead of the French place I picked, I say "Thai sounds amazing." When Jayson cancels our couples massage to go kayaking with her, I say "No problem, I'll read by the pool."
I am pleasant. I am accommodating. I am the wife who doesn't make a fuss.
At night, alone in the villa while Jayson showers, I pull the box out from under the bed. I open it. I touch the megaphone. I feel that hum again. That warmth.
I think about the campfire. About what will happen when they speak into it. About what truths will come out in their own voices. Truths they can't take back. Truths everyone will hear.
I think about my grandmother's note.
*You already know what to do.*
I do.
I close the box. I slide it back under the bed.
I wait.
