by Lasky, Jesse
Next to Charlie stands the man he has paid to pose as Rev. Moore. Charlie’s smile is genuine. His feelings are real, but so is his deal with Reinhardt. And sadly, that deal has more power than his feelings will ever possess. That deal has already sealed his and Ava’s fate.
Ava reaches Charlie and touches his face. “You are my something new.” Charlie is aware of the irony in the fact that her words calm him. Part of Charlie would love to be her something old one day, too. However, the ominous-looking limousine waiting in the distance reminds him that his future is no longer up to him.
With Marie, Daniella, and a few select friends watching, Ava and Charlie are wed, or at least that’s how it appears. The guests applaud as the bride and groom share that all-important kiss. Ava pulls back, a look of concern crossing her face.
“What is it, love?” Charlie asks cautiously.
“I forgot my something borrowed.”
Charlie breathes a silent sigh of relief and reaches into his pocket. “Here, take this,” he says as he offers her the Starling Vineyards cork souvenir key chain she gave him the first time they met. They kiss again, this time with even more passion.
As the couple walks back up the aisle, they greet their guests. “It’s like a fairy tale, Ava,” Daniella tells her as the old friends take a moment alone.
Charlie works his way toward the limousine. A window rolls down revealing William Reinhardt languishing in the rich leather upholstery. “Bravo, young man. Helluva performance.”
“She’s a good person,” Charlie adds, almost a plea.
Reinhardt reminds Charlie that there was another option, the one where the wedding would be real and a terrible accident would befall the young bride, leaving her husband to inherit the entire estate and sell it to Reinhardt for pennies on the dollar. Charlie cringes at the thought, a crashing realization of how he ended up here in the first place.
Reinhardt smiles smugly at Charlie’s visceral reaction. “That’s why we’ve gone with Plan B. The one where no one dies. Either way, I’m soon to be Starling’s one and only owner.”
There’s no easy way out for Charlie. Or for Ava. So in the end, he’s going to choose himself. But at least this path keeps Ava alive.
Charlie gave it only a passing glance before bending his head and trailing kisses along the side of her neck, picking up where they left off.
Ava pushed him away. “No.”
He looked up, his eyes clouded with desire. “We can make it work, Ava. Start over.”
“We’re done, Charlie. We’re done, and you’re done.”
She reached for the manila envelope, removing the final piece of paper and shoving it into Charlie’s chest.
He looked at it. “My God, Ava… You’ve already alerted the authorities?”
The article was from the London Times and chronicled the investigation into Clive Bayley for “inappropriate contact” with students at the school where he taught history. Bayley was currently on a leave of absence from the school and would likely be convicted and imprisoned. Penelope Bayley, Charlie’s mother, was holed up in her home, avoiding the press and trying to come to terms with the realization that the man she called her husband was a stranger to her.
Ironically, it was something Ava could relate to wholeheartedly.
Charlie stumbled backward, collapsing against the wall of the cellar. “I can’t believe you would do this. It’s… it’s despicable.”
“No, Charlie. It’s payback.” She dropped the piece of Acala’s flame at his feet. “Here. I don’t need this anymore.”
Stepping past him, she took one last look at the painting. She didn’t think it was her imagination that the eyes of Sylvie and her mother were proud. She may not have gotten Starling back yet, but it was a start.
She glided toward the door leading to the vineyard. She had one foot on the stairs when Charlie’s voice, weak and small, found her.
“My mother… Ava, you don’t understand. She doesn’t deserve this. She’s a good person. A good person.”
“So was I.”
Daylight breaks on Rebun Island as Ava readies herself for a swim. Draped in a small karate gi, Ava touches the arch of her right foot against the salty foam.
It’s chillier than she expected.
No one knows that better than Emily, who steps out of the water, fresh from her own swim. “You get used to it,” she says, walking out of the water.
Ava can tell she’s at home in the sea.
“Did Takeda suggest you take a swim?” Emily asks, her blond hair shining as the sun melts into the horizon. Her warmth is usually reserved for people she cares about or people she respects. Anyone training under Takeda, Emily figures, must be worthy of the latter, at least.
“I just need an outlet, I guess,” Ava explains.
But as her ankles submerge into the icy trenches, she’s not sure it’s such a good idea.
“It’s a quandary, isn’t it?” Emily states, watching Ava’s struggle. “If you jump right in, you’ll freeze, jolting your body into a state of shock. But if you enter too slowly…”
“I’ll psych myself out. I may never go in.”
Emily nods, appreciates Ava’s understanding.
“I’m just… I get so angry sometimes, you know?” Ava asks.
Emily rubs her bare soles in the sand. “You have to focus that energy, not let it deter you. Think of it not as an emotion, but as a distraction. Especially if you want revenge.”
Ava closes her eyes. That’s exactly what she wants. Without so much as a warning, Ava lets her body fall into the water. A few shallow-dwelling fish scurry away, startled by her presence.
As Ava wades, she feels a sudden need to confess, “This isn’t me, you know.”
Emily almost lets out a laugh. There’s no sense explaining or justifying her presence to fellow trainees. This may be the only place in the world where her plight is truly understood, respected, and supported. Emily knows what Ava is feeling because Emily feels it, too.
“Sometimes I question myself, my motives…,” Ava says as her fingers begin to prune. “I mean, I’m here to learn how to destroy people. I used to be a good person.”
Emily darkens at this comment, remembering her own past, before her father was taken from her. Rolling around with her dog Sammy and best friend Jack in sand that felt much like the kind she’s standing on now. But the two landscapes are a world apart. Much like Emily has grown decidedly distant from the little girl who once collected sea glass on the beach. She can still hear Amanda Clarke’s pure, wholesome giggle ringing in her head.
“It’s just…,” Ava starts. She shrugs, repeating the words again. “I used to be a good person.”
Emily looks at her, considers the comment, those weighty, steely eyes perfectly composed. She thinks back on her father holding her hand as they walked along the beach. She wishes that she could tell the little girl that the moment is fleeting, that she should hold on to it as long as she can. That she should hold on to her father’s hand as long as she can.
Emily closes her eyes. “So was I.”
CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO
Reena walked over to the mirror in the powder room, still shocked at the revelations from William Reinhardt’s meeting with Jacob Wells. Looking at her reflection, she barely recognized herself.
Everything had become very grave, the stakes so high in a life that used to be a roll of the dice. Dance clubs and camera mobs had given way to a singular mission. It wasn’t the life Reena’s mother would have wanted for her only child.
Then again, if Reena was just like her, as Gloria always claimed, then perhaps she would understand.
A nine-year-old Reena, tightly wrapped under her comforter, lies securely in bed as her mother combs through the bookcase in Reena’s room for the perfect bedtime story.
“I’d rather you tell me about this, Mommy,” Reena says, motioning to the dream catcher dangling above her head. The circle covered with netting catches more than just dreams. It has Reena’s a
ttention, something that isn’t easy to do.
Gloria explains that it was a gift Reena’s father gave her on their wedding day, a promise to always keep the way they’re feeling right now in their dreams. In their hearts.
“But he left us,” Reena says, confused and saddened at the rare mention of him.
“Just because we’re hurting doesn’t mean we should forget the good.” A young Reena tries to accept this. Her mother unhooks the dream catcher and hands it to Reena. “Why don’t you hold it for tonight?”
“Do you have dreams, Mommy?”
Gloria smiles to herself. “Well, I once thought about being a congressman or maybe even a senator. Of making a difference. ”
Reena suddenly reaches into the dream catcher, ripping out the netting.
Startled, Gloria takes it back from her. “Honey, why did you do that?”
Reena smiles. “How can your dreams make it out into the world if they’re stuck in the net?”
Gloria loves her daughter’s way of thinking. She places the dream catcher back up on the hook. It’s just a circle now. But with greater meaning.
“From now on, all your dreams, everything you want in life, will go through this circle and out into the world. It’s not a dream catcher,” her mother says. “It’s a dream portal.”
Gloria kisses her daughter’s forehead. “What do you want to go through the portal?” she asks her daughter. “Be careful, because whatever you put in there, whatever you want, just might come true.”
Reena smiles. “I just want you to love me forever.”
Gloria jokingly pretends to think about it for an exaggerated moment or two, then leans close, whispering in her daughter’s ear.
“Done.”
The memory lingered as Reena studied herself in the mirror. Finally, she brought her hands to her face and methodically removed the prosthetic nose, peeling it off slowly so that it didn’t tear her skin. She would be recognized this way.
And that was the plan.
She took a deep breath and turned toward the bathroom door, flinging it open.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” Reinhardt shouted. “Get back in there until I tell you to come out.”
“I thought I heard you call my name,” she said, not bothering to be polite. “Sorry.”
She turned away, pivoting in front of Wells until he had a perfect view of her back. She pulled her platinum wig into a bun the way her mother had her wear it at political events, knowing it would reveal the circle tattoo—the dream catcher without a net—on her neck.
“Stop right there!” Wells shouted, storming toward her.
He spun her around, tearing off the wig and grabbing her head, staring at her face with piercing eyes. Then he turned her around, tracing the shape of the tattoo with his finger.
CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE
“Watch where you’re going,” Jacob Wells murmurs as Reena knocks into him backstage at a press conference. The file he’s holding falls to the ground, index cards and papers scattering like leaves.
“Last I checked, you’re not my boss,” Reena shoots back, as defiant as ever. She’s in her prime, basking in the light that shines down on her mother.
“I will be soon,” he mutters.
This gets Reena’s attention. She loves a good sparring match. “You really think you’re going to win?”
But Wells is confident the election is his, almost as if he knows something she doesn’t.
Reena looks down, noticing the papers. Figuring she’ll be the bigger person, she goes to pick them up. When she rises to stand, she notices Wells staring at her.
“It’s a dream catcher,” she says. And then, “You wouldn’t understand.”
He holds out a hand for his papers, but when she goes to give them to him, she pulls them back, just to mess with him. She’s being a brat, but Wells has it coming.
She glances down at the papers, unsettled by what she sees. “What is this?”
Wells grabs it from her, walking away in a huff. Just then, Cruz Benton comes over, sidling up next to Reena.
“What a creep,” he says.
“And you’re not?”
Cruz smiles. He likes her style. “Name’s Cruz Benton. I work—”
“For my mother. I know.”
“So then you’re saying I shouldn’t have spent the last forty minutes getting up the courage to introduce myself?”
Reena can’t help but laugh. Then she grows serious.
“He had some papers in his hand. They were kind of weird.”
“If by ‘weird’ you mean ‘boring,’ you’re absolutely right,” Cruz says. “We have mountains of boring information. Facts, figures, statistics…”
Reena shakes her head. “It was a list. Of everyone who’s a part of Mom’s staff. Mindy. Joseph. Linda. Eric. Their spouses, their kids. My name. Your name. And who’s Simon?”
Cruz went still. “He was on there, too?”
Reena just nods.
“Meet Reena Fuller,” Wells said, turning her face toward Reinhardt.
“Gloria Fuller’s daughter?” Reinhardt asked, shock and disbelief warring on his face.
“The very same,” Wells confirmed.
Reena stood her ground, oddly numb. There was a distant part of her that was genuinely frightened, but her fear couldn’t seem to break free of the adrenaline coursing through her veins. “What are you doing here?” Reinhardt demanded. Reena didn’t answer.
“I knew it,” Wells muttered, shaking his head. “We should have found her and taken care of her at the start of all this. Loose ends always come back to bite us in the ass.”
“Last chance,” Reinhardt said, pulling her hair to tip her head back. “Why are you here?”
He shoved her at Wells and stalked across the room, opening the nightstand by his bed. When he turned around, he was holding an ominous-looking handgun.
“If we can’t make you talk, maybe this will.”
Reena was silent. It was all part of the plan. She just hoped they didn’t pull the trigger before she saw it through.
CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR
“Shay! wake up!” Ava slapped Shay’s cheeks, trying to bring him around.
She was kneeling in the passenger seat, wiping blood from his forehead with a rag from the glove compartment. He had a wicked-looking welt on his forehead and Jane was nowhere to be found. She was a fighter, but the idea of her in Reinhardt’s hands still made Ava sick with worry.
“C’mon, Shay,” Ava muttered. “Don’t do this. Not now. Get up.”
She looked frantically around the car, trying to find something that would wake him up, finally setting on a half-full water bottle in the passenger-side footwell.
She picked it up, uncapped it, and dumped the entire contents over Shay’s head.
He came to swinging, and Ava leaned back, trying to avoid his significant fists.
“Whoa, whoa, whoa!” she said, leaning away. “It’s me, Ava!”
“Ava?” He sat up and looked around, touching a hand to the welt on his forehead, then his hair, dripping onto his face. “What’s going on?”
“I’m sorry. I had to wake you up.” She looked into his eyes. “Where’s Jane?”
“Who do you think did this to me?” he said, looking at his head in the rearview mirror.
“Wait a minute… Jane did this to you?”
He nodded. “Guess she got sick of my company.”
Ava sighed. “Great. Now what?”
“I don’t know about you,” Shay said, “but I could use an aspirin. Or a drink. Or both.”
“Well, I don’t have either,” Ava said.
“What good are you, then?” Shay stammered, tipping his head back and closing his eyes.
Ava slapped him. Hard. “Am I the only one who’s worried here? Jane is gone.” She said it slowly since he didn’t seem to understand the magnitude of the situation. “And how did she manage to nail you anyway?”
“She distracted me,” he said sim
ply.
“She distracted you?” Ava repeated, trying to figure out how little Jane could distract Shay Thomas, veteran police officer and Takeda’s own protégé.
Shay avoided her gaze, clearly too embarrassed by his lapse to say more about it.
“What do we do now?”
He opened the car door. “We go in there and find her before they do.”
CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE
As soon as she entered the foyer, Jane knew that she’d been in the house before.
She’d maneuvered her way past the guards without incident, just another pretty face in a party full of them, and headed straight for the stairs. Guided by some kind of strange intuition, she made her way to the second-floor hall, then stopped at the third doorway on the left. Placing her hand on the bronze knob, she pushed open the door and turned on the light.
Recognition slammed into her.
She crossed the room to the bed and dropped onto the pale pink comforter, surveying the room. It was elaborately appointed, the white walls offset by a rich mahogany bed, matching dresser, and vanity. A massive armoire sat to the right of a mirrored door that Jane somehow knew was to a large walk-in closet.
Standing, she turned her attention to the knickknacks and awards that decorated the dresser, her gaze coming to rest on an intricately detailed music box. She picked it up and opened the lid. A tinny refrain that she recognized as Chopin’s Nocturne in C-sharp echoed through the room.
Jane looked inside the music box, her eyes drawn to a pair of ruby earrings. She lifted them to the light, recognizing them from a memory she’d had while at Marie’s house.
Closing the music box, she leaned into the dresser, studying a porcelain doll encased in glass. It was obviously old, its cheeks tinged brown, its eyes eerie and glazed. Oddly, Jane could relate to its frozen glare.
She removed the glass enclosure and picked up the doll, rubbing the cool porcelain against her cheek. Her mind raced backward.
Seven-year-old Jane sits in the back of a limo, her legs dangling, unable to reach the luxury car’s matted floor. A large man sits across from her, the smell of his aged Lagavulin single malt overwhelming, as an equally impressive man sits by the little girl’s side: her father.