52
Bianca stands outside in the rain, watching Damian and Sydney through the arched windows.
They’re having a cozy chat in the living room while Curtis does the dishes.
They look good together, like a real couple.
Sydney is so cool and elegant while Damian is strong and masculine.
Their body language belies their attraction: legs crossed toward each other, torsos tilted inward.
Damian is watching her like she’s an angel, a beautiful apparition that could vanish at any moment.
Bianca’s heart feels tight in her chest, as if it’s being crushed by her rib cage.
She’s not jealous, though Damian’s infatuation is obvious even from here.
She’s disillusioned and disappointed. But mostly, she’s scared.
When Sydney asked about Lyric, Bianca knew they were screwed.
The other woman was onto them. Syd used to be a lawyer, adept at solving puzzles and building cases.
Bianca had smoked her cigarette, tried to throw Syd off the scent, but she’d been caught off-guard.
Her stammered denials and excuses were not convincing.
And Sydney is far too intelligent to have been fooled.
Later, as Bianca picked at her meal, questions had run rampant in her mind.
She and Damian had planned and rehearsed their Australian personas for months before they arrived in Spain.
Damian wouldn’t have casually mentioned that Bianca had a little sister, not when Lyric was the reason they were here.
Damian’s feelings for Sydney are evident, but he’s too greedy, too focused on the five million, to jeopardize their plan.
If he told Sydney what Curtis had done to Lyric now, the payoff would never happen.
Curtis would never have mentioned the girl to his wife.
Lyric is his darkest, ugliest secret. Or is she?
Bianca wonders if Curtis could spin the story of what he did to Lyric in a way that would convince his wife to forgive him.
It’s not impossible. She knows women sometimes stay with—even fall in love with—brutal murderers.
There are mothers who look the other way when their children are abused by the men they adore.
Sydney already knows she’s married to a liar and a cheat.
Is she so desperate, damaged, and lacking in morals that she’d absolve Curtis of his heinous crime?
It was Curtis’s cheerful toast to the future that triggered Bianca the most. If he’s feeling optimistic, they’ve done something very wrong.
Curtis should be stressed and worried, wondering how on earth he’s going to pay back five million dollars with no job, no business, while keeping it a secret from Sydney.
He shouldn’t be cooking his grandma’s favorite meal and making upbeat statements about happy days to come.
Bianca knows something is off. Unfortunately, Damian is too excited, too drunk, too enamored with Sydney, to see it.
Turning away from the windows, Bianca creeps past the pool and away from the house.
As she moves farther into the darkness, she stumbles on the uneven ground.
But she can’t use her flashlight and risk drawing attention to herself.
How would she explain her presence out in this field, under the driving rain?
No one can know what she’s doing out here. And what she’s planning.
Gingerly, she picks her way through the tall grass, moving down the hillside behind the pool.
She slips on the slick ground, going down hard on her knees, but she gets back up and presses forward.
Soon, she reaches the barbed wire fence that lines the bottom of the property.
Sticking close to it, Bianca moves toward the rotted log, the hiding place for the machete.
She can’t be sure what Curtis has planned for them, but she’ll be ready.
If he double-crosses them, if Sydney has known everything all along, if the couple plans to eliminate their guests, Bianca will attack.
She’s not going to accept defeat like a defenseless lamb.
Or allow herself to be manipulated like her gullible, lovestruck boyfriend.
Bianca will wreak what havoc she can. For Lyric.
When she reaches the rotted log, she drops to her knees.
The soft ground squelches under her weight, water soaking through her sweatpants, but she ignores the unpleasant sensation.
She feels around the crumbling wood, sifts through the tall grass.
She knows the machete was here, pressed against this fallen log.
And now it’s gone.
Terror grips her, usurping all rational thought.
Her intuition has been screaming at her that something isn’t right, that she could be in danger, and now it’s confirmed.
Curtis found the machete. Or Sydney did.
Maybe even Damian discovered it. It doesn’t matter who has possession now.
Bianca trusts no one. And she knows what she must do.
Dragging herself out of the grass, Bianca retraces her path back toward the house, edging around the pool to the front door.
Breathing on her hands, she rubs them vigorously together, tries to make them functional again, but they’re so cold, so stiff.
When some sensation has returned to her fingers, she gently, soundlessly opens the door.
Cheerful conversation drifts toward her from the living room, Damian’s jovial fake-Australian voice reaching her ears as she tiptoes down the hall.
He sounds so happy, so in his element. At the door to their bedroom, she pauses, a hand on the wood surface.
If she summoned Damian, told him they weren’t safe, would he listen?
Or would he grill her on why she’d removed the machete from the van and hidden it from him?
Knowing her lover’s machismo, he’d insist that he could handle Curtis and his weapon, that the threat was too minor to jeopardize their plan.
But her every instinct is telling her to run.
She presses the bedroom door open and slips inside.
With her cold and filthy hands, she shoves her clothes into the duffel bag.
Everything will be wrinkled, covered in dirt, but she doesn’t care.
Zipping the bag closed, she finds the box of tampons.
She tips it upside down, dropping the contents onto the floor.
The key to the van clinks gently on the tiles, but it sounds like a thunderclap to Bianca.
She freezes, listens. But Damian’s upbeat diatribe drones on.
She shoves the key into the pocket of her soaked pants, hoists her bag, and slips out of the house.
Rain pelts her as she scurries toward the van, lugging her belongings.
Her hands are trembling with cold and fear as she fumbles the key into the lock.
It takes a couple of tries, but she manages to unlock the panel door and slide it open.
Gratefully, she climbs inside and closes it gently behind her.
For a moment, she sits on the floor of the van, allowing her heart rate to return to normal.
The rain on the metal roof is rhythmic and soothing, and her pulse begins to slow.
After so much time with Damian, Curtis, and Sydney, the solitude is a relief.
There have been moments she’s enjoyed, instances that almost felt like friendship, but they weren’t real.
Bianca feels supremely alone in the world, but it’s natural and familiar.
She’s only ever been able to rely on herself.
She finds an old T-shirt tossed carelessly aside and dries her face, pats at her neck.
She’s soaked through, covered in mud, but there’s no time to change.
Someone inside that house has the machete, and they’ll be willing to use it.
A crime so messy and bloody seems incongruous with the sophisticated pair, but who knows to what lengths they would go to protect their money?
And their secrets. Bianca needs to get the hell out of here.
Then she’ll regroup, find another way to exact revenge on Curtis Lowe. But she needs to stay alive to do it.
Climbing into the cab, she opens the glove box. The fuel pump relay is there. The day Damian removed it feels like months ago and yesterday at the same time. Her hands tremble as she picks it up, slides it into her pocket. She reaches over to the driver’s side and pops the trunk.
The rain pummels her as she heads to the back of the vehicle and unlatches the cover.
She’s grateful the van’s engine is in the rear, so she can use her phone flashlight undetected.
Peering into the engine bay, she finds the black plastic box that houses the various relays and fuses.
Thank God she’d paid attention when Damian removed the relay.
Even then, when she thought her relationship was solid, she must have known she might need to look out for herself.
Despite the trembling of her hand, the pluglike gadget slides neatly into its spot.
If she’s done this right, the van should be fully operational.
She can back down this driveway and disappear, save herself.
For a moment, a wave of guilt gives her pause.
Can she abandon Damian after all they’ve been through together?
She has loved him for so long, but she’s always been emotionally prepared for the end.
Her father’s abandonment and the sudden death of Lyric’s dad have wired her brain to be prepared for the worst. Bianca knows good things don’t last. She slams the cover closed and takes a step toward the driver’s-side door.
And then, a pain so intense it’s almost blinding doubles her over.
Bianca crumples to her knees on the wet gravel, impervious to the rocks cutting into her skin.
Something is wrong, but her brain can’t compute.
She’s exhausted, she hasn’t been eating, and the acuity of the ache usurps all rational thought.
She vomits onto the wet ground, clutches fruitlessly at her abdomen.
What the hell is wrong with her? Bianca needs to get away from here, but she’s losing consciousness.
And she’s paralyzed. She’s blacking out.
She lies unmoving, a wounded dog in the rain.