The Lion's Den: The 'impossible to put down' must-read gripping thriller of 2020

by Katherine St. John

  Wendy, Claire, and I exchange a weighted glance. Good luck, Wendy mouths, cutting her eyes at Amythest. Then, at full volume, “Okay, we’ll see you in a bit.”

  Claire gives a little wave and follows her toward a shoe shop. I feel a burden lift from my shoulders as they disappear from view. This is the first break from the herd and the least amount of supervision I’ve had since we started this trip. I turn to Amythest, leaning over the railing and looking out at the boats, big black sunglasses hiding her eyes. “You okay?”

  “Fine,” she says flatly.

  “If you wanna just sit in a restaurant or something and chill while I go find this dress, it’s totally cool,” I offer.

  “Nah. Let’s go.”

  We cut across the road, and I consult the maps app on my phone to find the nearest Western Union, which is luckily only a few blocks away. “I just have to run to Western Union first to send this money for Camille,” I say. “She’s not allowed off the boat, and her mom needs the cash.”

  Still lost in her own world, Amythest nods vaguely and follows me up a cobblestone street lined with charming boutiques. She sits on a bench outside the storefront fiddling with her phone while I wait in the long line to send Camille’s money. By the time I emerge, her mood seems to have improved.

  “That’s pretty awesome your web series was nominated,” she says as we make our way up the sidewalk among shoppers laden with bags. “What was it?”

  “It was called Junk. I played a junkie medical school student trying to go straight. And failing.”

  “Sounds intense. So, like, what do they pay for that?”

  “Exactly zero dollars,” I divulge. “But it was an awesome experience. I learned so much and really got to stretch as an actor, as cheesy as that may sound.”

  “No, it’s cool. I wish I could do something like that.”

  I stop in front of a boutique with a deep-purple strapless dress displayed in the front window.

  “You know how I feel about purple,” Amythest says.

  We enter the store and I peruse the racks, nonchalantly turning over the first price tag I see. Five thousand euros. I turn over another one. Six thousand. I catch Amythest’s eye and casually stroll out.

  “How much?” she asks.

  “Six grand.” I sigh. “I’m looking for more like five hundred, which to me is still a lot to spend on a dress that I’ll maybe wear a handful of times ever.”

  She laughs. “Good luck.”

  We make quick work of it from there, but have a hell of a time finding anything that fits my budget. There are stores that sell cheaper clothing, but they don’t have formal dresses. Along the way, Amythest picks up a big floppy hat, and I grab a necklace for my mom and a pair of earrings for Lauren.

  We’re already short on time from the length of the line at Western Union, and I’ve just about given up when I see the most beautiful emerald-green empire-waist dress in the window of a consignment store. I check my watch. It’s eleven thirty.

  “That would be sick on you,” Amythest says.

  “Okay, we just have to be quick. The boat is still a ten-minute walk.”

  The dress is 460 euros, which translates to a little more than the five hundred dollars I intended to spend. But after the other dresses today, it seems like a steal, and when I try it on, it’s absolutely perfect in every way. Amythest claps as I spin in front of the mirror. “Hot.” She whistles. “Hella hot.”

  As the shopgirls are wrapping it up for me, Amythest goes through a rack of clearance items in the back. “Ooh,” she exclaims. “What about this?”

  It’s a gold vintage shift cocktail dress from the sixties that is probably the most stylish thing she’s ever picked out in her life, and I wish I’d seen it first.

  “Yes.” I check my watch again. “But we have to be walking in ten minutes, so snap, snap.”

  She scurries to the dressing room and emerges transformed. The dress fits her perfectly, turning her from death-metal stripper to stylish gamine.

  “Yes,” I say immediately. “A hundred percent.”

  “I don’t know if I can afford it, though.”

  “How much?” I ask the shopgirl.

  “Très belle,” she says. “And on final sale, alors . . . forty-five.”

  “Okay, can I put it on a card?” Amythest asks.

  “No Amex, but Visa is okay.”

  “Great. I’ll do it.” Amythest smiles. She rummages in her purse and hands the shopgirl her credit card. “Can you ring it up while I change?”

  The shopgirl runs the card through her machine while Amythest changes back into her black cutoff jean shorts and tank top. We still have fifteen minutes to make it back to the boat, which should be plenty. I text Wendy:

  Headed back now. You find the shoes?

  She replies immediately:

  Yes!! See you soon x

  I glance over at the shopgirl, who is still looking at her machine. “Is there a problem?”

  “Pas de problème. The machine always slow.”

  The machine beeps, and she sighs.

  “What happened?” Amythest asks.

  “It was connect but now is not. I don’t know if it go through.”

  “We’re kind of in a hurry,” I say. “Is there any way to speed it up?”

  “It will work,” she says, looking at the machine. “I call.”

  The minutes are ticking. “Could you take another card?” I ask.

  “Le problème not the card. C’est la machine.”

  “What about cash?” I ask. “I could pull some cash out if there’s an ATM nearby.”

  “You don’t have to,” Amythest protests. “And we don’t have time. Go ahead. I can catch up.”

  “No. I’m not leaving you.”

  The shopgirl dials a number on the shop phone and speaks to someone in French. She seems to be following their instructions as she punches buttons on the machine. Finally, after what seems to be a decade, the machine beeps.

  “Oh! It go through.” She hands Amythest the receipt.

  Amythest signs and we dash out of the store. I text Wendy and Summer as we rush down the street, scampering around shoppers:

  There in 3 min!

  We’re not gonna make it by twelve. There’s no way. But we’ll only be a few minutes late. My sandals are rubbing blisters in my feet as we make it onto the promenade. Boats bob in their slips, glinting in the bright sun. I spy the Lion’s Den a hundred yards away.

  “Thank God.” I pant. “Boat’s still there.”

  But as we draw closer, I see two of the crew guys lifting the gangplank. They’re in shouting distance, so I yell, “Hey! We’re here!”

  Hugo and the burly one whose name I can’t remember look up and wave, then prepare to put the gangplank back in place.

  We’re twenty feet away now, and I can see Wendy and Brittani, shopping bags in hand, on the deck with Summer, watching us approach. I look at my watch as we reach the railing. It’s 12:03.

  “Sorry we’re late,” I call. “Credit card machine issue. We ran all the way.”

  Summer gives an instruction to the crew guys that I can’t hear over the thrum of the engine, then walks inside without a backward glance. The crew guys pause with the gangplank in the air, speaking to each other in low tones, then begin putting it away. They’re going to leave us.

  “Brittani!” Amythest shouts. But Brittani turns her back and goes inside.

  Hugo catches my eye. “Sorry. Return at five.”

  I look to Wendy. “Seriously?”

  “Sorry.” I can’t see her expression for the shadow cast by her giant hat, but Wendy gives a nothing I can do shrug and follows Summer and Brittani as the boat pulls away.

  Amythest and I watch with dread as the boat chugs steadily into the bright day. Adrenaline surges through my veins. A friend’s knife is always sharpest, but double betrayal is a special torment. I text Wendy:

  What just happened?

  “I can’t believe this shit,” Amy
thest says.

  “Yeah, ditto,” I fume. “Well, to hell with those bitches. I’m hungry.”

  I march across the street to a restaurant that faces the harbor and take a seat at an outdoor table. Amythest slumps into the chair opposite mine, flipping up her menu. “You’ve gotta be kidding me. The cheapest drink on here is twenty euros.”

  “My treat,” I say, mentally tallying the small amount of money I have left.

  “That fucking cunt,” she seethes, twisting her hair madly around her finger.

  “Look, I’m just as pissed as you are right now, but honestly, I’m also kinda stoked we don’t have to hang out with them today.”

  Tears roll out from under her big black glasses. I flag down the waitress and order us each a hair-of-the-dog glass of rosé.

  “Listen.” I pat her hand. “Let’s just tell them that it’s my fault about being late, okay? I’ll tell them what happened, just that it happened to me instead of you. Sound good?”

  She chews her lip, her gaze trained on the boats bobbing in their slips. I quickly text Summer:

  Sorry we were late. Was my fault,

  was trying to buy a dress and the credit card

  machine froze, so I couldn’t leave with the dress,

  and couldn’t leave without it. Again, sorry!

  I don’t know what else to say. My phone has autoconnected to the restaurant Wi-Fi, and messages are pouring in. As I scroll through my in-box, my eyes land on my message chain with Dylan.

  I briefly consider calling him, but decide the better of it. Summer’s pissed enough at me as it is—the last thing I need to do is make it worse.

  Our rosé arrives, and Amythest chugs hers like it’s a keg at a frat party, then sets the glass down with a resounding clank.

  “Thirsty much?” I tease.

  “Screw Brittani. I’m that bitch’s only friend. No one else can stand her.”

  “I’m sorry she’s treating you like this. If it makes you feel any better, her sister is doing the same to me,” I sympathize.

  “I don’t give a shit if she’s loud and she’s rude,” Amythest says. “At least she’s straight up about who she is. But ever since we got here, all she does is lick her sister’s asshole. Like it’s so special she’s fucking some old rich guy. Ha!”

  She juts her chin out as she speaks, a hardness in her manner. She reaches across the table and takes a slug of my wine. “Joke’s on her. I’m fucking him, too.”

  Here’s the dirt. “Yeah,” I say carefully. “I saw him wearing the sunglasses I found under your bed, so I kinda figured.”

  “Wasn’t even hard,” she boasts. “Well, I mean, like it wasn’t hard to fuck him, but his dick wasn’t exactly hard, either. And he is kinky. Dirty.” She shivers. “He wanted me to—”

  But I have no interest in hearing the filthy details of Amythest and John’s tryst. “Girl, you need to be careful,” I cut in. “As big of a bitch as Summer may be, we’re here as her guests, and . . .”

  “What goes around comes around.” She snorts. “If she would’ve been nice to me, I would’ve given her respect, you know? But you treat me like I’m a whore, I’ll show you who’s a whore.”

  “I get it. But Summer’s—” I have to stop here. I can’t tell her the full truth about what I know, but I need to tell her something. “You know the real reason Emmanuelle’s no longer on the boat is Summer thought she was flirting with John, right? She set her up for stealing that necklace.”

  “Yeah, duh,” Amythest says.

  “It’s not the first time she’s done something like that,” I say, casting around for an example. “Back when Summer was waitressing, she didn’t like this one girl she was working with who would always take the good tables. So she set the girl up to look like she was stealing and got her fired.”

  “Too late.” Amythest shrugs, unimpressed. “’Cause I left my panties in his jacket pocket after he finger-banged me under the table at that party last night.”

  Jesus Christ. “Wow,” I say.

  She takes another slug of my wine. “All these rich people think they’re so special, but they’re just like everybody else. Everybody fucking everybody and nobody happy.”

  “I’d venture to say there may be slightly more fucking among the rich.”

  I flag down the waitress and order us each another glass of wine, as well as a caprese salad and prosciutto sandwich to share. Amythest chews her cheek and twirls her hair, turning her attention to her phone, so I take mine back out as well. My gaze lands on a reply to my incoherent message last night:

  How you feeling this morning, party girl? Crazy news about Amythest and John. But not surprising. You may want to make it your mission that Summer doesn’t find out—she’s so jealous, God only knows what she’d do. What did she give you instead of Dramamine? Are you okay? Please be careful. Clearly you can’t trust her. And no more emailing from that boat! Again, wish I could say I was surprised. Crazy you ran into Dylan. Maybe better not to call him, sounds like there’s enough going on out there. Is it storming yet? Beautiful here, but hot. So damn hot. You only have a few days left then you’ll be home, but you don’t have to stick it out, you can bail early if you need to. Keep me posted . . .

  I hit reply:

  Yeah I totally drunk messaged you, sorry! We were all pretty wasted last night—Summer was not amused, chewed us out this morning. Having lunch in St. T with Amythest now, the boat left us b/c we were 3 minutes late after shopping. Apparently they’ll be back at 5. I’m glad for the time off. Bailing is tempting, but I’m broke and it’s only a few more days, I think I can make it. Sunny enough today, but may storm tonight I think. Don’t forget to delete these messages. Not planning to email from boat but if I need to, obvs don’t want anyone reading.

  I wince as I sign the check, noticing I’ve spent nearly a hundred euros, but I’m too buzzed to worry about it for long. “Let’s go for a walk,” I suggest.

  Swinging our shopping bags, we sail out of the restaurant on a cloud of rosé and turn inland up the first street we come to, if you can call it that. The lane is wide enough only for scooters, the distance between the buildings on either side so narrow that the sidewalks remain shaded with the sun high in the sky. Most of the shops are shuttered for lunch, and the crowds have thinned, leaving a soothing quiet in their wake.

  We stop at an ATM and I pull fifty euros out of my rapidly shrinking bank account so that I at least have some pocket cash. “Why are you friends with Summer?” Amythest asks as we resume our stroll. “You’re so nice, and she’s such a bitch.”

  I laugh. “We met when we were fifteen,” I say. “And she wasn’t always such a bitch. She’s been through some things. . . .”

  “Like what?”

  I sigh, unsure why some part of me still feels the need to protect her, after everything. “Her mom’s husbands, for one. All four of them. The last one was a cop who beat the crap out of Rhonda and gave Summer a black eye when she tried to intervene. And the one before that, number three . . . did some horrible shit, too.”

  Amythest pauses in front of a display window featuring impossibly thin mannequins dressed in resort wear, and places her hand on the glass, transfixed. “If I were rich,” she muses, “do you think I’d wear clothes like that?”

  I laugh. “Not all rich people wear caftans and gladiators.”

  She wipes a tear that rolls from under her glasses. “Ugh.” She groans. “This kind of shit doesn’t usually upset me. But this week I just feel so . . . small. So fucking lame.”

  “I know what you mean,” I say. “If it makes you feel any better, Summer only got here by opening her legs.” This isn’t true. She’s done far more than that to secure a place at John’s side, but I want to cheer Amythest up.

  She snickers. “You say it like it’s a bad thing. From where I’m sitting, it looks pretty good. Except the fact that John’s doing me behind her back, of course.”

  She spins as though she’s made her point and strides up the side
walk. I hasten after her. I want to stop her in her tracks, to shake her and open her eyes to just who she’s messing with, but I worry revealing anything more to her than I already have would only backfire.

  After a few turns up farther narrow streets lined with tawny shops and faded blue shutters, the maze abruptly ends. To our left is the changeable blue sea, backed by mountains; to our right, a grassy hill with a citadel on top. I stare up at the fortress, shading my eyes. “I think I read that’s some kind of museum now. Wanna check it out?”

  She shakes her head, the purple streaks in her hair glinting in the sun. “It’s so nice out. Let’s walk along the water.”

  The sun is strong as we hike along the path by the ocean and I wish I had a hat, but the view is to die for and the breeze keeps us cool enough. After a couple hundred yards, we come to a parking lot and an arched gate. An investigation reveals it to be, improbably, a cemetery.

  Rows upon rows of closely stacked marble graves, most of which resemble legless twin beds with cross-engraved headboards, sit upon sandy shale, the waves of the bay crashing on the rocks only yards below. Amythest stares in wonder. “How cool.”

  We wander through the cemetery contemplating the names and years, and I do my best to translate the epitaphs. “ ‘Do not mourn my death, but celebrate my life,’ ” I read. “ ‘Gone too soon. Loving mother and grandmother.’ Oh, this one’s Shakespeare: ‘Like as the waves make towards the pebbl’d shore, so do our minutes hasten to their end.’ ”

  “Heavy,” she says.

  “How about this one: ‘Danser au paradis’—‘dancing in heaven.’ ”

  She laughs. “I like that. Emille Broulet Marchand, 1903–1923, she was just my age.” She stares down at the grave. “You know, my real name’s not really Amythest; it’s Jessica. I changed it because . . . I don’t know, I guess it made me feel special.”