44
That morning, Curtis stood in the driveway watching Damian and Bianca take off in his Citroen.
It was evident by the grinding of gears that Damian didn’t really know how to drive a manual transmission.
Curtis would likely have to replace his clutch, but it wasn’t like he could refuse Damian’s request to use the car.
And he wanted the visitors gone. Their lingering presence made him tense, angry, and sick to his stomach.
Besides that, he had a lot to deal with today.
Curtis had been hiding his burner phone under the driver’s seat of his car since they began tearing the shed apart.
Luckily, he’d brought it inside with him last night, turned it off, and hid it in the pocket of a winter coat buried in the front closet.
Entering the house, he digs into the closet and retrieves the device, hides it deep in the pocket of his shorts.
He has an essential call to make, but there can be no record of it on his regular phone.
Any connection to this man would be the kiss of death for his marriage, his entire reputation. But first things first…
Sydney is waiting at the table, hands on a mug of coffee, her expression dark. He sits across from her and picks up his cup, takes a sip. The coffee is cold, and the milk has curdled. Or maybe it’s just the sour taste in his mouth. He sets down the mug, pushes it away.
“Bianca and Damian need to go,” Sydney says. Again. “He’s not even able to help around here, so what’s the point of having them stay?”
“You invited them,” he replies, because he can’t help himself. He hadn’t wanted the travelers to move in in the first place, and now he’s forced to fight for them to remain. The cognitive dissonance is exhausting.
“And now I’m going to disinvite them,” she retorts. “If you’re too afraid to do it.”
It’s a dig, but he won’t rise to it. He must convince Sydney not to ask the fake Aussies to leave.
If she does, they’ll refuse. Damian might come up with an excuse, but Bianca won’t.
She’ll relish the opportunity to destroy his marriage, to tell Syd about his connection to some dead woman he doesn’t even know.
And then everything else will come out, and his marriage will fall apart.
He keeps his voice calm. “They’ve done a lot of free labor around here, and I think kicking them out—and sticking them with a massive towing bill—is a shitty way to repay them.”
Sydney appears to take this in, but then her eyes narrow. “Is there anything you want to tell me, Curtis?”
Does his wife know something? Or is she simply suspicious? Curtis can’t reveal his secrets now, not when he’s so close to making all their problems go away. So he plays dumb.
“Like what?”
“Anything you’d like to tell me about Collette?”
“For God’s sake, Syd. I told you everything in therapy.”
“Damian’s been acting weird. Is something going on with you two?”
“I just watched him make out with my wife at a nightclub,” Curtis retorts. “Some tension is to be expected, don’t you think?”
Her eyes drift down to the table. “I said I was sorry.”
“I know. And I forgive you. But it’s going to take some time for me to feel comfortable around Damian and Bianca again.”
“Then why don’t you want them to leave—now—like I do?”
“I do want them gone.” He reaches for her hand. “I can’t wait until it’s just the two of us again. But in a few days their van will be fixed. Then they can leave without any bad blood. And without us seeming like a couple of privileged assholes who took advantage of their situation.”
“Fine,” she sighs. She gets up and takes their cups to the sink. “I’m going to do some sanding in the downstairs bathroom.”
“Great. I’ll be out in the shed. Holler if you need me.”
Curtis walks toward the dilapidated building, but he continues past it, toward the wooded patch at the back of the property.
The big oak tree will provide privacy. It had shielded the mysterious smoker, who he knows wasn’t Collette or Teddy Drew flown in from New York to spy on them.
It wasn’t a random farmer either. It was Bianca or Damian smoking back there, hiding the machete and gloves to fuel fear and paranoia in their hosts.
When he reaches the tree, he stands behind it, surveys the property to ensure he’s alone.
He can’t risk Syd overhearing this conversation.
He pulls out the burner phone and dials.
The man he is attempting to contact is nearly impossible to reach, protected by a phalanx of gatekeepers tasked with screening out all but the most vital communications.
West Beatty is rich, respected, and high profile in the business and tech communities, but rumors swirl around him.
He’s adept at ensuring none of them stick, that loose ends are always tied up.
Curtis had called his number twice yesterday, had expressed the urgency of the situation. He needs West to answer this time.
Thankfully, a receptionist patches him through to a PA who puts him on hold. His heart thuds in his chest as he waits for West to come to the phone.
“You disappeared on me, Curtis.” There’s no greeting, just the smooth voice, the subtle, indistinguishable accent of a citizen of the world. “That wasn’t very cool.”
“I set you up, though,” Curtis replies quickly. “Simon will take care of you.”
“Let’s hope so.”
Curtis ignores the subtle threat, forges ahead. “I’ve run into a problem. And it affects you, too.”
“I’ll call back.” Abruptly, the line goes dead.
Curtis waits, pulse pounding, mouth dry, for the phone to ring. If West has abandoned him, blocked his calls, he’s truly fucked. Thankfully, the phone buzzes moments later.
“This is a secure line,” West says. “Continue.”
The words pour out of Curtis, a stream of desperate verbal vomit.
He tells West about the travelers who turned up at his home, how they pretended they were Aussies, how they knew things that had happened back in New York.
He explains that a young woman is dead, that he doesn’t know how she died but they (mistakenly) think Curtis had something to do with it.
He tells West that they’re blackmailing him, that they want five million dollars or they’ll go public with everything they know.
West asks, “Was my name mentioned?”
For a moment, Curtis ponders the most beneficial response. If he says yes, West will feel more vulnerable, more likely to come to his aid. But he may blame Curtis for leaking his name to the pair, and he can’t afford to piss this guy off.
“No.”
“Oh, Curtis…” West says his name like he’s scolding a puppy that pissed on the carpet. “How did you let this happen?”
“I didn’t let it happen. They found out through this dead girl.”
“I don’t know anything about a dead girl.”
“Neither do I!” Curtis cries but quickly composes himself. “You know my role in this whole thing was peripheral.”
“Was it, though? You were essential to making the whole operation work. And you were well aware what was going on at those events.”
“I didn’t want to be involved. I had no choice! Why should I have to pay the price alone?”
“Because you’re the one who got caught.”
Five million bucks is pocket change for this tech bro.
He’s got money to invest in new technologies, in films, in experimental antiaging drugs.
He owns houses around the world, islands in the middle of nowhere.
It would be so painless for him to end Curtis’s nightmare.
He chokes on a sob, blurts the words. “It’s just five million, West. Why won’t you help me? ”
“If you pay these two off, do you really think they’ll disappear for good?”
The rhetorical delivery slips past Curtis. He’s never been blackmailed before, but Damian had sounded sincere. He has plans for his future as a multimillionaire, a life of privilege and hedonism.
“Yeah, I think they will.”
“Really?” Curtis hears the clink of ice in West’s drink.
Curtis doesn’t know where in the world the magnate is, but it must be evening there.
He’s likely sipping an eighty-year-old Scotch.
“Someone this couple cared about is dead. A girl. And they blame you. But you think they’ll ride off into the sunset with their five mill?
Live happily ever after and forget the information that would destroy us both? ”
There’s no missing the skepticism this time. Curtis’s face burns. He’s been so na?ve, so foolish.
“I learned a long time ago not to fall for grifts,” West continues. “Paying this couple off is not the solution. They need to disappear. For good.”
“You’re right.” Curtis’s voice trembles. “Can you… help?”
“I could.” The ice cubes clink again. “But that could get messy. I couldn’t guarantee your safety. Or your wife’s.”
“So you want me to do it?”
“Didn’t your mother teach you to clean up after yourself, Curtis?”
“I’m not a killer. I wouldn’t know how!”
“You’re a smart guy. I think you can figure it out.”
“No. I won’t do it.” He feels perilously close to tears. “I—I can’t.”
“Fine.” He hears the oily smile in West’s voice.
“At some point in the next twenty-four hours a man is going to show up at your house. He’ll have a semiautomatic weapon, and he’s going to open fire on this couple.
Of course, he may not be able to distinguish you and your wife from these blackmailers.
And he won’t want to leave any witnesses. ”
The threat is overt. Terrifying.
“I’ll take care of it,” Curtis says, voice shaking. “Don’t send anyone.”
“Let me know when it’s done.” The ice cubes rattle as West finishes his drink. “It’s a great house, Curtis. Love those arched windows.”
The compliment is a ruse. West knows the house. He’s been keeping tabs on Curtis all along. He could send someone there in a heartbeat.
“It’s handled,” Curtis croaks. “I promise.”
He hangs up.