She nods and holds up three fingers. “Je vous attendre trois minutes.”
I cast a glance around for an ATM, relieved to spot one not twenty feet from where I stand, on the front of the boxlike train station. I insert my debit card and hit the balance button, hoping against hope that I have enough. Finally the spinning wheel disappears and my balance flashes up on the screen: €108.20. So I’m twenty short. Okay, clearly I’m just gonna have to make do.
Again kicking myself for being too proud to take the money Eric offered me before the trip, I withdraw the hundred the ATM will allow me and return to the car sporting my most pitiful smile. “J’ai cent quatre-vingts,” I say. Then, remembering the three left over from my train ticket. “Cent quatre-vingt trois. S’il vous plaît? C’est très important.” She looks me up and down, considering. “S’il vous plaît,” I again plead with prayer hands.
She nods and waves me into the cab. “Merci beaucoup,” I cry, climbing into the backseat with a sigh of relief. “Allez au 12 Chemin de la Pommière dans La Quessine.” She searches in her navigation. “Combien de temps?”
“Une heure,” she says as she pulls away from the curb.
I’ll be ten minutes late, but ten minutes is nothing considering the hoops I’ve jumped through to get here, and with any luck Vinny can be a little flexible.
We wind along the coast as the color drains from the sky, and I find I’m biting my nails, a habit I haven’t indulged in since college. I stop myself, for the millionth time trying to focus on my breathing as I gaze out the window. I feel as though I’ve leaped off a cliff with no idea whether I can fly. All I need is my passport back, and to get home, where I can reconnect with Eric and be done with this whole charade.
Night has fallen by the time we drive through the gate at the address Vinny gave me. A full moon hovers over the water, casting long shadows as we roll up the gravel driveway nestled between vineyard rows. Atop the hill looking out toward the sea is a large traditional French country house, stone exterior accentuated by light-blue shutters and a steep, sloped roof. I’m not sure what I expected for my handoff with Vinny––dark alleys and abandoned warehouses come to mind––but a mansion with an unobstructed view of the Mediterranean is certainly a surprise. “Êtes-vous sûr que c’est l’adresse?” I ask the driver.
“Douze Chemin de la Pommière,” she confirms.
We stop next to a bubbling fountain, and I give her all my cash, thanking her again.
She drives away in a cloud of dust as I climb the flagstone steps, for the first time reading the inscription etched in curling iron above the entryway. GRANDVIEW MANOR. I recognize the name immediately as Eric and Dylan’s grandmother’s estate. So this is where Vinny was leading me.
Your sister is headed to your grandmother’s.
Of course. It makes perfect sense. I stare at the blue double doors, butterflies fluttering in my stomach.
Now or never.
I raise the heavy ornate knocker and rap three times.
A plump older woman in a traditional maid’s black dress and white apron opens the door and looks me up and down. I’m less dirty than I’d been before I cleaned myself up on the train, but still, I can only imagine the image I must cut in my ragged dress and shoes with my wild hair and bloody knees. “Mademoiselle,” she says politely. “Puis-je vous aider?”
My mind blanks. I guess they weren’t formally expecting me. I never considered the door might be opened by a housekeeper wanting to know my intentions. It’s the most elementary question, and I have no idea how to answer it. Is Vinny here? Is Eric here? I seem to have traveled halfway across Europe only to turn up at his grandmother’s doorstep without even knowing her name, for heaven’s sake.
I smile dumbly, reaching for the one name that’s still safe to use. “Um, I’m a friend of Dylan’s?”
I hope he’s the kind of guy who extends invitations to friends far and wide to visit him if they’re passing through France. I have no idea whether he’s home, but maybe that won’t matter. All I need is to get inside for a few minutes, long enough for the handoff with Vinny. Please, God, let Vinny be here . . . or Eric.
The housekeeper moves aside, and I step into the quiet house, smoothing my hair. Iron chandeliers hang from the vaulted ceiling; a muted Oriental rug stretches across the flagstone floor. At one end of the room, a giant stone fireplace presides over a set of slate velvet couches that face each other across a wide reclaimed-wood coffee table. But what draws my eye is the art. The walls are lined with countless paintings and photographs of every different size and style, hardly an inch of wall between them.
“Suivez moi,” she says, beckoning to me.
My heart thuds so hard I’m surprised she can’t hear it as I follow her down a hallway and into a deep-blue parlor. On the far wall, a large flat-screen television is mounted between two white bookshelves that stretch the length of the room. A glass coffee table divides two barrel-backed white chairs and a white couch.
Oh. I guess this is why she didn’t hesitate when I mentioned his name: one of the chairs is indeed occupied by Dylan, staring at me with astonishment. I give him what I hope is a friendly but not too friendly nod. I still have no idea what he knows, or doesn’t, or whose side he’s on. Clearly this isn’t the moment to find out.
In the other chair is a small, stylish woman who looks to be in her eighties. She wears a black sweater with white pants, a long strand of pearls around her neck. Her hair is pure white, and watchful eyes peer out from behind black-framed round glasses, taking me in. My most polite smile evaporates when my eyes land on the other two people in the room: John and Summer are perched uncomfortably on the edge of the low couch with their legs at odd angles, as though they might leave at any minute.
My blood turns to ice. No. No, no. It was a trap, after all.
Clearly upset by the sight of me, Summer starts to speak, but John silences her with a small movement of his hand, his countenance absent its usual charm. If he’s surprised to see me, he covers it well.
I stand very still, feeling all their eyes on me. Every reflex in my body is screaming at me to run, but that would do me no good. I have to think like a predator, not prey.
“Isabelle,” John says evenly.
Ignoring him, I step over the little white dog curled up asleep on the rug and extend my hand to the woman I can only assume is Dylan and Eric’s grandmother. An ally, I pray. “Je m’appelle Isabelle Carter,” I say as blithely as I can muster in my best French. “Votre maison est magnifique.”
Dylan stares at me like I’m speaking in tongues, but the woman smiles. “Grace.” She takes my hand between hers. “Enchantée.”
Behind me, Dylan sneezes. “Sorry,” he says automatically.
“God bless, Dylan.” I turn to catch his eye, but he drops his gaze to the floor, suddenly intensely interested in the little dog that continues to snore like it’s her job. To his credit, he looks as lost as I feel right now.
Grace’s vigilant eyes follow me, her face inscrutable as I scan the room for a place to sit and, finding none, remain standing. My heart is beating a mile a minute, but I control my breath. “Summer, John. Fancy seeing you here,” I say with false bravado. “Where are the girls?”
“On the boat, where you should be,” Summer blurts. “What are you doing here?”
John gives her a sharp glance and lays a hand on her knee, then returns his unblinking gaze to me. “Why are you here?”
I strain to sound casual. “I need my passport.”
The bottom half of John’s face smiles, but the eyes don’t get the message. “We don’t have it here with us,” he says. “But if you come back to the boat—”
“I’m not going back to the boat,” I snap. Breathe. “I just want to go home.”
John’s eyes bore into me, the smile evaporated. “You can’t run away, Isabelle. There’s nowhere to go, nothing to do.”
Why did Vinny let me run at all, if he was lying about helping me? Anger simmers inside
me. None of this makes sense. I turn to the grandmother and Dylan to plead my case. “I just want to go home,” I repeat, more fervently this time. “Please, tell them to let me go home. I’m not a prisoner here, am I?”
Dylan again drops his gaze and shakes his head. He doesn’t look happy about any of this, but he also isn’t exactly jumping to help me. Strikingly similar to his stance on Eric’s disappearance. Eric was right about him, I decide. He’s a pushover and a patsy.
His grandmother, on the other hand, is a different story. “John.” She turns her keen gaze to her son. “Is Isabelle a prisoner?”
“This is none of your business, Mother,” he growls, refocusing on me. “Summer says you have a problem with Amythest’s disappearance.” He waits to continue until I meet his unrelenting gaze. “It was an accident. The report has been filed. We are offering a generous sum to each of you girls for your trouble, and that will be the end of it.”
Summer smiles coldly, smug in her victory. Absent Vinny, I scramble for a backup plan, hoping I’m doing a better job of maintaining a cool exterior than I feel like I am. On the positive side, none of them seem to have any idea about the phone burning a hole in my purse, which holds evidence of both John’s sexual proclivities and Summer’s confession. And no one seems to know about Eric. Clearly self-preservation is priority one. I walked my ass into this trap, so I guess at this point my best choice is to take the cash and act repentant. I can worry about getting the phone into the right hands when I get home.
I place a sweating palm on my heart and smile apologetically, putting on what I hope is an Oscar-worthy performance. “I’m so sorry. I was upset, and not thinking clearly. Of course it was an accident.”
“Good,” John says. “You can take the helicopter back to the boat with us. Once you sign the paperwork, the hundred thousand is yours.”
I don’t have any time to consider how much money that is or how the hell I’m going to avoid going back to that damn boat, before my thoughts are interrupted by the sound of wheels on the gravel drive. John looks to his mother sharply. “Who is that?”
“A friend of mine,” she says calmly. “I’ve been expecting him.”
Your sister is headed to your grandmother’s house.
Eric. Please God.
John narrows his eyes at her. “At this hour?”
“What, I’m not allowed to have boyfriends?”
“You should have told me someone was coming, Mother,” he says darkly.
She dismisses the idea with a wave of her hand. “And take the chance you would not come visite your old mère? Never. And I wouldn’t have met your très belle, très young girlfriend.”
“We’re not here to visit,” he says. “We’re here because you wanted to discuss the transfer of your stock.”
“Oh yes, that.” She smiles. “Terminé.”
For the first time, John looks unsettled. “What do you mean? I didn’t get any paperwork about—”
“Oh.” Her smile widens. “I didn’t transfer it to you.” Suddenly, the little dog at Grace’s feet springs up and bounds to the door, yapping. “I transferred it to him.”
We all turn to see Eric standing in the doorway, Vinny beside him. For a moment, the entire room is frozen.
Then, at last, John’s composure fails him. “You bitch,” he seethes.
Eric claps his hands slowly, shifting his gaze to his father. “Father of the year.”
This is the first time I’ve seen Eric since I left him on the beach in Rosarito, and I didn’t realize how much I’d missed him. He’s dressed in his customary black, his hair still close-cropped, but his wounds are healing, leaving him with a scar across his cheek that somehow only makes him sexier.
John fumes, his eyes darting between Eric and Vinny. Summer’s mouth opens and closes like a fish out of water, her eyes wide with horror; Dylan stares at his brother in shock, engulfed in emotion. Only Grace is composed, a smile hovering around her lips as she gazes up at Eric with affection. “Mon chéri!” she says as he approaches and gives her a kiss on the cheek. “Enfin! Took you long enough.”
“I was in Montreal,” he explains.
Summer gapes at him. “You’re . . . ” She gulps.
“Alive? Yeah,” Eric says. “I hear you’ve gotten better at killing people.” He crosses the room to me and takes my hand. “Are you okay?”
I nod and follow his eyes to my soiled dress, suddenly remembering my filthy appearance. “It’s been a long day.”
Summer’s gaze ping-pongs between us. “I knew it,” she mutters.
John watches us from under hooded eyes, his mouth in a hard line. I see his gears turning. But it won’t do him any good.
Dylan clears his throat. “Could someone please tell me what the hell is going on?”
Eric takes his phone from his pocket. “I’m taking over Lionshare.”
“The hell you are,” John snaps.
Eric shrugs. “I think you’ll change your tone when you see the mountain of evidence I’ve collected against you.”
“I don’t have to remind you what happened last time you tried to collect evidence,” John warns.
Eric taps away at his phone. “But this time is different. Because this time”—he meets his father’s stare—“I’m blackmailing you.” He directs his attention to Grace and nods at the television. “S’il te plaît allume ça.”
She points a remote, and the TV comes to life with a chime.
“The input for screen casting, please.”
Grace selects one of the HDMI ports, and a spinning wheel comes up, then two rows of video pop onto the screen. Eric uses his phone to scroll down, revealing rows upon rows of videos. “Vinny tells me there was some confusion over the death of one of the girls on the boat.”
He selects one of the boxes and presses play. The security footage is surprisingly clear despite it being dark out, and shows Amythest and Summer on the upper deck directly under the camera, engaged in a catfight as the other girls look on.
“ . . . keep your nasty little hands off him,” Summer warns.
“Make me,” Amythest taunts. “What do you think he would do if I told him you killed your ex?”
“What the—I don’t know what she’s told you, but—you wouldn’t dare, you little bitch.” Summer reaches out and grabs Amythest by the back of her hair, yanking her head back. Amythest brings a knee up, connecting with her groin. “Whore!” Summer slaps her across the face. Amythest tries to push her away, slipping to her knees in the process.
“Summer, leave it!” Rhonda shouts. “It’s not worth it.”
“Shut up, Rhonda,” Summer snaps.
I can hardly watch, knowing what’s coming for my violet-eyed friend.
Amythest is on her feet again, backing away as Summer stalks her toward the railing. Amythest says something unintelligible, and suddenly the two of them are a blur of hands and hair and feet, kicking and slapping and pulling. Amythest is scrappy, but Summer is angrier, with a significant height advantage. Again she grabs Amythest by the back of the hair, this time slamming her head into the railing. Nose bleeding, Amythest flails. With one hand around her throat, Summer pushes her up and back. And then, in a flash, Amythest is tumbling backward over the railing. Her bloodcurdling scream stops short with a sickening crack and a nearly imperceptible splash.
My hand flies to my mouth as I choke back a sob, recognizing the scream that’s been echoing in my head for twenty-four hours. Eric strokes my arm.
Summer spins to face the other girls, huddled at the edge of the camera’s eye. “She fell,” she spits. “She was drunk and she fell.”
I blink away tears as Eric stops the video. The room is still, all the oxygen sucked out of it. “Any questions?” he asks. No one speaks. “Good. Let’s move on.”
John scowls at Summer, shrunken into the couch as though hoping it might swallow her, the corners of her mouth downturned. He doesn’t seem surprised—surely he’d seen the video on the boat before it was wiped—but i
nfuriated that her stupidity is now affecting him in a way he can’t control.
Eric hovers over his father, arms crossed. “My hackers have thoroughly swept your servers; Vinny can confirm—I have all the details on every shady thing you’ve done in the past ten years, not to mention the security footage from the boat and the additional videos from the camera watch Belle was wearing.” He looks to me, his gaze softening, and I smile. “Insider trading, tax evasion, bribery, murder—just to name a few.”
Vinny extends a thick manila envelope to John, who rips it from his hand, refusing to make eye contact with his former goon. “Take a look,” Eric suggests. “Though that’s just the tip of the iceberg.”
John tears open the envelope and thumbs through the contents. “What do you want?” he growls.
“I told you. Lionshare,” Eric says evenly. “You’ll resign, effective immediately, or everything I have on you becomes public. So public that there’ll be no one to bribe.”
“You’re a fool,” John chides. “That’ll sink the company.”
Eric holds his hands up. “No fucks to give.”
John rises to his feet. “You ungrateful bastard—”
Eric laughs. “Exactly.”
“After everything your grandfather sacrificed to start this company—” John turns to his mother. “Mother, you’re not going to agree to this, are you?”
“Tais-toi.” Her withering gaze sears holes into John. “You care about rien que de l’argent.” She rubs her fingers together for emphasis. “Money. For years, you are un étranger. Je pense, ‘He is selfish. He is not good son or good father, but he has no good example in his father, alors, he is not a bad man.’ Mais when I learn what you have done to your own blood, to the people who work for you, I know you are no longer mon fils.”
“Mother—”
But she only glares at him, tight-lipped.
“This past week,” Eric says to John, “at the—shall we say—privileged advice of one of your Chinese partners, you adjusted your position on steel and made twenty-three million, give or take. Now, I know that’s not a lot to you, but it’s damn sure enough for the SEC to be interested, should they ever find out. That money’s now Belle’s.” I inhale so quickly I cough, shocked. Eric glances at me. “Make that thirty.”
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