The Lion’s Den

Day 7

Friday morning—Terralione, Italy

I ’m up at first light, showered and completely packed before I finally hear the lock turn in my door.

“Who is it?” I call out.

“Julie.”

I open the door to Julie, who hands me a cup of coffee. “Thanks.” I glance into the hallway to see Bernard disappearing up the stairs. “Where’s Camille?”

“She’s no longer assigned to you.”

“Is she okay?” I ask, worried that I’ve gotten her in trouble for allowing me to go up to the deck last night.

Julie gives me a tight-lipped smile. “She’s fine.”

Obviously I’m not going to get any more out of her on that score. “Any news?”

“Nothing yet.”

“Are they coming back this morning to take our statements?”

She shakes her head. “We dock in an hour. You all go to town while John has a meeting, then to Monte Carlo for the night.”

I’m dumbfounded. “So they’re just acting like nothing happened?”

She shrugs apologetically. “It is an accident. Nothing to do.”

“So I’m still leaving for the airport, right?”

“No,” she says. “You stay here.”

Oh no. No, no, no.

“What? But I don’t want to stay,” I protest. “I want to go.”

“I’m sorry,” she replies on her way out the door. “They are waiting for you at breakfast.”

Shit. How do I get the phone to the cops with John’s henchmen watching? And how do I keep it safe in the meantime?

I stall, racking my brain for a plan. But it’s useless. I have no idea what I’m walking into today. Nothing to do but arrange my features into some semblance of good spirits, stuff the phone in the Gucci crossbody purse Summer gave me what seems like a lifetime ago, and head up the stairs, my apprehension growing with every step.

I find everyone installed at the outdoor table on the upper deck, quietly drinking cappuccinos and eating pastries. The day is brilliantly clear, as though the sea and sky are competing for the most vivid shade of blue. We’re moving slowly along a coastline peppered with colorful homes built into sand-colored cliffs, and a pleasant breeze blows off the water.

My breath is shallow, my palms sweaty as I approach the table. Summer looks up and smiles. She’s wearing sunglasses, as is everyone else, but she appears to be smiling at me. Unless there’s someone behind me. I turn around. Nope, no one behind me. I wish I’d remembered my sunglasses.

“Good morning, Belle!” Summer says brightly. “Oh, I gave you that purse, didn’t I? Gucci’s a bit loud for me, but it looks great on you.”

“Any news about Amythest?” I ask, ignoring her backhanded compliment.

Somber head shakes all around.

“We’re hoping someone picked her up,” Wendy says glumly.

Brittani slams her coffee mug to the table. “Can we all just stop bullshitting to make ourselves feel better? No one picked her up. She’s dead.”

Summer clenches her jaw. Rhonda lays her hand on top of Brittani’s. “Honey, we’re all upset.”

“No you’re not,” Brittani retorts. “None of you even liked her. She was my friend.”

Claire and Wendy look on silently, clearly wishing they were anywhere but here. I take the empty seat next to Claire, and she passes me the basket of pastries with a halfhearted smile.

“So, I’m not leaving today?” I ask, trying to maintain a friendly tone as I butter the croissant I’m not in the least bit hungry for.

“No need,” Summer says. “I think last night put everything into perspective, right? Silly for you to leave two days early and miss the rest of the trip.” She turns her attention to a picturesque arrangement of yellow, pink, and orange homes spilling down a bluff to the turquoise sea. “Oh, look how pretty!”

Wendy listlessly palms her phone and drifts to the railing, snapping pictures of the coastline.

“Let’s take a picture of us,” Summer says, rising to join her at the railing. “Mom, will you take it?”

Rhonda holds the camera with a synthetic smile, and Wendy puts on her happy face to mug with Summer for the picture. Summer must be dead confident there will never be a court case over Amythest’s death, because this cheery photo would be positively damning if there were.

“Now all of us together!” Summer cries.

Brittani and Claire reluctantly get up to flank the two of them, but I hang back. This is all too weird, and no part of me wants to be next to Summer by a railing.

“Come on, Belle! Get in the picture.” Summer waves me over.

I slide in next to Claire, scowling at the camera.

After we’re all seated back at the table, Summer dings her glass with her fork, and everyone gives her their attention. “I am so lucky to have my best friends with me here on the Riviera,” she says, her hand over her heart. “I’m so, so sorry you’ve all had to go through the trauma of last night. But I’ve got another surprise for you all today that I think you’ll really like. So go get ready for our excursion, and I’ll see you back up here at nine so we can go into port.”

Everyone rises and files down the stairs like a good little girl. I trail behind, stuffing the rest of my croissant into my mouth. But before I can reach the stairs, Summer grabs me lightly by the elbow. Out of the corner of my eye, I notice Vinny and Bernard watching us as I turn to face her, trying to maintain a calm countenance.

“We’re all good, right?” she says with a guarded smile. It’s a statement, not a question.

I choke on my croissant. “Yeah.” I cough. “All good.”

It seems like the best answer for the circumstance. The circumstance being that I want to make it off this boat alive.

“Good.” She pulls me into a hug.

Once she releases me, I scurry down the stairs straight to Wendy and Claire’s room and knock.

Wendy opens the door a crack and eyes me warily.

I push past her into the room, shutting the door behind me.

Claire is sitting crisscross on the bed, her face puffy. She’s clearly having a much harder time with being an accessory to murder than anyone else.

“Hey, guys?” I say, making sure I have their eyes before continuing. “Whatever happened last night, the truth is going to come out eventually, so you wanna make sure you’re on the right side of it.”

I can almost see Wendy’s anxiety bubbling up between the cracks of her composed facade. “Belle,” she says carefully, “you know how much I love you. But we were there last night. Amythest fell in. That’s it. It was awful, and you’re not making it any better.” So I was right; Wendy has clearly chosen her side. “Right, Claire?”

Tears well in Claire’s eyes as she nods.

“Okay.” I raise both my palms. “I’m just making sure you know you have options.” I look directly at Claire. “I would hate to see you pay for someone else’s crime.”

“Don’t be so dramatic.” Wendy pats my back, ushering me to the door. “I don’t know what you’re trying to imply, but it was an accident. A terrible, tragic accident. Coast Guard is looking for her. There’s nothing we can do—we have to get ready.”

Well, I tried. I hear the lock click into place behind me. I stand motionless, listening for their voices, but I can’t hear anything.

The boat has docked by the time we meet upstairs. I’m not sure exactly where we are, but it’s a small port with red-roofed buildings perched on green hills that slope down to the inexplicably deserted marina where we’re moored. No colorful umbrellas dot the strip of sand that borders the port. No lively vendors peddle souvenirs. The faded paint on the buildings is peeling, the windows dark or boarded up. The only movement comes from the ravens that circle overhead, calling to one another.

The gangplank is down and the other girls are gathered in the shade of the upper deck, staring out at the forlorn town. I can only assume this is the village John’s acquired, the site of his big new development.

“Good. You’re here; we can go now,” Brittani says as I approach.

Everyone gathers their things, and Vinny leads the way across the gangplank.

The town is situated on an inlet protected from the wind, and while I imagine that the cliffs provide shade earlier or later in the day, the sun is high now and there’s no place to hide from its wrath.

“This place better fucking have air-conditioning,” Brittani gripes to Summer as Vinny helps her down to the brick promenade that rings the harbor.

Summer wraps her manicured fingers around Brittani’s elbow and hisses something in her ear. Brittani jerks her arm away. “I know, God!” Brittani mutters.

Visible heat waves rise from the blacktop road between us and the village, the streets eerily empty of the summer tourists that have crowded every other city we’ve visited. My eyes are peeled for police, my mind working overtime to formulate some sort of plan to get to the authorities, but I see no evidence of any form of law enforcement.

But what am I thinking? If John owns this town, surely he owns the police as well. My heart sinks. I have to come up with something else. I’m dying to check whether Amythest’s phone has service, but I don’t dare take it out of my purse lest anyone notice it, since I’m not supposed to have a phone at all anymore. But if I can just connect to Wi-Fi, I can upload the video of Summer’s confession to the cloud, where it will be safe no matter what happens to the phone.

The sidewalk is under construction, lined with an orange plastic fence that forces us to walk down the blacktop for a block before turning up a narrow road. The buildings are all shades of weathered terra-cotta and appear to slope with the incline. Most of the stores and restaurants are shuttered. I can’t tell whether it’s due to the time of day or year or whether they’re closed permanently.

A scrawny black cat cuts across our path and scurries into an open window. “Bad luck,” Claire whispers.

“How far is this place?” Summer asks, impatient. “Maybe we should have taken a car.”

“Not far,” Vinny grumbles.

The narrow road empties onto a wider street, and we turn left in single file, trying to stay in the small strip of shadow that hugs the wall. This street is lined with what must be vacant office buildings, though they are in keeping with the general appearance of the rest of the town. Here and there more of the orange barriers block streets and wrap around buildings, though no construction is evident.

As we cross the street, I spy a handful of parked Vespas ahead, all white and bright sky blue. A few blocks away, a lone white car with a stripe that same distinctive shade of blue slowly moves up the road toward us. Is it a police car? I strain to see better without making it obvious that I’m looking, but I have to rush to catch everyone as they turn up another street. I look back as the car passes, and sure enough, it says POLIZIA MUNICIPALE on the side.

Vinny stops beneath a green sign with a picture of a watch, and we all gather in the small patch of shade created by the awning.

Summer turns to us, beaming. “I wanted to do something special for my girls. It took John’s assistants all night to find what I wanted, but here we are. I hope you like it!”

Vinny opens the door, and we all file into the small store. It’s dark and cool inside, and the walls are lined with glass cases full of watches, lit from below. There are no price tags and I don’t know anything about watches, but these look expensive. A wiry gray-haired man in his seventies stands in the center of the shop, smiling at us tentatively.

He silently gestures to one of the cases. A velvet display box is open on top of it, showcasing six identical Rolex watches. They’re lady-size, with silver bands and mother-of-pearl faces.

Rhonda places one on her wrist. “Oh, Summer, they’re beautiful!” she says with strained enthusiasm. “How sweet of you.”

“So beautiful,” Wendy agrees, putting on a smile. “You are so thoughtful. Thank you so much.”

Is she really trying to buy our silence with Rolexes?

The shop owner passes out the watches, and we each slip one on.

“I picked them out myself,” Summer says, pleased. Her eyes land on me. “I figured you could all use new ones.”

So she did notice Amythest wearing mine last night.

Brittani’s scowl dissipates as she studies the watch on her arm. “Thanks, sis,” she says.

“Thank you. It’s gorgeous,” Claire adds breathlessly, unable to meet Summer’s eye.

“Oh, you’re so welcome,” Summer says. “Gotta take care of my girls!”

The shop owner says something in Italian to Vinny, who relays to us, “Okay, now he’s gonna fit the watches to your wrists.”

A tiny old woman who must be the shop owner’s wife appears from the back with a tray of glasses and a pitcher of water. The tray trembles as she carries it across the room and carefully sets it on top of a display case, then proceeds to painstakingly pour and hand each of us a glass of water while her husband measures our wrists and takes notes with a little stub of a pencil and a yellow notepad that looks like it’s been around since he was a boy.

As she hands Summer the glass of water, she says very carefully, “We hope Signor Lyons keep our store. We sell best watches to turisti .”

Summer nods. “Yes, I will send your regards.”

The embassy. Why didn’t I think of it before? I can call the American embassy, tell them what happened. They should be able to help me, right? I have to get out of here, and this is probably the best chance I’m going to get. I hand my watch over to the shop owner and lean in to Wendy.

“I think my Dramamine patch is wearing off,” I whisper. “I’m not feeling well. I need to find a restroom and a pharmacy where I can get another one. Seems like this would be a good time to do that.”

Wendy considers me carefully. “Yeah, you definitely don’t want to throw up here.”

“I’ll be right back,” I say, holding my stomach as though I feel sick. “Will you please tell Summer? I really have to go.”

I slip out the door without giving her the chance to deny me and dart in the direction from which we came.

My sandals slap the knobby cobblestones of the deserted road, reverberating between the crumbling buildings as I run. I round the first corner without incident and pull the phone from my purse. No service. Crap. I make a mad dash to the next intersection, where I see the motorbikes I spied earlier a block ahead of me.

Surely the police station has Wi-Fi. Or a phone I can use. A pay phone—do those exist anymore? They don’t know who I am. I can tell them I lost my passport, that I need to call the embassy to make an appointment to get a new one.

I hurry up the street, again checking Amythest’s phone for wireless connectivity. Nothing.

A wide set of stone steps leads to an ornate concrete building with POLIZIA MUNICIPALE TERRALIONE spelled out in block letters over the double doors. It’s an imposing building for such a small town, and I am acutely aware of the fact that I am going to be lying to them as I climb the steps two at a time. I take a deep breath and put my hand on the heavy door. It suddenly swings in, opened by a burly guard in uniform.

I manage some version of “no Italian” that produces a nod and a gesture toward the metal detector. It goes off the first time I try to walk through, and I realize I’m still wearing my purse across my body. I hand it to the guard, who rifles through it while I walk through the metal detector again, this time successfully.

“Wi-Fi?” I ask when he returns my purse.

He shakes his head and points to an empty desk at the end of the hallway.

“Phone?” I ask hopefully, making my hand into a phone.

Again he shakes his head and points.

The wide tile corridor is lined with doors that I imagine lead to offices, but the only sounds are the slap of my sandals on the floor and the hum of the air conditioner. The hallway dead-ends into an identical perpendicular hallway, where rows of mismatched plastic folding chairs line the walls, empty.

At the intersection sits an unmanned big black desk, in the center of which is an old-school black push-button phone.

I stand at the desk, unsure what to do. “Hello?” I call.

No one answers. I probably have ten minutes before anyone realizes my story about needing a Dramamine patch was a lie. I need to make the call before then, or Vinny’s liable to find me and drag me back to the boat and…

I reach for the handset, glancing up and down the hall as I put it to my ear. No dial tone. I start pressing buttons, but none of them light up or produce any sign of life.

A uniformed woman emerges from one of the doors and moves down the hallway toward me. I drop the phone into its cradle, firing up my smile. “ Mi scusi ,” I say. “ Inglese? ”

She looks bemused, as though I’m the first person ever to come into the police station in whatever town this is.

“ Un po’ ,” she says quizzically.

“I need to make a call,” I say. She doesn’t seem to understand. I make a logical guess, gesturing to the telephone. “ Telefono? ”

“ Quello non funziona ,” she replies, sizing me up. “ Mi segua, signora. ”

I follow her down the hallway and through a door that leads to another waiting room. Another unmanned black desk, two doors behind it.

“ Aspetti un momento ,” she says, and disappears through one of the doors.

The only sound to cut the silence is the hum of the fluorescent lights overhead. I lean against the desk while I wait, again checking Amythest’s phone for service. Nothing, and battery power is running low.

God, I’m tired. My body is buzzing with adrenaline, but the accumulated lack of sleep is catching up with me. My brain is frayed, my muscles weak, and my heart is galloping like a racehorse in the last turn.

It’s been ten minutes. They’re going to be wondering where I am. I need to make this call and get out of here before anyone knows better.

Finally an officer who looks like he’s barely out of high school emerges from the door that the woman disappeared into. He’s skinny with acne, and he shifts his weight from one foot to the other. “You the lady want make call?”

“Yes, sir,” I say.

He cocks his head and narrows his eyes at me. “Who you want call?”

“I need to call the American embassy. I’ve lost my passport,” I say, trying to sound as normal as possible.

He turns, beckoning for me to follow. I hurry after him, through a door and into a windowless room with a desk and a number of closed folding chairs leaning against the wall. There is no phone in the room.

This was a bad idea.

I think fast. “Actually…can I use the restroom first?” I ask. “I’m sorry. I really have to go.”

“Okay. Down the hall.”

“Thanks.”

I scurry out the door and hasten down the empty hallway as quickly as I can while still maintaining some semblance of nonchalance. I see no other way out of the building than back the way I came, so I retrace my steps, push open the double doors to the main entrance hall, and run headlong into Vinny.

He stands under the fluorescent lights, the bulk of his body blocking the hallway. His brow is bathed in sweat, his jacket rumpled. “What the fuck were you thinking?” he snarls.

I look right and left. Nothing but closed doors. This building is designed to allow only one entrance and exit point. I could sprint around him, but I’d only be stopped by the security guard in front. I stall. “I went to look for a bathroom.”

“Don’t lie!” he snaps.

“I’m not—”

He considers me, unblinking. “Thought you’d sell your friend out, huh?”

I break for the door, but he grabs my arm before I can get away. “Ouch,” I yelp.

I try to wrench free, but his grip is unyielding as he shoves me down the hall.

I change my tactic. “You know she killed her. You’ve seen the security tapes,” I reason. “It’s going to come out. You may have bought off the cops here, but with that many witnesses, and the boat crew, too, there’s no way to keep it quiet forever.”

“Shut up, Belle.”

The metal detector beeps and flashes red as he hustles me through. The security guard averts his eyes. Vinny pushes us out the double doors into the heat of the glaring sun, so bright that I recoil, my hand flying to shade my eyes.

Something bulges under his jacket. Is it a gun tucked into the back of his waistband? That must have been what set off the metal detector. His grip on my arm is so tight, I’m losing feeling in my fingers.

“You can let go now,” I say. “I’m coming.”

He flings my arm at me. I rub the red skin where he gripped me and switch tactics again. “Vinny, look. I know you’re loyal to John. But Summer’s a liability. He should cut his losses and get rid of her. He’s still clean. He wasn’t there. He’s only reported what Summer told—”

“Stop talking!” he snarls. “You don’t understand.”

This is good. At least he’s communicating with me. “What don’t I understand?”

He leans in close, his breath sour. I force myself not to back away as a drop of sweat runs down his brow and splashes onto my shoulder. “This is nothing, a blip on his radar. He will not change his plans for this. Maybe he gets rid of Summer, maybe not. But on his time. It’s not your fight. Stay out of it.”

His sweat trickles down my arm. “You know he was sleeping with Amythest,” I say.

“So?” He throws his arm wide at the town. “He takes what he wants. This town, he owns it. It will be destroyed next month. And he will build a resort, a port—billions of dollars. That is what this trip is about. Not this…girl drama.”

“It’s not drama,” I say. “It’s murder.” I don’t know why I’m trying, since he’s clearly never going to see it my way. We’re operating from two completely different rule books, and his trumps mine.

“Accusations can go both ways,” he warns.

He wheels around and marches down the wide stone steps. The glare of the sun on the white stone is so bright, I can hardly look at the ground in front of me as I hurry after him. “Are you threatening me?”

“Your sister’s on her way to your grandmother’s,” he growls.

What? How does he know that? “Please leave Lauren out of this,” I beg, remembering all the emails.

“Don’t be stupid.” He turns to face me. “Remember why you’re here.”

I’m trying to figure out what he means when I notice the gun in his hand, glinting in the sunlight, and my mind blanks. The breath goes out of me. Instinctively, I raise my hands. “Vinny, please.”

He comes around behind me and buries the barrel of the gun just above my tailbone. Suddenly the heat of the day is gone. I’m cold with terror, every nerve in my body focused on the hard point of metal thrust into my back. “Walk,” he orders.

I put one foot in front of the other, my mind speeding. I think of Lauren, my parents, Grannie, Eric. I have to get away. It can’t end here. “Please don’t kill me,” I plead. “I’ll keep my mouth shut. I swear.”

“I’m not gonna kill you,” he hisses into my hair. “I’m helping you.”

Wait, what?

I twist around to see if he’s fucking with me, and he prods me with the gun. “Keep walking.”

He pushes me up a deserted street that doesn’t look familiar. The cobblestones are uneven, all the shops shuttered. Is he just pretending he’s helping me so I’ll comply while he walks me to my death?

Apprehension thrums under my skin. “Helping me do what?”

“Get the fuck out of here. Against my orders.”

“Why?”

“I’ve done terrible things for him,” he confesses grimly. “But I don’t believe in hurting women and children.”

My mind spins. Could he actually be trying to help me? “How do I know I can trust you?”

“You don’t.” He prods me forward. “There’s a string of towns just over the hill up there.” He points ahead of us. “Find the train. Come to 12 Chemin de la Pommière in La Quessine at nine tonight. I’ll get you out.”

“But how? I have no money, no passport.…”

He reaches in his pocket and hands me a few folded bills. “Twelve Chemin de la Pommière, in La Quessine. At nine.”

I wrench around to see his face. “Where is that?”

His brow is furrowed, his eyes dark. “Near Saint-Tropez.”

“But—”

“Now go,” he barks. “I’ll tell them you got away.”

Gripping the cash in my sweaty palm, I take off up the hill, fear propelling me forward at a speed I have not run since high school track. As I reach the first intersecting street, I glance over my shoulder to see Vinny standing silhouetted by the sun where I left him, the gun dangling from his hand. I break around the corner and sprint into the shade created by the height of the buildings, pushing myself harder, faster up the desolate road, turning again at the next fork to continue up the hill.

Twelve Chemin de la Pommière in La Quessine.

I catapult over an orange construction barrier and leap over an open trench, my sandal folding as I land, sending me to all fours on the uneven pavement. The cash scatters onto the street and I scramble to scoop it up before it blows away, stuffing it into my purse in a clump. One of my knees is bloodied and pain shoots through my ankle, but I brush myself off and push on.

The road narrows as it climbs up the mountain toward the edge of town. My breath ragged, I hurtle up the incline, right and left and right until a sharp twinge in my side doubles me over in the boarded doorway of an abandoned home.

My breath comes hot and fast. I watch a sticky line of blood cut through the dust on my leg. Is that a siren in the distance? I have to keep going. My tongue feels like cotton, but all I can do is continue up the hill.

Twelve Chemin de la Pommière in La Quessine.

Right, left, up a set of stairs, right again, tripping up the bumpy road. I wipe the sweat from my brow, panting, and slow just enough to maintain my pace.

As I climb higher, I feel the beginnings of a slight breeze. I’m relieved I must be reaching a break in the maze. I need to find a lookout site to reorient myself and determine whether I’m still headed in the direction Vinny indicated.

Jesus. Vinny. Who would have thought…? But I can’t wrap my head around any of that right now. I spot a narrow stairwell leading up to a terrace and take the terra-cotta steps two at a time, my legs wobbly from overexertion.

A rush of fresh air hits me as I ascend the last steps to find myself standing in the full glare of the sun, high above the town. Uneven rooftops tumble down the colorful crescent slope to the sea, where the Lion’s Den bobs alone in the cove. I instinctively flatten my back against the wall, but I’m likely too far away to be seen.

I take Amythest’s phone from my purse and key in the address before I forget it, then count the wad of cash Vinny gave me, my hands trembling. It’s eighty euros. Not a lot, but better than the less than forty I have left. The phone still has no signal, so I carefully lean out over the railing to orient myself. I’m a good way toward the east side of the crescent, near where the town fades into the terrain. I can’t see the cliffs from this vantage point, but I can tell that I’m close.

I clamber back down the stairs and continue up the street until it dead-ends into a stone retaining wall with a blur of green above it. It’s about seven feet to the top, too high for me to pull myself up unassisted, but the rocks are big enough that I should be able to get a pretty good grip with bare feet.

I unstrap my sandals and stuff them halfway in my bag, then place my less-injured foot on a big stone about two feet off the ground and push off, simultaneously reaching up with my opposite hand to grab the upper lip of the wall. With my fingers firmly grasping the grooves of the rocks on top, it’s easy enough to scale the rest of the wall. I scramble to standing.

The slope of the hill beyond is steep, but not insurmountable, and it appears to level out about a hundred or so yards up. The terrain is not unlike California: rocky and blanketed in a fine dry dust, scattered with shrublike bushes and wildflowers that should camouflage me as I climb.

I wish I had hiking shoes, but my flimsy sandals will have to do. I slip them back on and grab the stem of a scrawny tree to hoist myself up. Branch by branch, rock by rock, I slowly but surely ascend, ignoring my unbearable thirst. Somewhere near the top, I stumble upon a hiking trail and have to stifle a shriek of glee at my good fortune. I follow the path to the crest of the bluff, where I can see Terralione arranged around the little port way down below.

The Lion’s Den is gone.

I scan the blue sea for that one particular white dot and spot her sailing west toward France. She cuts through the water easily, a vision of grace and style. Anyone watching her sleek shape pass would aspire to view the shore from her wide deck, to be rocked gently to sleep in her cool embrace.

The yacht’s departure is cold comfort at this point. But as she slips away, one of the tightly strung threads inside me loosens ever so slightly. Vinny kept his word.