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

by Katherine St. John

  Summer looked over her shoulder, sighed, and sat on the edge of my lounger. “Can I get a sip of your water?”

  I noticed she was shaking as I handed her the bottle, her normally manicured nails ragged. “What is going on?”

  She took a long swill of water. “It’s Eric.”

  “What happened?” Wendy asked.

  “He was acting crazy, so I just told him I needed time to think and went to my mom’s and turned off my phone.” Her words came out too quickly, tumbling over one another. “Then, when I turn it back on this morning, I get this email he’d sent day before yesterday, saying goodbye.”

  Wendy furrowed her brow. “Goodbye?”

  Summer picked at her cuticles intently. “That if he can’t be with me, life isn’t worth living.”

  “Wait, what?” I gasped.

  Unable to sit still, she pushed herself to standing and paced back and forth, cracking her knuckles. “Like, he was gonna kill himself.” Her voice shook. “And now I can’t get in touch with him. His phone goes straight to voice mail, and the text messages are going through green instead of blue—like his phone is turned off or he’s out of range.”

  No. This couldn’t be real. Eric wouldn’t kill himself. And certainly not over Summer. I knew he wouldn’t.

  Or did I? He’d done a lot of things I couldn’t necessarily explain. But this?

  “Oh my God,” Wendy said.

  “Have you called the authorities?” I asked.

  She nodded. “Yeah, I did a couple of hours ago, but it’s not a missing persons case until twenty-four hours.”

  “Can they track his phone or something?” I asked. I was desperate to call him again myself, but of course I couldn’t do that in front of Summer.

  “It doesn’t seem like his phone’s on,” she said, continuing to pace.

  The pressure was building in my chest, constricting my lungs and making it hard to breathe.

  “And of course John is flying in from Dubai this weekend just to see me, and I have to act like everything is fine!” She choked back a sob, collapsing onto a lounger with her arm over her face. “This is so bad.”

  My brain simply couldn’t accept the idea of Eric committing suicide. It didn’t make sense. Unless . . . unless he was the one who had been lying this whole time, and Summer was telling the truth about his protestations of love. “You don’t think he really killed himself? I mean, he never struck me as suicidal. He seems too egotistical to kill himself.”

  Summer sat up. “Are you kidding? Killing yourself is pretty much the most egotistical thing you can do.”

  No, it couldn’t be. A flash of memory—his lips on mine. With a herculean effort, I blinked away my tears and turned my attention to Summer, praying she wouldn’t read how upset I was.

  “Are you okay?” My voice cracked. “Sorry, I know you’re not. This is really upsetting.”

  Summer wrung her hands. “I feel sick.”

  “Breathe.” My instruction was directed at Summer, but clearly I needed it as badly as she did. “Just breathe. I should call Dylan.”

  “Have you talked to him recently?” Summer asked.

  I shook my head. “We’ve emailed some. He reached out last time he was in town, but I was in Georgia visiting my parents.”

  She handed me my phone. “Can you do it now?”

  I balked at the phone, watching as my hand reached out to take it from her. My heart was in my throat as I found Dylan’s number and pressed call. I heard the double ring of a foreign line and secretly hoped he wouldn’t answer so that I could prepare myself better before talking to him. But no such luck.

  “Belle.” There was a smile in his voice. My stomach tied itself in knots. “How are you?”

  “I’m good,” I replied robotically. I reached for words, falling back on social custom. “How are you?”

  “I’m in France for the next few months, working. I’m sorry I didn’t get to see you last time I was in town.”

  “Me too.”

  Summer signed for me to get to the point.

  “Um, listen.” I swallowed. “Have you heard from your brother?”

  “We talked last week.”

  “Did he seem okay?”

  “We were fighting.” He sighed. “As usual. Ever since I took this job, all we do is fight. But I guess you know that. Why? What’s going on?”

  “It’s just, Summer got a disturbing email from him a few days ago, and now she can’t reach him.”

  “What was it?” he asked.

  “I’ll let her tell you,” I said, afraid my emotions would betray me.

  I switched the phone to speaker, and Summer sat next to me and relayed the sequence of events. I peered over her shoulder as she read from the email Eric sent her on July 22 at 2:04 p.m. The messages he’d sent me were almost poetic—all lowercase and full of line breaks and ellipses—but this one was oddly formal, capitalized and punctuated like a term paper. Strange. When she finished, Dylan was silent.

  “Dylan?” I asked.

  “Yeah, I’m here.”

  “Do you think he would do it?” Again, he was quiet long enough that I wondered whether the call had dropped. “You still there?”

  “Yeah, sorry.” He sounded tired. “No. It just doesn’t sound like . . . I can’t . . . But I don’t know. I mean, he has an artist’s temperament. He’s up and down . . . ” Another long pause. “His mom committed suicide. I don’t think he ever really got over it.”

  Suicide. My heart ached for young Eric, eleven and suddenly motherless. I couldn’t read Summer’s reaction with the hat and sunglasses obscuring her face, but if she was surprised, she hid it well. Had he shared this tragedy with her? Perhaps their relationship was indeed deeper than he’d made it out to be. I leaned closer to the phone. “Do you think you could help find him?”

  “Of course,” Dylan said, pulling himself together. “I’m sure there’s an explanation for this. Let me see what I can do. Forward that email to me. I’ll get back to you.”

  As I hung up the phone, I felt a prickling sensation at the base of my spine. Something just didn’t add up.

  Day 6

  Thursday evening—Saint-Tropez, France

  It’s ten to five when we get back to the port. The day is still torrid, and when the boat has not arrived by five thirty, we trudge across the street and take a seat at the restaurant where we had a glass of wine earlier. I guzzle a fizzy water and blot my face with the napkin. I am not looking forward to my “meeting” with John—or seeing Summer, or Wendy, or any of it. If all my stuff weren’t on the boat, I’d be more than tempted to just bail, regardless of everything else. But for now I’m stuck. I don’t even have my passport.

  I’m so distracted by my thoughts that I don’t see the Lion’s Den pull into port. Amythest grabs my arm. “Let’s go. We don’t want to get left again.”

  The knot in my stomach tightens as we board the boat. The deck is deserted aside from Dre, who helps me down from the gangplank, whispering, “Sorry about this afternoon. All the crew wanted to wait, but they say no.”

  I nod. “Thanks. Where is everyone?”

  “In their rooms, dressing for dinner.”

  “I thought we were supposed to be going to drinks with John’s friends here at five.”

  “Change of plans,” he says. “Dinner on the boat while we go to Italy. Monsieur Lyons has a meeting there in the morning.”

  He reels in the gangplank and the boat is moving.

  When I reach the room, Amythest is sitting on her bed, phone in hand, giggling.

  “What is it?” I ask.

  “Just John.”

  “Seriously?”

  She titters. “That bitch thinks she’s better than us because she has all this, but it’s not hers; it’s his. She thinks she has him wrapped around her finger, but it could be me inviting you to come on this trip next year. And I would—I’d invite you. None of the rest of these hoes, but you’ve been good to me.”

  “Amythest. Yo
u literally just promised me you’d keep your head down and go home without any more drama.”

  “It’s not drama if she doesn’t know about it.”

  I pop my knuckles in frustration. “Just . . . please be careful,” I plead. “You really don’t want her to find out. I know you’re pissed, but just maybe hold off till we get home. Let’s try to make it through the next two days without it becoming a soap opera.” Who am I kidding? It’s already a soap opera.

  “More like a skin flick.” She winks.

  In the shower, I try to psych myself up for my meeting with John, going over what I plan to say to him. My mind keeps cycling to what I’d actually like to ask him, but I know he wouldn’t answer and I’d only jeopardize my own safety. Beyond that, I’m divided about whether I want to get kicked off the boat or stick out the rest of the trip. I have no desire to be here anymore, obviously, but getting fired isn’t exactly ideal, either. Surely they would at least give me a plane ticket back if they exiled me?

  While I’m washing the conditioner from my hair, Amythest slides open the shower door, already naked. “Camille came by. You have a meeting with John at six thirty.”

  I wring out my hair. “Fun.”

  “You should bring me with you.”

  I reach past her for a towel, and she takes my place in the shower. “I don’t want to get you kicked off the boat, too.”

  “If I get kicked off, I’ll get kicked off in style. Don’t think I haven’t recorded my sessions with John.”

  “You’re kidding.” I’m hit with a tidal wave of both horror and pride. Didn’t know the girl had it in her.

  “Nope,” she says proudly. “I recorded everything with my phone. You never know when something like that might be useful. I’m sure he doesn’t want the world to know how much trouble he has getting it up. And how nasty he is. I look great, though, so I don’t mind. Check it out—my phone’s on the bed. My password’s 6969.”

  Of course it is. Do I even want to see this? But I have to know. I can only imagine what John and his goons would do—or worse, Summer. I scroll through her videos folder and click on one featuring an askew angle of the bed I’m sitting on right now. There’s something hanging down in the foreground . . . a purse strap. She’d set up the phone in her purse so John wouldn’t suspect. Smart. I cringe to see John’s junk on camera.

  Amythest strokes him with her bejeweled nails, trying her best to get him hard. She blows him and gets him up to half-mast, then pushes him back on the bed, stuffs him up inside her, and bounces up and down with zeal. After a minute, they have to stop because he can’t keep it up.

  “How do you want me?” she asks, coquettish.

  “Have you ever done a golden shower?” he asks.

  My jaw drops. This is too good to believe.

  “No,” she says.

  “It really turns me on,” he says. “And girls who turn me on get rewarded nicely.”

  I can’t help but snort with laughter. This is exactly how I would’ve expected John to talk in bed.

  She looks him, at the bed, considering. “But the bed—”

  “I’ll have someone clean it up.”

  “Okay.” She positions herself above him. “Where do you want me to—”

  “On my cock,” he says. “I want you to piss all over my cock.”

  Oh my God. I don’t want to see, but my eyes are glued to the screen.

  And there it is.

  Wow. I don’t want to be the type of person to judge other people’s sexual proclivities, but . . . gross. Does Summer do this, too? I shudder and throw the phone on the bed. There’s a good deal more of the video, but I’ve seen enough. I’m not going to be able to unsee it. Though I do wonder what use it might be.

  Amythest may be some kind of nympho, but she’s not stupid.

  I throw on a dress and run a brush through my hair. Fourteen minutes until the meeting. I realize my nerves must be the effect of my ego, bracing for a hit. But a needy ego is no reason to stay here. So it’s decided: I’m done with this charade. I’ve played my part; I’m ready to take a bow and go home. I’m gonna go up there and politely ask for my passport and a plane ticket. No hard feelings, just goodbye.

  I step across the hall and knock on Wendy and Claire’s door. Claire answers, wearing a paper face mask made to look like a cat. “Hey,” she says, her eyes sympathetic. Then, remembering the mask, she laughs. “Oh. Wendy’s making me moisturize.”

  Wendy’s sitting on the bed behind her in a matching face mask, her hair piled on top of her head amid some kind of deep-conditioning treatment. She looks up from the magazine she’s reading and waves as though nothing is amiss.

  “I’m sorry you got left,” Claire says.

  “Yeah, me too,” I agree, glancing at Wendy, who doesn’t meet my eyes. “How did your day go?”

  “It was great!” Wendy chirps without looking up from the magazine. “We went to this cove that was absolutely beautiful and swam off the back of the boat and rode Jet Skis.” She gestures to her hair. “Ruined my hair though, so I had to wash it. So annoying. What’d you do?”

  What the hell is wrong with her? “Nothing much,” I say. “Just had lunch, walked around. Did Summer mention anything about having left us?”

  Wendy shrugs. “No. She was just having fun.”

  “It was kinda weird to just leave you in port, then not say anything all day, like nothing happened,” Claire says.

  “Yeah, she sent me a text telling me how ungrateful I was,” I divulge. “I have a meeting with John in a minute. I’m sure I’ll get my ass handed to me.”

  Wendy flips a page in her magazine and continues to read.

  “I’m sorry,” Claire sympathizes. “I know you didn’t mean to be late.”

  “No. We ran all the way. I texted, but . . . it seems like Summer has a bigger problem with me. Like she thinks I was intentionally rude or something.”

  “For what it’s worth, I don’t think you’ve been rude,” Claire says sweetly. “This whole trip has been different than we expected.”

  Wendy still doesn’t look up from her magazine. “Wendy, has she said anything to you?” I ask.

  Wendy shakes her head and gives me a perfunctory smile. What is going on with her? I try a different tactic. “Did she say anything more to you about Leo?”

  Again she shakes her head. Clearly, for whatever reason, I won’t be getting anything out of her. “Okay, I gotta go meet John. Wish me luck.”

  “Good luck,” Claire says.

  Wendy calmly flips to yet another page of celebrity gossip as I back out of the cabin.

  The living room is empty when I arrive at exactly six thirty. I fiddle with my watch while I wait for John to arrive, then try to ground myself by taking a deep breath and feeling it all the way down to my feet, like I learned in yoga class. This meeting is nothing I should be afraid of. Just ask for your passport and a ticket home. Out the windows, I watch as dark clouds close in, obscuring the evening sun.

  When John hasn’t arrived by six forty-five, I take a seat in front of the computer and fire up my email. I’ve been careful to delete every message after I’ve sent it, so I’m not too worried about Vinny or whoever else poking around in my in-box. I’ll just have to watch what I say.

  Writing from the boat—I’m in trouble for returning late after shopping, awaiting the opportunity to apologize to John, which Summer so thoughtfully arranged. Looks like rain tonight. I’m sure rocking seas will do wonders for my seasickness. Heard there may be sea urchin for dinner though, if I’m still

  “Isabelle.”

  I jump and turn to see John, freshly showered and flashing his most disarming smile, designed to throw me off balance, I’m sure.

  I hit send without finishing the sentence I was typing and log out of my email as fast as humanly possible, then vault to my feet as he approaches and shake his hand like I’m interviewing for a job. “I apologize for being late today.”

  He nods coolly, and I follow him to the
formal sitting area, where I perch on an uncomfortable chair across from him, hastily explaining what happened with the credit card, substituting myself for Amythest. “I’m so sorry,” I conclude, hating myself for groveling. “I didn’t mean to be ungrateful or disrespectful. It was an honest mistake.”

  Strangely, he pats my hand. And then, without addressing anything I have just said, “Summer’s always spoken so highly of you. I know you’ve been friends for a long time, and it can be hard when a friend is taken away by a new relationship. Especially when that friend has been letting you live with her for free.”

  My brain shorts. Did Summer tell him I was crashing with her and not the other way around? “I’m sorry?”

  “You must have a lot of anger toward her, toward me. It’s understandable. But Summer invited you here to have fun, and you’re not having fun. So maybe it would be best if you went home. I know your sister misses you.”

  Nothing about him reads as angry or vindictive, but I’m sure I’ve never mentioned my sister in front of him, which means he wants me to know he’s been reading my emails. I stare at him, unsure what to say. A voice in the back of my head reminds me that it doesn’t matter, that he’s right and it’s okay for me to leave now, but I’m too shocked to respond immediately. My ego takes advantage of my hesitation to jump in, wanting to save itself from criticism and make everything okay. “I’m having fun!” I lie.

  No, no, this isn’t how this is supposed to go! I don’t need to please this horrid man. I conjure up the image of his flaccid penis.

  Still smiling enigmatically, he again pats my hand. I resist the urge to jerk it away and yell at him not to touch me. “You should ask for her forgiveness, not mine,” he says. No part of me wants to eat humble pie for that bitch. “You can do that now.”

  I slowly rise to my feet, reminding myself of why I’m here. Even if I’m gonna jump ship, I should do so on good terms. “Is she in her room?”

  “Go to your room and call her.”

  I’m kicking myself as I climb down the stairs to my room. What just happened? Why was I so obsequious? What a waste. It was supposed to be my decision to leave. And I didn’t ask him for my passport. I totally disregarded my plan. I failed.