***
I rolled the Ferrari into the barn, locked the doors, and ran down the driveway in my bare feet through the moonless night. When I stumbled into my dark, horribly quiet house, the first thing I did was turn the lights on in every room.
My head throbbed and my body ached. I pulled off my graduation dress, slipped into an old nightie, and collapsed into bed. Should I leave with Alexander in the morning, or meet with a dangerous criminal who probably wanted to kill me? That was pretty much a no-brainer. But if I left, my dad would be alone, stuck in a hospital bed with guys like Arkady lurking nearby.
I ached to go—to meet the family I’d never known. It was a chance to have my questions answered, at last. Why did my mother run away from the Ambrose family? Why did she choose death over me and my dad?
None of it made sense. None of it had ever made sense.
***
I woke up in a panic to the phone ringing.
“Allo? Lana? Lana Goodwin?” It was an older woman’s tremulous voice with a lilting French accent. For a wild moment, I thought it was Georgette.
“Yes?”
“I am Severine Tremblay. Hello, Lana! Alexander finds you last night, yes?”
“Yes! Yes, he did, thank you!”
Severine laughed. It sounded like tiny bells pealing. “Good, good! Ah, I am also so very sorry about your dear mother. I did not know until a few months ago. Tanith was lovely and kind.” She knew my mother. She knew a lot about my mother. I clenched my eyes shut as they filled with tears. “And you are coming tonight, yes?”
“I think that’s the plan. I’m looking forward to meeting you, Miss Tremblay.”
The tiny bells pealed. “Yes, yes, me also, dear Lana! I only wish tu marraine was alive to see you. She would have been delighted that we find you, after all these years. You know what marraine is?”
“My Godmother.” The words came out in a whisper.
“Ah, your French is very good. Yes, your godmother. I am there when she baptize you, in New York, after Claudette’s funeral. You were two years old.” I held the phone in a death grip. “After, Tanith leaves with you. You vanish. Poof! We don’t know she has changed her name. We never find her. But now we have found you!”
She must have hated them. I had to know more.
I had to know everything.
“How did you find me?”
“We hire a detective. He finds your grandfather’s grave. Next to it, your mother. When I see the photos, I see her birthday on the gravestone. Then he finds Madame Crawford, your stepmother, and she tells us you are studying in Europe.”
Why would Ramona want to hide me from the Ambroses? What was the point—other than for her own sadistic pleasure?
“Well, you’ve found me now.”
Tiny bells again. “Yes, yes! Oh, there is so much more to say, dear Lana! But I must go, there are arrangements to make. I see you when you arrive. À bientôt, cherie! À très bientôt!”
New York. I was going to New York to meet my family. A fleeting burst of happiness was immediately squelched by the nasty realization of how much trouble I was in at home. And to make things even more fun, I’d woken up with chills and a slight fever. My head throbbed where it had smacked into the wall the night before.
Happy 18th birthday to me.
After a quick shower, I got dressed in jeans and a t-shirt and pulled my wet hair back into a ponytail. I dug an old duffel bag out of my closet and filled it with a few days’ worth of clothes and toiletries. I had no idea what I’d need for New York, or how long we’d be gone, but I packed my nicest skirt and a few decent tops, along with a pair of the least-scuffed flats I could find.
I scooted over to the loose plank in the floor, lifted it up, and pulled the moneybox out of the space under the floorboards. My life savings fit easily into a sock, which I shoved to the bottom of my backpack, which I’d emptied of all my school stuff. Finally, I threw in the charm bracelet and my tattered copy of Call of the Wild.
I zipped up my bags and took one last look around.
“Good night, room. Good night, moon. Good night, ghost.”
Wait—the diary!
I dug around in the crawl space again until I found it. I tucked the diary safely into my backpack.
All I had to do was wait for Alexander. It was still so early. And so quiet. After setting my bags by the front door, I stood in the middle of the empty house and listened. No birds chirped outside. That can mean an earthquake is coming. Animals sense danger. Some deep, primeval feeling of terror crept over me, but I pushed it away. Everything’s okay. Calm down. Alexander’s going to come get you and you’ll pay Victor off—somehow.
I was halfway through a bowl of raisin bran when the doorbell rang. My pulse shot up and I snuck a look through the curtained windows behind the breakfast nook. An unmarked white van was parked in our driveway, right behind my dusty Golf. That’s the van Arkady’s going to throw you in after he hogties you and rolls you up in the living room rug.
I tiptoed to the door, my heart pounding in my chest. Through the peephole I could see a young Latino guy in a delivery uniform and a Giants cap. He was holding an enormous bouquet of flowers and had a clipboard jammed under one arm.
“Who is it?” I called through the door.
“Delivery for a Lana Goodwin.” I eyeballed him carefully. He was alone. He was definitely not Russian. I unlocked the door.
“Good morning, Miss,” the man said. “Delivery, but it’s heavy. Would you like me to bring it inside?” The glass vase was at least three feet high and bursting with a profusion of flowers in every color. It was filled with water.
“That’s okay, I got it,” I said. I thanked him and he passed it to me. The vase felt like it weighed fifty pounds. I kicked the door shut with my foot and lugged the vase over to the counter between the kitchen and living room. Intense perfume filled the room. I buried my nose in the perfect blooms and breathed in the sweet smell.
There was a little white envelope taped to the vase with my name on it. Inside, the card was wet and the note was handwritten sloppily in florist writing.
My dear Miss Goodwin,
Happy Birthday!
--Alexander
P.S. Start packing. I’ll be over soon.
I read it and my mouth went a little dry. I pictured Alexander driving up to my house in his Aston Martin. Nerve endings deep in my body pinged. He’s your cousin, remember? But my world had already shifted a little on its axis. A strange lightness filled me. Finally, something good was about to happen to me. Maybe even something amazing.
I was rinsing out my cereal bowl when the doorbell rang again. I assumed it was the delivery man—maybe I’d forgotten to sign for the flowers.
I didn’t bother peeking through the window. If I had, I would have seen a very glossy, very black Lamborghini Aventador sitting right in front of the house.
I wiped a drop of milk off my chin and pulled the door open.
Victor Savitch filled the doorway. He wore black pants and a silky black shirt open at his broad neck. Thick tufts of hair poked up where the shirt dipped. My body reacted as if it had been electrocuted. My mouth dropped open.
“Hello, Lana. Are you alone?” His voice was calm, like we were old friends, but there was an unstated threat in his tone. A cold pit formed in the bottom of my stomach.
I cleared my throat and smiled, as though I wasn’t about to pass out from fear. “Hi, Victor! I was just getting ready to come see you. Berth 38, right? You didn’t have to come all the way up to Glen Ellen.”
My mind raced forward. He was worried you weren’t going to come. And he was right. He stepped into the house without waiting for me to invite him.
He scanned the living room and kitchen.
“At least John didn’t spend all my money on redecorating.” He saw my bags sitting by the front door. His eyes narrowed and swiveled back to mine. “Planning a little trip?” My heart skittered and took off at a gallop. I was sure he could see it poun
ding through my thin t-shirt.
“Oh, no. I’m just bringing some of my dad’s stuff to the hospital. I was going to come see you right after.” He held up his hand and I fell silent. He walked over to the flowers and bent to smell them.
“A gift?”
“Uh, yes,” I whispered. The air in the room somehow felt heavy. I fought hard not to run. He picked up the card that came with the flowers.
“From your boyfriend?” he asked.
“No. Family.” He tossed the card onto the counter. I smelled his overpowering, acrid cologne. “What do you want, Victor?” My voice sounded dry and high-pitched. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a folded piece of paper. He tossed the paper onto the counter.
“I brought you a birthday present, too.” His upper lip curled back, baring his teeth. What nice teeth you have, Mr. Wolf.
I picked it up and unfolded it. My hands decided to start trembling. I scanned the paper, which was just a long list of numbers.
“What is this?”
“I thought it would help you see the size of the hole you’re standing in.”
At the bottom I saw an astounding total:
$487,500.00
Whaaaaaaaatt?!
The room whirled around me. A note scrawled at the bottom of the paper read “Collateral: All assets owned by John Goodwin and Valley Imports, including his home and any and all motor vehicles stored at the property on Chauvet Road.”
I recognized the looping signature as my dad’s. He had made a deal with the devil and signed away his soul—and my future—for almost half a million dollars.
“Is this what we owe you?” He nodded. I swallowed hard. “It’s not legally enforceable, you know. Your loan to my father was not exactly official.”
He laughed softly. “We enforce these things ourselves.”
“Who’s we?”
“My…staff. Underworked and overpaid, but happy to obey my orders.”
He carefully rolled up his sleeves. His forearms were thick and covered in black hair. A giant gold watch nestled in the thicket of wiry hair on his left wrist. He turned and stepped closer to me. A tattoo of a giant cross filled the smoother skin on the inside of his forearm. There was a snake wrapped around the cross. The snake’s tongue and eyes were red.
He stepped closer to me. I fought hard not to scream.
“And what if I just go to the police?” I asked, my voice shaking. His expression was impassive. He pulled a pink long-stemmed rose out of the vase, lifted it to his nose, and smelled it, ignoring my question. “If you sell our house, and the cars, wouldn’t that cover it? All our assets must be worth at least what we owe you. This house is probably worth a lot more than that, actually. Real estate values in Glen Ellen . . .”
My voice trailed off as I watched him rip the delicate blossom off the stem. “The cars at his shop are being repossessed,” he said. “There’s a lien on this house for unpaid taxes. By the time I sell, you will still owe me quite a bit.” A thorn pricked his finger and a drop of blood swelled. His mouth twisted into a curdled smile. “Beautiful. But one must beware.”
He crumpled the rose blossom in his huge hand with a force that turned the petals into wet shreds. He dropped the destroyed flower to the floor and then dragged the thorny stem hard against the skin on his forearm, drawing red, angry lines that welled with blood. He didn’t even flinch.
His voice turned hard and thick when he spoke next. “If you tell anyone about my deal with your father—have I told you what Arkady’s hobby is?”
“Please, Victor.” I bit back a sob.
“He enjoys cutting people. It’s a nasty little habit of his. But Sergei, he prefers to break bones. No police, understand?” Every muscle in my body tensed with the urgent need to flee. But I just nodded.
He walked over to a photo on the wall. In it, my father, mother, and I are sitting on the porch of the house. It was the last family portrait before she died. He studied it carefully.
My mind raced, trying to think of a way out. “I can pay you. I just need some time.” And an old lady’s inheritance, if it actually existed. A trickle of sweat ran down my back under my t-shirt.
“Well, that’s an idea.” He ran a finger slowly down the wet side of the hourglass-shaped vase. He rubbed the tip of his finger against his thumb. “A payment plan.” His eyes were dark and inscrutable. He grinned and the deep white scar across his nose wrinkled and spread out across his cheeks. I shivered.
“When do you leave for college?” he asked.
“At the end of August.” My throat was so dry I could hardly get the words out. Why is he asking me that? The earthquake. It’s coming.
He took a step towards me, his hand trailing along the countertop. His cologne was overpowering. He rubbed his thumb across his lower lip and tilted his head to the side, examining me carefully.
“Two months? That should take care of the debt.”
“What are you talking about?” I asked breathlessly. He reached out and took the end of my ponytail between two of his fingers. I stood frozen as he slowly let my hair slide through his fingers.
“You remind me of her,” he said, clenching his jaw. “At eighteen, she was quite something. My finest investment.”
“Who?” I asked, trembling. Realization, black and terrible, lowered itself over me like a heavy, suffocating cloak. The earthquake’s coming.
His eyes were dark and fathomless. “My dear friend. Nastia.” He reached out and grabbed my wrist before I could move out of the way. His fingers were steel hooks pressing into my flesh.
“Let go of me!” I screamed.
In a flash, he had both my arms trapped behind my back. His mouth twisted into a snarl. “Here is my offer. Two months of your company. We leave on my boat—today. You tell your father and friends you are traveling. In return, I forgive your father’s debt and guarantee his safety. He is still in grave danger, you know.” I opened my mouth and closed it, wordless. He pulled me closer. His hot breath steamed my cheek and his eyes burned into mine. “Decide now, because there are some who want me to silence you–forever. Understand, girl? I am offering you a chance not to die.”
Someone else wanted me dead. Wanted us both dead. Who? Why? Over the debt? I pretty much knew what he meant by becoming his “companion.” And I knew I’d rather be dead. But maybe if I played along, I could slip away somehow. Jump off his boat. Find a phone. If I said yes, it might buy me time. And save my father’s life.
“Why are you doing this? If you kill us, you’ll never get your money back!” I struggled to break free as he squeezed my wrists tighter.
He spat on the floor. “You Americans always have trouble compromising.” He moved his hands so that he held both my wrists behind my back with one hand and with the other he forced my chin up. He was only a few inches taller than me, but his arms and body were pure brute strength.
“I make good money with girls like you,” he sneered. “Nastia—she made the most. She was the best girl I had in Moscow, until she got too old. But don’t worry,” he hissed. “If you’re nice, I won’t share you.” My brain raced through my options, but they were all bad. I struggled mightily to break free.
“LET ME GO! SOMEONE PLEASE HELP ME!” I knew the neighbors wouldn’t hear me, but I had to try.
“Quiet!” he roared. “You are out of choices—except for one. You can be a good girl and walk to my car, or I’ll have to put you to sleep.” He released my hands, reached inside his shirt pocket, and pulled out a syringe. Pale, yellow liquid filled the chamber. The thin red cap covering the needle was at least three inches long. “Stay still—this won’t hurt.”
I made a double fist and swung my arms, hitting his hand as hard as I could. The syringe flew into the air and skittered across the floor. He let go of me and lunged for the syringe.
I reached back and grabbed the edge of the kitchen counter. Then I drew my legs up to my chest and smashed them into his back as hard as I could. He groaned and staggered.
; The force of the kick rocketed me back across the slippery counter. I screamed as I slid backwards and flew right off the edge.
The second I hit the floor, I started crawling—the front door was just a few tantalizing feet away.
Victor yanked my legs up. My belly dropped to the floor. He flipped me onto my back and used the weight of his body to pin me down. His face swam above mine as I screamed and kicked and clawed. Then his rough hand clamped down on my mouth, silencing me. His palm covered my nose. I sucked air but got nothing.
This is when you die.
I looked up and saw the edge of the counter looming over our heads. There was a silver semi-circle jutting over the edge. A perfect half moon.
It was the vase.
I gasped against his palm, desperate for oxygen. My arms flailed at his back. He put his other hand to his mouth and bit down hard on something, and spat out the syringe’s red cap. The exposed needle glinted inches from my neck.
A drop of ice-cold water hit my forehead. Then another. The glass half-circle was getting bigger.
The enormous vase was moving. It scooted forward haltingly. I blinked my eyes in disbelief, straining to breathe. I thought I was hallucinating.
Then, just before my vision faded to black, the vase shot out into the air. Like it had been pushed. It fell, base first, straight down.
The massive glass vase, filled with water, sledgehammered the back of Victor’s skull and smashed on the floor, exploding into long swords of jagged glass.
His body went slack on top of mine. I gasped, gulping air as cold water soaked my clothes. When I moved my arm to push him off, pain shot down my arm. A slender finger of glass had slid deep into the flesh of my upper arm, below my left shoulder. I bit my lip so I wouldn’t scream and wake the unconscious Victor. I carefully extricated myself from the dead weight of his body and pulled myself free.
I watched his back rise and fall. Flowers floated in the thin pool of water spreading out around him. It looked like the end of a bullfight, and he was the bull. A rivulet of blood trickled onto my hand and I craned my neck to see the damage. The thin glass spear was sticking out of my shoulder. I took a deep breath, gripped the shard between my wet fingers and pulled. It slid out and a queasy, horrible coldness crept through me. I pressed my hand to the wound until the blood slowed down and the pain got more manageable.
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