Chapter 26 Erin
Erin
My phone vibrates in my hand as I’m halfway across the gravel path that leads to the stables. I don’t need to look at the screen to know who it is. I stop walking anyway.
The message is a voice note—three minutes long. That alone tells me it’s bad. Gerard’s aunt doesn’t waste time on pleasantries—she wastes it on drama.
I step aside, away from the other guests drifting toward morning activities, and press play and translate.
Her voice rattles into my ear, rapid, dramatic and tight with panic. Her words tumble over one another, even when translated. I catch phrases first, then the meaning follows.
Missing.
Gerard didn’t show.
Annual charity dinner.
Never happened before.
I close my eyes.
Gerard hasn’t shown up to his company’s annual charity dinner. The one he chairs, attends every year without fail, and treats like a coronation.
And according to his aunt, this is all my fault.
Apparently, my leaving has destabilized him. He’s humiliated, distracted… lost.
I almost laugh out loud. I very much doubt that, as she suspects, Gerard is out drinking somewhere and refusing to answer his phone because I broke him.
I let the message play to the end, listening to her work herself into a frenzy. Then I hang up and stare into the blue spaces between the swaying trees.
Where the hell is he?
While I obviously know Gerard wouldn’t have failed to show up to his charity dinner because of me, it’s certainly strange that he didn’t show up. He’s treated as a king at those dinners. What’s stranger still is, he hasn’t been in touch with anyone.
I fire off a quick text to Paige. I don’t want to worry her so I keep it light.
“Hey love. Have you spoken to your father in the last few days? If not, he might appreciate a quick call. Talk soon xx.”
I slip the phone back into my pocket and start walking again, my thoughts racing.
The horses are being brought out when I arrive. I’m assigned the same chestnut mare with a white blaze down her nose.
We mount up in a loose group, all of us so-called wives paired with guides who look more like soldiers than trail leaders.
I breathe deeply as we ride out beneath the trees. Usually the outdoors soothes me, but today feels different. It’s like there’s an undercurrent of something waiting to happen around the corner. The energy is off and everyone seems to be feeling it.
My thoughts keep wandering back to Augusto, to the incredible night we just had, the truths he told me, the decision I silently made to stay here.
I wonder what he’s doing now. I picture those large, skilful hands firing a gun like it was a part of his body, toying with a pen too small for his fingers, thick arms folded across his chest as he sizes up everyone around him.
Now that I know who he is, he screams mafia.
Yet, despite his hardened exterior, his gentlemanly act had me completely fooled.
Conversation between the ‘wives’ begins, but cautiously.
“I don’t know,” the woman with overzealous Botox says ahead of me. “It just feels… off today.”
“I heard someone didn’t come back to the retreat last night,” another says.
“Who?”
“I don’t know for sure. Parker, maybe?”
My grip tightens on the reins.
They don’t know anything yet, which makes me feel slightly less anxious.
The less people know about the fate of the Russian, the less chance we have of being scrutinized.
Because I am not big on scrutiny. In much the same way I hate constant shocks to the nervous system, I also hate lying.
I can’t promise I won’t throw up on someone’s shoes.
The woman riding beside me laughs. She’s the one with the immaculate blowout, the careful makeup, the wedding ring sitting conspicuously on her right hand instead of her left.
That detail has nagged at me since the first night.
“My husband’s probably thrilled to have a morning without me,” she says brightly. “He’s been so busy lately. Always stepping out for calls. Business never sleeps, right?”
Her smile is brittle and she keeps talking. Is it to fill the silence?
Before I knew what this place was really about, I might’ve chalked up her chattiness to nerves or vanity. But now, I hear it differently. There are too many tells in her words and her ignorance feels too rehearsed.
I glance at my guide who is watching her, closely.
A chill snakes down my spine.
As the trail curves deeper into the forest, the canopy thickens overhead. We pass a clearing and I catch sight of temporary fencing in the distance—it looks almost industrial.
This isn’t just a retreat, but I knew that already.
And what I’m slowly catching on to is the fact that some of these women know too.
The woman with the ring on the wrong finger finally notices my silence.
“You’re quiet,” she says. “You okay?”
I smile back, pleasantly. “I’m just enjoying the ride. I tend to tune everything out when I’m horseback riding. I hope I don’t seem rude.”
There’s a small look of relief in her face. “Not at all.”
It’s not a total lie. Horseback riding gives me the space to think, so I do. I think about where Augusto is now, and if he’s thinking about me. I think about Gerard and where the fuck he is, about his aunt and whether she’s being looked after. About my beautiful daughter and her safety.
My horse trots happily, unbothered by the tension thickening the air.
I envy her that. Because I have the sinking feeling that by the time this week is out, someone else will be ‘missing.’
And it might just be my lover holding the gun.
When we return to the stables, I’m disappointed to see that Augusto isn’t standing in the archway like before, waiting for me. But a flush of heat sizzles through me at the realization that even before we crossed that line, he was finding it hard to resist me.
This softly simmering lust seems to be taking up a permanent residence in my body.
I’ve known his real name for less than twenty-four hours but Augusto seems to know my body inside out, like he knew it in a previous life.
He’s lit me up in more ways in one night than my husband ever did throughout our whole marriage.
I make a mental note to not get carried away. I’m feeling these things more intensely because of who he is and where we are, and now, what’s at stake.
I lead my horse into the stables. Only two other horses are in stalls, the rest being readied again in the yard for another hack. I can hear the chattering voices of the other women receding into the distance as they leave to freshen up for the next part of the day.
Thankful for the silence in the stables, I lead my horse inside, remove her saddle and bridle, then carry it to the tack room out back.
A light is already on when I push the door open. I locate the correct saddle rack and relieve my arms of the heavy leather, but when I turn to leave, something even heavier is standing in my way.