Lake waited until almost sunset to walk back to his room, his thoughts returning to Lily as he opened his door. He sat at the sliding glass doors as day slowly gave way to night, as memories of the past gave way to regrets about the present, dread of the future.
Without Lily there with him, perhaps his penance for what he’d done, for the choices he’d made. Life had a way of settling accounts. The knowledge that she surely must hate him by now did make it easier, or at least took away that illusion of choice, or options. Sometimes what we want lies behind a door our actions have locked tight.
The question was, what did she really want? And what was Lake prepared to do to give it to her?
It was idiocy, but how many nights had Lake laid awake in the sweltering dark, the AC off, the fan blowing the hot, weighted air over his skin? How many nights had he wished it were Lily there with him, in his arms, the choices, the decisions, the consequences no longer mattering?
All that mattered was that she’d be there with him. Confronting a future neither had chosen, a future neither wanted to face alone.
Lake was hiding from it, from the unavoidable, awful, terrifying truth of it.
And it wasn’t just from the long reach of Terrence Randall.
You have to tell her, Lake.
Lake turned away from the muted cries of the seabirds, the inebriated, chattering expats stumbling along the beach outside.
As fatigue weighed heavily upon him, deep in the sweltering night, sleep finally found him, the vision of Lily’s beautiful, luminous eyes the last thing he saw before the dark swallowed him up.
Chapter 19
Even though winter in the south of France was moderate, I welcomed the warmth of Mexico. Discarding my wool sweater, I left the windows of my rental car down and began the long drive to the house where Lake had been living for the last year.
I had done what I had always wanted to do after Lake had left me at the bank that day. I had booked a flight to Nice and rented a small house on a hill in Chateauneuf, near Grasse. I had been living quietly there for a little over a year. My hair was finally growing out from the pixie cut I’d sported at first, and it now just touched my shoulders. It was also finally back to its natural color and not the caramel blonde I hated but had to do to alter my appearance.
The first months, I’d been scared. Sleep was a luxury then, and I had kept mostly to myself. I spoke French fluently, which helped, and people seemed to respect my privacy.
In the last four months, though, things had changed, starting with Randall’s arrest. He had been tried, finally, and, earlier this week, I had learned that my dad’s testimony would put him away for life. Along with the details of Randall’s verdict and sentence was an article crediting DeSalvo with leading the roll-up of the cartel and speaking of his promotion because of it. DeSalvo, whom I still remembered sitting in the car next to me, sliding on his leather gloves to keep his prints off my body as he did whatever he wanted to do to me before handing me over to Randall. I wanted him punished. It was unfair that he not only got off scot-free, but was rewarded as well.
I’d learned long ago that life wasn’t fair, though, and sometimes a compromise was the only alternative. I couldn’t punish DeSalvo, but that didn’t mean I’d roll over either.
My father was out of prison and had started a new life in the witness protection program. We still had contact — that had been a non-negotiable part of my dad’s deal from the start — but I felt like it was time to pick up my own life again.
After all this time, I would finally see Lake.
I’d found him six weeks ago. It hadn’t been easy, but being the daughter of a crime boss had its benefits and I wasn’t above taking advantage of them when I needed to.
I’d done a lot of soul searching over the last year. At first, I chalked up my feelings for Lake to Stockholm syndrome and forced myself to think about the bad things, the punishments, the humiliations. I wanted to forget him and hating him was the closest I could come to that…except that I didn’t hate him.
And forgetting him wasn’t working.
Those days in the cabin, in the “bad girl’s room,” they had changed me. It was like they’d chiseled off this layer to expose a part of me I’d never known existed, but that was more real than anything else, made me feel more alive than I’d ever felt before. In a way, even though life had been easier before Lake, I didn’t want to go back to that, to that version of myself. I couldn’t. I loved Lake. It took a lot for me to finally admit that and know that it wasn’t some residue of the trauma that had become my life in those weeks.
It was real. I loved him.
The sun began to set as I neared my destination in the small fishing village. The setting was beautiful, the spot he’d chosen off the beaten path. I slowed to check the GPS on my phone and continued onto the unpaved road closer to the cove. A beat-up old work truck was parked by the small house and, from this distance, I could see there was a light on inside.
I slowed the car, my heart beating faster and my stomach nervous as I neared the place. What would it be like to see him again? What would I feel? What would he feel? I smiled. He’d be surprised, that’s for sure.
But would he be happy to see me?
I glanced in the rearview mirror, suddenly questioning what I was doing here, so far from home, on a hope and nothing else. What if he wasn’t happy to see me? What if he didn’t feel the same? What if he’d long forgotten me? And worse, what if he wasn’t alone?
“No.”
I straightened up and drove the last part of the road to park next to the truck. Dust kicked up around the car, and my face felt grimy and hot from having driven with the windows down the whole way. Brushing nervous fingers through my hair, I climbed out of the car and walked on heavy legs toward the house. I tried for a friendly smile as I neared the door, my heart pounding in overdrive as I neared it, but before I even reached it, the door opened.
I stopped, hesitating, the smile I’d attempted fading because it wasn’t Lake who stepped out to greet me from behind that door. It was a woman, an older woman. She looked at me, her expression one of worry. A child of about ten peeked out from behind her, wrapping her arm around the older woman’s waist. She was too young to be her daughter. This was her granddaughter, at least.
I said hello in Spanish, extending my hand in greeting, my presence obviously making her nervous.
“You’re American?” the young girl asked, her words accented heavily.
“Yes. You speak English?”
“A little.”
“I’m looking for someone, I thought I had the right address,” I started, showing them the address I’d written out.
The old woman said something and the girl answered her, but I couldn’t follow.
“This is the address,” the girl said, looking at my paper. “But my family lives here now.”
I looked at the old woman who studied me, saying something else to the girl.
“Are you sure I have the right address? Is it possible—”
“What’s your name?” the girl asked.
“Lily. Lily Cross.” I hadn’t used my real name in a year. I’d been Lynette Moning, as my new passport read.
“Wait here,” she said as the older woman went inside.
The last of the sun would be gone in minutes, and I watched it disappear into the horizon. The water shimmered, and I inhaled a deep breath of salty sea air, trying to listen to the sound of the water rather than giving in to the panic rising in my mind.
The old woman returned, holding an envelope. The girl took it and handed it to me.
“We are to give you this. He left it if you ever came.”
She looked at me, the concern in her ten-year-old eyes too heavy, making mine fill with tears as the realization that he wasn’t here, that I was too late, dawned on me. A few moments passed while I just looked at her, unable to glance at the envelope I held.
The old woman spoke to me this time, gesturing toward the house.
“She says for you to come inside. It’s late, and there’s no hotel here. It’s not safe for you to drive alone now. You may spend the night.”
I looked down at the envelope, my hands shaking. He’d written Lily across the front of it. No last name, just Lily.
“Come.” It was the old woman this time, and I went with her, my body feeling numb as I walked into the tiny house with its broken-down furniture, the smell of food cooking, the sound of the television playing an old American Western in the background. I sat on the couch, and the young girl brought me a glass of water. They then both went into the kitchen, leaving me alone.
I opened the envelope slowly, barely feeling the sharp sting of a paper cut smearing a drop of blood across the top of it.
Inside was one folded sheet of paper. I opened it, not sure what I expected, what I hoped for, and I read it without feeling a thing even as my whole body seemed to shake.
Lily,
If you’re reading this then you’re doing what I hoped you wouldn’t. Even though I know you can’t help being who you are, the rebellious, strong, frustrating bad girl, you still shouldn’t have come. If I were there with you now, you’d be getting more of what hung on that wall in your room at the cabin. I’ll leave it at that just in case Alejandra took a peek at this. I don’t think she will though. She’s a good woman.
What happened — it was wrong. Even though we felt something, it was wrong. We both know it. But I’m not sorry I did it. I’m not sorry I met you. And I’m not sorry I saved you.
I’m going to save you one more time though, and this time it’s saving your life in more ways than one. Leave me, leave the memories. Let them lie. What you think you want isn’t what you’d find. Let time swallow me up, erase me from your mind, free you from what cannot be.
Lake
* * *
It had been three days since I read that letter, and I still shivered at the memory of it, my hands growing cold, my chest feeling tight, my belly heavy. Lake was gone. It was finished. I wouldn’t try to find him again. He didn’t want me to. But I’d still do this one thing for him, even if he never knew I did it.
Although I was now back in New York, it no longer felt like home. It was like that life before, my life I’d been so attached to, was so far away, it wasn’t even real anymore, and I didn’t miss it. I packed the last of my things into my suitcase but left the bag in my hotel room. It wasn’t quite five-thirty in the morning. I would have time to return before my flight back to France. Slipping on my heavy coat, I picked up the small pistol I’d set on the dresser and tucked it into my pocket, knowing that if I needed to, I would use it, that knowledge scaring me a little.
But I knew the kind of man I was dealing with. DeSalvo wouldn’t hesitate to hurt me if he thought he could get away with it. I needed the reassurance of the weapon in my pocket until I convinced him hurting me would be a bad idea.
Checking my watch, I pulled a tight wool hat over my head and left the hotel. It would take me half an hour to walk to our meeting point, a public street that would offer just enough protection for me to deliver my message. I kept my hands in my pockets as I walked, the thick envelope on one side, the pistol on the other.
I was first to arrive at the meeting point, or so I thought until DeSalvo walked out of the small café on the corner sipping a coffee and holding a second one, looking too relaxed for my comfort. I’d hoped to beat him there. I was still early. But I should have known better with a man like him.
“Ms. Cross,” he said when I neared. “I got you a coffee.” He held the second cup out to me, the gesture catching me by surprise, which I knew was exactly what he wanted.
When I’d contacted DeSalvo, he’d been, for at least one tiny moment, caught off guard himself. I’d told him I wanted to meet, had given him some idea of what it would cost him if he didn’t come alone, and hoped he had believed me, but I realized now that I could have been wrong. He could have men stationed all around. I’d been naive. He seemed too calm, too collected, too confident. I needed to shake that confidence, and fast.
“No, thank you,” I said.
“Suit yourself,” he said, setting the cup on a high windowsill.
I noticed then the black leather gloves he wore, the same ones he’d put on that night while I’d watched. It made me shiver, but I fisted my sweaty hand around the pistol in my pocket and forced myself to breathe.
“Randall will be pleased to know you’re back in town.”
“I bet he would be, except he’s not going to find out.”
“And why would that be? Certainly you’re not naive enough to think just because he’s behind bars the organization has been wiped out.”
“No, not that naïve,” I said. “I grew up a part of that organization, remember. I am my father’s daughter. Underestimating me would be a mistake.” I paused, letting my words sink in, knowing he didn’t really see me as a threat. Not yet. “I know what you would have done to me. I know what kind of man you are.”
He didn’t seem at all ruffled by that. In fact, he checked his watch and sipped his coffee, his posture relaxed. “Get to the point, Ms. Cross. It’s cold out here.”
“You’re here, DeSalvo. It means you know I’m a threat to you.”
He chuckled at that, the coffee sloshing out of the side of the cup with the movement. “Hardly. I figured if you had the balls to actually show up, well, then I’d—”
“Shut the fuck up,” I said, my lips curling in my dislike of this man. I wanted this over. I wanted to get as far away from DeSalvo as I could. And I needed to make sure he stayed away from both me and Lake.
I pulled the envelope out of my pocket and held it out without quite offering it to him. A small twitch of his eye when he saw it told me he wasn’t as confident as he was trying to make me believe, and that bit of knowledge strengthened me.
“I want you to know, first of all, that should anything happen to me, any strange sort of accident, I have a letter waiting to go out to the authorities as well as to your superiors detailing exactly what happened the night of my disappearance, telling them who you moonlight for, who pays into that bank account of yours in Moscow.” I hadn’t wasted the last year. I’d been doing my homework and dug up as much dirt as I could on DeSalvo. I had enough to put him away, but jail wasn’t where I wanted him. I only needed him to know the power I held over him.
Now I offered the envelope to him. “This copy is for you, in case you’d like to have a look.”
He took it, his eyes on mine until I let it go. When he opened the flap to look inside, I had him. I knew it.
He turned back at me, his gaze flat and cold. “What do you want?”
“I want a lot of things, but I’ll settle for one from you: stop your search for Lake. Forget about him, forget he exists.”
His eyes narrowed and he cocked his head to the side, studying me, leaving my confidence of a few moments ago on the verge of evaporating. “My business with Lake Freeman is between him and me. You worry about your own pretty little self. I have nothing with you. I didn’t even see you here today, in fact.”
“Not enough. Leave Lake alone. Stop searching for him, and you’ll get to stay out of jail. Unless you miss your buddy Randall, that is.”
His grin unnerved me. This meeting needed to be over, and fast.
“You found him, didn’t you?”
I tried to keep my expression neutral, but my reaction to his comment was physical.
“Do we have an agreement?” I asked. “Or should I”—I reached into my purse and pulled out a duplicate envelope, this one stamped and ready to be mailed—”drop this at the post office a few doors down?”
His expression hardened. “You wouldn’t.”
“Why wouldn’t I? What have I got to lose?”
He studied me, but this time, I was able to keep my calm. I had the upper hand, and we both knew it.
“That’s fine, Ms. Cross,” he said, dumping the rest of his coffee onto the street, some o
f the cooling liquid splashing onto his shoes. He then crushed the paper cup before tossing it too. “As far as you and Freeman are concerned, we have no more business together.”
I smiled while he tucked the envelope into his pocket, all the while my heart racing.
“You shouldn’t litter,” I said, gesturing toward the cup on the street.
He looked pissed, and I couldn’t say I didn’t like it.
“Good-bye, Ms. Cross.”
“Good-bye, DeSalvo.”
By the time I’d said it, he was too far away to hear.
Chapter 20
He grew very still at the sound of the lock tumblers moving.
Sitting in her living room, cloaked in shadow, he’d waited, every second wondering why the fuck he’d done this — and knowing there was nothing else he could’ve done. Not anymore.
She stepped in, snapping on the foyer light, warm illumination showing the softness of her hair, her face every bit as beautiful as the one he’d seen every night in his dreams. Unwrapping the burgundy scarf from her long, slim neck, she turned to close the door and threw the deadbolt.
“Hello, Lily.”
She froze, her back to him, the thin leather strap of her purse a diagonal line down one shoulder of the form-fitting black coat. Her hand eased down to her purse. She was careful to keep it in front of her, but he knew what she was doing. It made him smile.
Lily spun on him, the pistol trained toward the sound of his voice, though she’d have shot over his shoulder if she’d fired.
“Get your hands up and show yourself.” Her voice was firm but tense. She was scared, but that steel he so admired was still there. Good.
“You need to aim that about eight inches to your left.”
The black barrel instantly moved to him.
“That’s better.”
Her brow furrowed, her eyes going wide.
“Is it…?” The pistol wavered, but the barrel didn’t drop.
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