58
At some point in the night, Bianca managed to drag herself out of the rain and into the van.
Now, she wakes on the linoleum floor, shivering in her damp, dirty clothing.
She feels weak and nauseated, but the sharp pains in her stomach are gone.
Her bones ache from sleeping on such a hard surface, and there’s a pounding in her skull. But she has recovered. She’s survived.
Hauling herself upright, she realizes the thudding sound is not just in her head.
Someone is knocking on the panel door. Last night, she’d been afraid for her life, desperate to flee.
But today, she feels resigned, too exhausted to care if Curtis Lowe is standing outside with a machete.
Bianca fumbles with the handle, but she’s so frail, her grasp too weak.
“Come in,” she croaks through her damaged throat.
The door slides open to reveal Sydney standing in the predawn light. The sun is rising behind her, its gentle rays highlighting her ghostly pallor, the lines around her eyes and mouth. Sydney looks to have aged ten years overnight. Was she sick, too? Before Bianca can ask, Syd speaks.
“I just found out what Curtis did to your sister,” she says. “I’m disgusted. And I’m sorry.”
If she’s come to Bianca for absolution, she’s deluded. “Do you expect me to believe that you had no idea your husband was a sexual predator?”
“I was na?ve and stupid to believe his lies. I know that now. But I loved him.”
“You were beyond stupid,” Bianca snarls. “You were a fucking idiot.”
“I don’t care what you think of me, Bianca.” Sydney’s expression is stony. “You used your sister’s death to make five million dollars.”
“I never cared about the money,” Bianca blurts. “That was all Damian’s idea. He said it was the best way to hurt Curtis. The only way that wouldn’t send me to jail for murdering him.”
“Well, he’s not going to pay you,” Sydney continues, unfazed. “He fed you poisonous death cap mushrooms last night. You need to get to a hospital.”
That devious piece of shit. Damian had convinced her Curtis could be trusted, but Bianca should have known he’d never pay for what he did.
“Joke’s on Curtis,” Bianca says, struggling out of the van. “I survived. I feel better now.”
“The poison is still in you, attacking your organs. Go to a hospital. You didn’t eat that much. You might still be okay.” Sydney turns and walks toward the Citroen.
Bianca is weak, dehydrated, and the tsunami of information in her delicate state has made her woozy. She takes a few steps to follow Sydney, but she stumbles on the gravel, drops down on a knee.
“Wait!” Bianca drags herself back to her feet, moves gingerly forward. “Where are you going?”
“I’m not sure,” Syd says, eyes on the sun rising above the sea. But she’s lying. She doesn’t want Bianca to be able to find her. Fair enough.
Sydney turns her gaze back to Bianca. “I’m going to call the DA in New York. And an investigative journalist I know. I’ll do everything I can to stop the sex-trafficking ring.” Her face softens, and her eyes are damp. “I know it’s too late for Lyric, but maybe some other girls can be saved.”
There are things Bianca needs to say, but her throat is tight with emotion, still raw from her violent illness.
She struggles to push the words past the blockage, to maintain her composure, but she won’t be able to speak without crying.
And Bianca doesn’t do that. She’s too hard, too strong.
But Sydney is opening the car door; she’s about to leave.
It’s now or never. Bianca reaches out, clutches Syd’s arm. “I have more information.”
With tears spilling from her eyes, Bianca tells Sydney about the restaurant where Lyric worked, a high-end establishment that hired a pretty teenager with no education and no experience.
She tells her about the woman who called herself Fay, who preyed on the young girls who worked there.
Bianca mentions Lyric’s roommates, who may have information about these parties, and Sydney types the address into her phone.
Bianca has one last question. “Where is Curtis now?”
“He ate the rest of your poisoned meal.” Sydney puts on her sunglasses. “It’s what he deserves.”
Bianca nearly chokes on a sob. Of relief. Of gratitude. “Thank you.”
“Save yourself,” Sydney says. “Save Damian if you want. I don’t care.” Then she gets in the car and backs down the driveway.
Bianca knows she should get in the van, drive to the nearest hospital.
She’s been poisoned, and time is of the essence.
But something draws her toward the house—curiosity, maybe?
She needs to know that Curtis really ate that meal, that he’s truly suffering.
Or, despite all they’ve been through, is it concern for Damian?
The house is eerily silent as she slips inside, wanders through the vacant rooms. The bathroom door is closed, locked. Someone is in there, but they’re quiet. She knocks tentatively.
“Damian?”
His response is a groan, followed by, “Fuuuuuuck.”
He’s alive. For now, at least. But where is Curtis?
Bianca walks into the kitchen, rifles through the drawers for a knife.
In her weakened state, she’s unlikely to be able to defend herself, but she can’t approach Curtis without protection.
He tried to kill her, even if it was in the most cowardly way possible.
And he could still have the machete on his person.
She selects a steak knife, sharp but light enough for her to grip.
As she turns toward the stairs, she notices the empty plate on the counter, the discarded plastic wrap next to it.
It appears Curtis has poisoned himself. Would he really end his life in such a torturous way? She needs to be sure.
She grips the banister as she descends to the basement, the knife pressed against her thigh.
The chill and the damp have made her tremble, but now anxiety takes over.
Curtis ate the meal last night. He may be feeling fine by now.
He could be lying in wait for her, ready to finish her off.
She clutches the knife in her tremulous hand.
But as her feet land on the concrete floor, she hears an unmistakable sound.
Sobbing.
Bianca hesitates, listening to the outpouring of self-pity.
It’s Curtis—there’s no mistaking it—weeping for all he’s lost. He’s wailing about the end of his marriage, crying over the imminent and highly unpleasant end to his life.
And maybe he feels some regret for what he did to Lyric, to all the girls who were used and exploited and discarded.
Soon, the poison will torture him to death.
As if she’s willed it, he gasps and groans.
The process is underway. She can leave now.