Thirty-Seven #2
I like Nat’s company because when she’s with me, I can walk outside. When I try it by myself, Bastien’s security guards stand in front of the doors with arms crossed, and it’s obvious they’re under instructions not to let me out. But Nat has the run of the place, and they don’t stop her.
We walk in the gardens, which are lovely and full of rosebushes. She’s good company, but she’s not Sierra or Lucy. I miss them so much it hurts.
I don’t know how long we’re staying because I never asked, but the one day turns into a second and a third, and then a week.
My phone tells me what day it is, but time has little meaning when every day is the same, and there’s nothing to do.
It happens to be a Saturday when I’m sitting in the suite alone, reading my Kindle with a glass of wine, the bottle open beside me. Someone raps sharply on the door, and I immediately know it’s Van Wyk. No one else knocks like that. What energy I had disperses like morning mist under a hot sun.
He opens it a second later, and to my surprise he’s not alone.
“Oh, hi.” I’d say more, but her hand is on his arm.
“Amelia, you remember Victoria Callahan.” He disengages from her without looking at me. “I knew you two would like to catch up. Unfortunately, I have to…” He gives her a nod and leaves, closing the door behind himself.
Catch up? Yeah, because I’ve got so much news.
“So glad to see a friendly face,” Vicky says, walking farther in. “How have you been?”
“Fine.” I suppose I should say something else, and she gives me the excuse, looking at my half-empty bottle of wine. “Do you want a glass?”
“Uh… that’s…”
“They’re in the kitchen.” I wave a hand. “Through there.”
“I think I’m okay, thanks.”
“Suit yourself.”
She sits on the sofa opposite me. I should’ve invited her to. I should’ve gotten up. Oh, well.
“Are you here long?” she asks.
“Don’t know.”
Vicky nods thoughtfully. “What are your plans?”
“Don’t have any.”
“I’m sure there’s lots to do around here. What do you like?”
I take a sip of my drink, trying not to be rude. What am I supposed to say? That I’m a prisoner in this billionaire’s mansion?
“We didn’t get to talk much at the ball,” Vicky persists in the face of my silence. “It was nice of you to give me your number; sorry I haven’t called. So busy. I’m sure you have been too?”
She must be joking. “Yeah.”
“You won’t believe who I ran into. A mutual acquaintance of ours.”
I try to feign interest, but she must mean Nat or Anna. “Yeah?”
“Lucy. Your sister.”
That was unexpected, but now I’m on edge. It’s too much of a coincidence. Why would a private investigator know my sister? Is Vicky even who she says she is? Has Van Wyk brought her here for a reason?
“Do you see each other much?” she presses.
“Occasionally.”
Her voice turns sympathetic. “Don’t get on?”
I’ve always got along with Lucy. We’ve always been friends first and sisters second. Except recently, because I’ve pulled back. “We used to.”
“Drift away, huh?” Vicky nods. “I get how that is. We’re just so busy, and…”
“Not busy.” As if.
“Traveling with your husband’s work, right?”
What am I supposed to say to that? ‘He’s a killer, so he doesn’t take me along’? That’s my fate too, eventually and inevitably, and like it did on the plane, my hand starts trembling. I clench it with my other, but I know she’s noticed.
I wish she’d leave me alone.
“Do you get out much when you’re here?” Vicky asks, persistent.
“No.”
Aren’t the one-word answers clue enough? I don’t want you here.
“Oh. Well, I was thinking about borrowing a car—I’m sure Bastien has many—and taking a drive this afternoon. Would you like to come?”
I press my lips thin. Does she really think they’d let me go anywhere with her?
“Don’t joke. We can’t do that.”
“Why not?”
I’m now certain Van Wyk has sent her. She’s testing me. “You know damn well why not.”
“Can’t you drive?” she pokes.
“Of course I can drive.”
“Your husband is an older man, isn’t he? Forty?”
Here we go. What have they discussed between them? “Yeah.”
“Obviously seen a lot of the world.”
“Yeah.”
“He must’ve been…” She pauses thoughtfully. “…married before?”
Fuck. Has someone told her about Juliette? Is this part of the test? Does Van Wyk know I’ve been asking questions?
I cover my consternation with a gulp of wine. “We don’t talk about it.” There, that’s the party line, isn’t it?
“Oh, I’m sure. But divorce can be for the best, you know. After all, now he has you.”
Divorce? It’s a trap. I don’t trust this woman at all. “Yeah.”
“Is she still around?” Vicky probes. “His previous wife, I mean. People sometimes stay friends, right?”
What is this? What’s her goal? “No,” I grind out, “she’s not around.”
“Lucy mentioned you got out for lunch once or twice.”
Total subject change. What is she up to now? I say nothing.
“Maybe we could do lunch,” she suggests.
“Sure.” I wouldn’t even if I could.
“In Paris, perhaps. Get a flight, stay in a hotel, back the next day. They’re good for the money, aren’t they?”
They?
Shit. I’ve got it all wrong. Cold dread runs over my skin.
She didn’t gatecrash the dance, she was fucking invited. No wonder Van Wyk merely danced with her. All this fuss is a smokescreen; she’s married to someone in the Company.
It’s a test. Van Wyk is playing games, testing me.
Why? What is he trying to achieve?
“I don’t care about the money anymore.” And it was never about that anyway.
“Really?” she asks. “Why not?”
“Because we can’t fucking spend it.” Money can’t buy happiness, but it sure as hell can buy freedom. Yet not in the form of retail therapy with Tony dogging my every step. “Not in any way that makes a difference.”
“What would make a difference, Amelia?” she pushes. I don’t know what she’s after, and I don’t care. I’m so done with this. “Clothes? Cars? Travel?”
It’s like she can read my mind. I’d fly away if I could.
“Getting somewhere?” she says, leaning forward. “Seeing someone?”
My sister. Sierra. But it’s all just too complicated.
I don’t know why he’s sent her, but I’ve had enough of being tormented by this woman.
“Stop,” I snap. “I know what you’re doing. You’re part of it, aren’t you? You’re one of them. One of the system.” The damn Company, whatever it is. “You can tell my husband that I passed his test. I’m not trying to leave any more, all right? I’m not…”
Fine.
Is that what he wants to hear? Is that why he sends a private investigator, in lieu of a goddamn therapist? Or maybe no one in the Company is married to a therapist.
I can’t imagine why.
Vicky is staring at me, and I compose myself with a breath. It’s surprisingly easy, my numbness returning without any effort.
“My apologies,” I say, playing the game. “That was a little sharp. I mean that I wouldn’t dream of going anywhere without Lukas.” I stand up, knowing I’m being rude and still not caring. “Now, if you don’t mind, I think I might go for a nap.”
Vicky leans back, her mission apparently accomplished. “Yeah, you should do that. Sleep well.”
I walk into the bedroom and close the door. Sit on the edge of the bed. Set my glass of wine down on the nightstand.
I’m trembling. Not just my hands; all of me.
What the hell was that?
At the dance, he told me to engage with her. That whole dialogue with Bastien about her being a PI, right as I turned away.
It was a goddamn setup. Some convoluted attempt for me to trust her, perhaps? So that I’d open up to her?
Van Wyk pulling strings, because he knew I wouldn’t talk to him.
Is nothing sacred anymore?
I’m so tired of it all. So unbelievably exhausted.
My eyes land on the bottle of Ambien. Sleep doesn’t really solve the problem, but it postpones it.
I unscrew the cap, tipping one out. But my hand trembles, and several fall into my palm. Neat little salmon-colored ovals.
What would happen if I took more than one?
I shake the bottle again, and the rest spill out. The act is almost mesmerizing. Strangely compelling, yet dissociative. Like it’s the behavior of someone other than me.
A small pile of pills, promising oblivion, escape from this pain, this life.
I stare at them for a long, long time.
Did Juliette do this, but with a knife? Or was it Van Wyk holding the blade? Did she struggle? Did they fight? Or was she truly so desperate that she did it herself?
I suppose I’ll never know.
It doesn’t make any difference in the end. She escaped, one way or another.
Van Wyk will be widowed again. Lucy will still be protected. That does matter.
He’s already shown how good he is at covering up his wife’s death. He can do it again.
My eyes are dry. I should be crying, I suppose.
Strangely, I would’ve liked to have said goodbye to him, but that would risk weakening my resolve. He might pin me down and spank me, and that would definitely weaken my resolve.
I liked it when he did that. It made me feel alive.
I scoop the pills into my mouth and pick up my glass of wine. Toast the bottle where it sits on the nightstand, then wash them down. There’s something on the label about mixing these things with alcohol, but it’s a bit late to worry about safety instructions.
Plenty of time to lie on the bed, adjusting my clothes so that they’re neat, staring up at the ceiling.
Drowsiness comes quickly.
My heart races, my eyes struggling to open, my panic rising. What am I doing? What have I done?
There’s a phone on the nightstand, by the bottle of pills. My hand is too heavy. It won’t move.
I knock the empty bottle over, and it rolls off the edge and onto the floor.
The handset slips from my fingers, falling out of the cradle.
I can’t pick it up. My hand won’t respond. My eyes only want to close.
Lucy. Sierra.
Lukas.
All this time, he was wrong. There is an escape.