Roshaan
He’ll sign copies at one of these tables after his talk. He’s already inside the auditorium with Sophia Kritikou, the ship’s “resident” archaeologist, preparing for their stage interview—a fireside-chat format designed to feel warm and intimate.
In the foyer outside the auditorium doors, a bar offers complimentary wine. Guests are already streaming in, some stopping to pick up refreshments on their way.
Two quotes from the book run down the side of the poster. The first:
Love is blindness. Men like Bundy, Unterweger, and Gacy managed to dupe the women closest to them because they saw what they needed most, and they met those needs with lies. They made their girlfriends and wives emotionally dependent. In some cases they made them complicit.
The second quote:
The women who stayed the longest teach us the most. Not about the killers, but about the invisible chains that can be forged in the name of attachment, trust, and hope.
“Are these books for sale?” Hendrick asks Roshaan in his Dutch accent.
“Complimentary,” she says with a forced smile—she’s utterly exhausted after dealing with Theo and his schemes, and her own terror of being caught. “Courtesy of the Black Orchid. Dr. Marsh will be available to sign them after his talk.”
“So I can take one?”
“Of course.” She fiddles with her ring, extra conscious of the stone after Poppy’s comments. His eyes catch the movement.
“That’s a pretty stone.”
She curses herself and simply nods. Then she hears her father’s voice in her head.
Be polite, Roshaan. Nice girls say thank you. Good employees are friendly and keep the conversation going.
“Thank you,” she adds.
“An emerald?”
“Yes.”
“May I see?”
Tension quickens through her, and she nearly hides her hand behind her back.
He notices this discomfort, and quickly explains. “Forgive me. I used to be a gem dealer. Emeralds were my specialty, and that’s an impressively sized stone for an emerald. Quite rare indeed.”
A whisper of disquiet curdles through her. Theo doesn’t have the money for an impressive, rare emerald.
“Sure,” she says, extending her hand for Hendrick, needing to know now.
He leans in close. “Is it all right if I touch your hand?”
“Of course.”
He lifts her fingers gently, angling the stone to the light. “Very pretty. Very, very clear.”
The way he says it unsettles her. “But you don’t . . . think it’s real?”
A chime signals that the talk is about to begin. Poppy rushes past them with a bulging bag of books, stops to grab wine, and disappears inside the auditorium.
“I should go.” Hendrick points his book toward the doors.
“Mr. Lodewijk, please, I really would love your honest opinion.”
His warm brown eyes study hers over his spectacles for a moment. Large, kind eyes set above sharply angled cheekbones. She realizes he’s rather attractive, for an older man.
“I sort of really need to know,” she says.
“Then let me look again. Shall we step under that light?”
She follows him. “Are you sure? The talk will be starting.”
“I can miss the beginning.” He smiles, holds out his hand.
She slips off the ring. He rolls it around in his palm, lifts it to the light, weighs it mentally, closes his fist, feels the stone again. Then he exhales and returns it.
“What is it?” She slides the ring back onto her finger.
“To tell a real emerald from a fake, there are some basic physical tests you can have done, and also some really advanced, professional ones, but to the naked eye, if it means a lot to you, I’d have it tested.”
“Why?”
“As I said, the stone is extremely clear. Uniform in color, a vibrant green. It warms easily to the touch, and the surface of the stone . . .” He pauses, gauging her, reading her over the top of his reading glasses.
“True emeralds almost always have inclusions—tiny fissures, bubbles, or mossy-like veining. Yes, very clear emeralds do exist, but at that size? They’d be of extremely high quality and astronomically expensive.
And the green shade of a real one, while rich, would be uneven or a little variated. As opposed to uniform like this one.”
Theo’s voice plays through her head.
An emerald. A stone as large and pure in quality as my love for you, and to match the green flecks in your eyes. It’s my promise to you, Roshaan DaSousa. I will love you always.
She swallows hard. “Thanks.” It’s all she can manage.
“If you’re ever in the market for some good emeralds, or rubies,” he says, “I have some contacts who—”
But she’s already pivoting away. She rushes for the washroom, her vision blurring with tears. Of hurt, humiliation, remorse, self-recrimination, and under it all swirls a hotly mushrooming anger flecked with tiny sparks of fiery rage.