Two weeks later, St. Lucia is all sun-bleached wood, salt wind, and slow waves. Dallas stands on the balcony of the rented room, fedora low, while the sea turns silver below.

Murderbone lies at his feet, loose-jointed for once, ears half-up toward the surf. The dog looks like he has finally decided the world can wait.

Elena steps onto the balcony with two cups of coffee, one for him and one for herself. In the distance, white chairs and ribboned palms mark the wedding setup on the beach.

She hands Dallas his cup and leans against the rail beside him, her expression softening as she follows his gaze toward the shoreline. Murderbone thumps his tail once, then settles again.

Dallas draws Elena in at his side, but his attention stays split, one arm steady around her while his gaze keeps climbing past the wedding chairs to the thin line of trees beyond them. The sea breeze shifts warm across the balcony.

Elena lets herself be pulled close, cup balanced carefully in one hand. Her shoulder settles against his coat, and her eyes follow his toward the palms below the room.

For a moment, nothing moves except the ribboned chairs below and the bright water beyond them. Then Dallas catches it, a dark service cart half-hidden near the edge of the setup, its wheel turned inward like someone parked it in a hurry.

On the cart handle, a clipped paper tag flutters once in the wind. Even from here, the printed line looks official, and the words on it seem to echo the same cold instruction from the message, no public desk.

Dallas tightens his arm around Elena and stays still, letting the balcony look empty while his eyes work the line of palms. Below, the service cart sits wrong, too square against the wedding whites, its tag twitching in the breeze.

Elena feels his attention shift and eases her cup lower, keeping close without asking him to explain. Murderbone lifts his head at the same time, ears pricking toward the trees instead of the chairs.

A figure breaks from the shade near the palms, half-hidden by a post and the cart’s handle. The person does not approach, just pauses long enough for Dallas to catch the hotel staff shirt under a dark overshirt.

The paper tag turns in the wind, flashing the same clipped instruction he has already seen, no public desk, along with a district address line printed beneath it.

Elena stays tucked against Dallas, but her hand finds his sleeve. The wedding setup remains untouched, yet the calm around it feels borrowed now.

Dallas keeps his gaze fixed on the cart, and the shape at the edge of the wedding area resolves into hotel staff, not a guest, standing too still beside the handle.

The figure shifts, just enough for Dallas to catch the side of a badge and the stiff paper card tucked under it.

Even from the balcony, the print is legible. No public desk. Beneath it, the district address line sits like an instruction instead of a courtesy.

The staff-looking figure glances up once, then turns his body sideways toward the cart, as if waiting for someone to come down from the room above.

Dallas now has the card in clear sight, and the harmless vacation setup below reads like a drop point.