Chapter 24
Twenty-Four
Vicky
Icling to Van Wyk’s arm.
Not because I want to, but because my legs are shaky.
The man I’m walking alongside just threatened to chop Alex’s finger off. With a fucking knife. And I know—I just know—he’s done it before.
Juliette Van Wyk died from a self-inflicted knife wound.
How the hell is this man not in prison? How did the goddamn fuck of all goddamn fucked investigations lead to him walking free?
He glances at me. “Are you all right, Victoria?”
Just fucking dandy.
“It’s been a trying day.”
Alex walked off so cool, trailing blood. I can be that cool.
I lift my chin, straighten my back. And let go of Van Wyk’s arm.
His grey, soulless eyes flicker with some emotion, something he sees in what I’ve just done. Like even pulling myself together tells him something I don’t want him to know.
“Of course it has,” he says mildly. “It’s not every day you lose the opportunity to sleep with Bastien Fournier. But don’t be too hard on Alex; he probably thought he was doing the right thing.”
“I’m sure he did,” I reply, keeping it neutral, my tone even, learning from what Alex showed me.
I know damn well what Alex would think if Fournier tried to touch me. Fournier’s not a waiter; he wouldn’t merely look. If he laid his hands on me, Alex would kill him—or try to. Van Wyk would stop him, or that muscle-bound bodyguard back there. Alex would die in the process.
And I know damn well Alex knows that. I saw his response, his composure and anger warring together, then… snap.
Something happened. His eyes went blank. The single scariest emotion I’ve ever seen on Alex’s face… or the utter lack of emotion.
I should never have said anything. I should never have offered myself in his stead. I just… couldn’t help it. Not with Van Wyk there, his knife out, the meaning so very clear.
Who the hell chops fingers off?
And Alex knew. There wasn’t any surprise; he knew.
How the hell did he already know?
“Of course,” Van Wyk continues, interrupting my thoughts, “Alex might be upset that you were so keen to… well… volunteer.”
That was a pathetic attempt. Van Wyk is trying to provoke me, but he’s nothing on Alex. He’s not even in Fournier’s league.
Alex knows why I ‘volunteered.’ He knows I did it for him, not for Fournier.
Doesn’t he?
Because from where he was standing, I offered myself. Shit… did he take desperation for enthusiasm? Is he pissed at me?
Stop. Not now.
Not with Van Wyk watching me like a hawk for every tell I let slip.
File it. Deal with it later.
Right now, I need to be Alex.
What would he do?
What I want to do is tell Van Wyk to go fuck himself. But I hesitate. Alex would play it strategically. He’d give nothing away, he’d get inside Van Wyk’s head.
There’s an opportunity here. Maybe. If I can pull it off.
I’m dealing with a killer. I know that now. I have to be careful.
Van Wyk is trying to manipulate me, but why? To get to Alex? To get at me? To put a rift between us? Something else?
Games within games within games.
All right, let’s play.
I bite my lip. I glance at him. I look forward, then to the side. I slow my steps. “Um…”
“Yes?”
“Do you… um…”
“You can tell me.”
“Do you think I went too far?” I ask in a rush.
One of the wonderful things about being a girl is that some men can’t see past that. My ridiculous dress is suddenly an asset. Appearances are everything: I’m just so innocent.
Van Wyk reaches down and takes my hand, returning it to his arm, the way we were as we left Fournier’s study. Then he gives it a little pat. “I think your enthusiasm was quite understandable.”
Yes, because I was enthusiastic for the opportunity to vomit all over Fournier. Very fucking understandable.
“You don’t think Alex will…” I trail off helplessly, not certain I have the brain power to finish such a complex thought.
Van Wyk makes a noise to communicate his awkwardness. “He might not see it the way I do… the way Bastien does.”
Was that an olive branch? Was that Van Wyk inferring, somehow, that I haven’t blown my chances with Fournier? Oh, lucky, lucky me. What am I expected to do, sneak around the house after nightfall and find my way to Fournier’s bedroom?
This isn’t right. It’s too clumsy, even for Van Wyk.
It has to be a test.
Of what?
My pulse spikes. Whatever I say next matters, and I don't know the rules yet. But I don’t have the luxury of fear.
I focus as hard as I can, my thoughts racing, trying to get ahead of the conversation.
Van Wyk undermines Alex; I don’t engage. Van Wyk provokes; I encourage. Van Wyk offers…
He wants me to show Alex I’m not loyal.
Why? What does he gain?
Is it me he wants to out, to turn Alex against me, or is it Alex he wants to weaken by showing me to be unfaithful?
Or both. Ultimately, they both hurt Alex.
But Fournier wants Alex—that much was clear. There was respect there, in the end. If Van Wyk is drinking Fournier’s loyalty Kool-Aid, he wouldn’t act against Alex—
Shit.
It’s me he wants. It explains the dance. He didn’t dance with anyone else. My skin crawls, and it takes all I have to keep my fear from showing.
I thought he was engaging because I spoke to Amelia. But that wasn’t it.
Somehow, he knows.
Or maybe he just suspects. Same end game.
I’ve been quiet too long. He’s appraising me, eyes giving nothing away.
If I give in to that Fournier offer, it’s the trap. He wouldn’t buy it; he’d think I was trying to get close. Damn, that’s it. He thinks I’m investigating them, not him.
That was his first test: undermining Alex, giving me the opportunity to jump on it. And I brushed straight past it, playing it cool. Exactly what he expected, but not why I did it. Now he thinks I’m not here for Alex. He thinks it’s Fournier I want.
Backtrack. But how?
“I don’t think Alex would like that.”
Van Wyk nods thoughtfully, as if accepting it at face value. “You could tell him you’re doing it for him.”
He almost sounds like he wants me to sleep with Fournier. Hell, maybe Fournier put him up to it. Is that all this is? Am I wrong?
No… it’s too convoluted. If that were the case, with a man like Fournier, the offer would be more blatant.
I’m certain I’m right.
A middle-ground. I hand him Alex, without the interest in Fournier, and Van Wyk’s left with nothing on me. His focus shifts to Alex, suspicion dies, leaving me to get to Amelia, and maybe—just maybe—get what I need. Something to use.
It’s the right play. It makes me feel sick.
But Alex can take it. He can handle Van Wyk.
God, I hope he can.
“Alex always thinks he’s doing the right thing,” I say bitterly, deliberately using Van Wyk’s words.
His eyes flicker. “That must be difficult.”
“It’s…” Cute. Confident. Arousing. So very him. What I fell in love with from the first day. “…suffocating.”
“Mmm, I get it.” Another reassuring pat on my hand. “You want to be yourself. Have your own career, pursue your own interests…”
Investigate murderers.
“Yes, exactly!” I say, leaning forward. Taking his cue to talk about my work, and running with it. “I’ve just started my own business. I have this wonderful construction firm. There’s an expense claim… oh, it’s so much less stressful than the corporate world I was dealing with before—”
“Well, quite.” Van Wyk looks down the hallway, his interest gone. “Let’s get you to Amelia. I’m sure both of you are keen to catch up.”
“I’m so glad she’s here,” I say, walking on. Van Wyk keeps step, and there’s more energy from both of us. Me, so enthusiastic to reunite with his wife. Him, pleased to be rid of me.
Me, desperate to see the back of this creature.
And I can’t help but twist the knife as we walk, the irony of that notion particularly delicious. Damn, I’m channeling Alex.
“…the thing about construction firms is that they run hundreds of line items per project, you see, so if someone wants to hide money, that’s the perfect environment…”
“Uh-huh.”
“…anyway, there’s this thing in Excel where you can do a pivot table, okay? And I got all their data and I…”
“Right.”
“…checking the expense allocations against the actual purchase records, and guess what I found?”
“Uh… pardon?”
“Guess what I found!”
“Tell me.”
“Well, when you cross-reference the approvals against the project spend, it shows the—”
“Ah, we’re here.” Van Wyk says with bonhomie. He raps once on a door and shows me into a suite of rooms. Amelia is sitting on a sofa, drinking a glass of wine. She looks up with mild interest, but doesn’t react beyond that. To me, or to her husband.
“Oh, hi.” The words slur, almost like she’s sedated.
“Amelia, you remember Victoria Callahan.” Van Wyk politely disengages his arm.
“I knew you two would like to catch up.” His eyes settle on Amelia’s bottle of wine, irritation flaring in their usually flat depths.
“Unfortunately, I have to…” He nods to me, ignores his wife, and closes the door behind himself.
I try very hard not to breathe a sigh of relief. Amelia’s watching me. She might be half out of it; she might not. I don’t trust anything anymore.
“So glad to see a friendly face,” I say, walking farther in. “How have you been?”
“Fine.”
Her pictures don’t do her justice. In person, she’s quietly striking. Raven hair, pale complexion, a clean, high-contrast look. But her eyes are flat.
The bottle of wine is half empty. It’s not quite lunchtime. I wonder if she’s eaten.
She notices my interest. “Do you want a glass?”
“Uh… that’s…”
“They’re in the kitchen.” She gestures vaguely behind herself. “Through there.”
“I think I’m okay, thanks.”
“Suit yourself.”
I take a seat on the sofa opposite her, wondering if she’s drunk. If this is her escape.
If the room is bugged by Fournier or her husband.
“Are you here long?” I ask.
“Don’t know.”
Okay. Closed question, let’s try an open one.
“What are your plans?”
“Don’t have any.”
“I’m sure there’s lots to do around here. What do you like?”
She sniffs and takes a sip of her drink. Which, when she says nothing more, seems to be my answer.
Perversely, for a fleeting moment, I miss talking to Van Wyk. Verbal sparring for my life against engaging with his zombified wife? Tough call.
“We didn’t get to talk much at the ball,” I say, practicing indifference but watching her closely. “It was nice of you to give me your number; sorry I haven’t called. So busy. I’m sure you have been too?” Not.
“Yeah.”
“You won’t believe who I ran into. A mutual acquaintance of ours.”
“Yeah?”
It’s a risk, but one worth taking. “Lucy. Your sister.”
There’s a flicker in her eyes. That’s it. Nothing else.
I try again. “Do you see each other much?”
“Occasionally.”
“Don’t get on?” I prompt, using my gentle voice. Sometimes, people respond better when you tell them something that’s obviously wrong.
“We used to,” she says sadly, yet with more animation than anything she’s giving me so far. Relatively speaking.
“Drift away, huh?” I nod. “I get how that is. We’re just so busy, and…” I let it trail off in invitation.
This time, I get a scoff. “Not busy.”
“Traveling with your husband’s work, right?”
She freezes, save for her glass which begins to judder. Her hand’s trembling.
Fuck me.
“Do you get out much when you’re here?” I prod, feeling like I’m torturing a helpless animal. But I need answers.
“No.”
“Oh. Well, I was thinking about borrowing a car—I’m sure Bastien has many—and taking a drive this afternoon. Would you like to come?”
For a moment, her eyes focus on me. There’s a flicker of anger, her mouth tightening. Then she looks away. “Don’t joke. We can’t do that.”
We?
“Why not?”
“You know damn well why not.”
I really don’t, but I’m as curious as hell. “Can’t you drive?”
“Of course I can drive.”
A fleeting promise of freedom, quickly dismissed, and the most engagement I’ve had.
Time to up the stakes.
“Your husband is an older man, isn’t he? Forty?”
“Yeah.”
“Obviously seen a lot of the world.”
“Yeah.” Her tone’s fallen again. That’s fine; I want her disarmed.
“He must’ve been…” I wait until her gaze finds me, expectant. “…married before?”
Amelia swallows, then takes a gulp of wine. “We don’t talk about it.”
I can’t imagine why not.
“Oh, I’m sure. But divorce can be for the best, you know.” I put on a brave smile for her. “After all, now he has you.”
“Yeah.”
And that’s it. No denials. No reaction. No dread at the thought of being owned by such a man. No awareness or sign that Juliette was murdered in the matrimonial bed Amelia now sleeps in.
I wonder if she knows.
“Is she still around?” I ask. “His previous wife, I mean. People sometimes stay friends, right?”
“No, she’s not around.”
You’re not wrong.
I think hard.
“Lucy mentioned you got out for lunch once or twice.”
Amelia sniffs.
“Maybe we could do lunch.” If we do, I could spend the time pushing cocktails sticks into my eyes for entertainment.
“Sure.”
“In Paris, perhaps,” I suggest airily. “Get a flight, stay in a hotel, back the next day. They’re good for the money, aren’t they?”
Now I have her attention. Her eyes narrow.
“I don’t care about the money anymore.”
“Really?” I ask, with unbridled surprise. “Why not?”
“Because we can’t fucking spend it.” She waves her wine glass through the air. “Not in any way that makes a difference.”
I’ve finally hit a nerve. “What would make a difference, Amelia?”
Nothing.
“Clothes?” I prod. “Cars? Travel?”
She twitches on the last one.
“Getting somewhere?” I say, leaning forward. “Seeing someone?”
“Stop.” The word cracks out, mouth twisted at the corners, eyes narrowed in hate.
“I know what you’re doing. You’re part of it, aren’t you?
You’re one of them. One of the system. You can tell my husband that I passed his test. I’m not trying to leave any more, all right?
I’m not…” She takes a breath, closes her eyes, lets it out slowly and opens them again.
Her face is perfectly composed. “My apologies, that was a little sharp. I mean that I wouldn’t dream of going anywhere without Lukas.
” She gives me a thin smile, then pushes up to stand.
“Now, if you don’t mind, I think I might go for a nap. ”
“Yeah,” I say, reclining into my sofa. “You should do that. Sleep well.”
I watch her walk away, and she doesn’t look back.
The room is silent, my thoughts are not.
Holy. Fuck.