Seeking closure, protagonist Abby heads to the remote tropical island where her fiancée, Eszter, died. There, she meets the group of expats Eszter hung out with—a warm, enchanting crew. Here, she’s just joined them for a beach picnic and is working up the courage to tell them why she’s really here…
I look around the group. Pedro squeezes lime all over his food; Amari plucks a chunk of mango from Brady’s plate and pops it in her mouth. You know how every once in a while, you just know a moment is significant? Your body wakes up, shuts off the autopilot, and tells you to pay attention. I felt it the first time I saw Eszter, two years ago, when I turned in to the bar’s parking lot and caught a glimpse of her heading for the front door. Not love at first sight, nothing so Disney-fied, but an abrupt knowledge that life had found a seam, splitting neatly into Before and After.
And now . . . I feel it again, as tantalizing as déjà vu. I can’t explain it but I sense it, how something’s about to shift.
“Are there more beans?” Brady asks, popping the feeling like a bubble.
I clear my throat. “There’s actually another reason I’m here. My partner, Eszter . . . she passed away on a trip here. She had food allergies and she had a reaction and wasn’t able to get help in time.” I see the shift—their faces twist with sympathy. “I’m . . . I’m kinda hoping to hear some stories of her time here. She looked so happy in her photos, and when we spoke she went on and on about how much she loved it here. So I’m . . . wondering if you guys have any memories to share, I guess.”
Amari sets her plate on the blanket. “Wow. I’m so sorry for your loss. Of course we remember her—what a lovely person.”
A little sob ripples through me and I turn away, murmuring an apology. Rita puts her hand on my arm and I can feel them exchanging uncomfortable glances.
“Sorry,” I say again with a laugh. “Whew—I really thought I was ready to ask you that.
“Don’t apologize,” Amari says. “Of course it’s hard to talk about. It was . . . really awful. Eszter was awesome. And we were just getting used to having her around.”
I nod, sniffling. “It’s been cool getting to see this place for myself.” “I remember meeting her for the first time,” Amari says. “We bumped into each other on the ferry ride over. I helped her get a ride to her rental.”
“She used to bring these cookies to Playa Oscura for the sunsets,” Pedro says.
“Orejas.” Brady takes a swig of tequila. “That’s the name of the cookie.”
A fresh gush of tears—yup, that sounds like Eszter. “This is kind of a weird question,” I say, “but do you guys know what she was . . . doing, like day-to-day? At the very end.” I need to tell you something, she texted. We’ll talk when you get here.
They’re all quiet, waiting for someone to jump in. “She came here to work on a big paper about her capstone project,” I prompt. “The Haven—this mixed-use project in Miami.”
“Huh—she didn’t say much about that,” Amari says.
“She liked practicing her Spanish.” Pedro shifts on the blanket. “So she kinda made friends all over the island. Nice girl.” He ahems. “Really sorry for your loss.
“‘All over the island’?” I repeat. “Do you know who she was closest with?”
Pedro’s index finger bobs between Amari and Brady. A smile spreads across Amari’s face. “Well, we gays gotta stick together.”
Amari’s queer! Some instant, involuntary part of me files this away. “Well, maybe sometime while I’m here we can . . . grab drinks and pour one out for Eszter.” I swipe below my eyes and laugh. “Maybe by then I won’t be a complete mess.”
“Of course.” Amari pats my knee.
“It was really strange,” I admit. “Walking around the place where she died? It’s almost like I can feel her ghost.”
Brady’s head pops up. “So you’ve been up there?”
Confusion strobes through me. “Up where?” I ask.
The air freezes up around us. Brady’s staring at me, his bewilderment matching my own. The others are stock-still, too.
I shake my head. “Been up where? She died in her Airbnb.”
Brady glances to his left and right. My heart clacks like a train on a track.
“Brady, what are you saying?” I ask.
“Nothing.” He shakes his head. “Just wondering if you’ve been to . . . the rental. On Calle Estrella, right?”
Still frowning, I nod. “I went there this morning. Nobody was home.”
Another beat. Amari clears her throat and stacks her plate on top of Brady’s. Pedro stands. No one looks at me.
“Where’s the lid for the beans?” Rita asks.
I watch them swirl around me. My brain is whirring.
I came here to understand Eszter’s time on Isla Colel. Her last few days alive.
So why did the cabin pressure change . . . when I mentioned where she died?
Excerpted from THE LAST FERRY OUT by Andrea Bartz. Copyright © 2025 by Andrea Bartz Inc. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
