Chapter 43 Geneva
GENEVA
EVERYTHING IS HEAVY.
My limbs. My eyelids. My thoughts.
It feels like I’m underwater and the current keeps shifting, trying to drag me down into nothingness. Cold stone presses against my spine and the backs of my legs. Every time I inhale, the smells of damp grass, rusted iron, and magnolia trees fill my lungs.
A scent I once found cloying and intrusive now clings to the air, familiar and comforting. Memories surface. Ghost. The candle. The poem.
“Magnolias bloom, masking death’s decay…”
My eyes flutter open.
Moonlight bleeds through the mist above me, casting an illumination that’s bright enough to have me blinking. There’s no ceiling above me. Just sky and scattered stars.
I try to move, finding that my wrists are bound above my head. Thankfully, not my ankles. However, everything aches and my head spins when I lift it.
The cemetery stretches out around me in all directions, made up of whitewashed tombs, family vaults, and mausoleums that stand shoulder to shoulder like sentinels. Some pristine. Some half collapsed and leaning, their names faded or overgrown with moss.
A city of the dead, bathed in moonlight.
“Good. You’re awake.” Bisset brushes a strand of hair from my face. I flinch. “Relax, chère.”
“Where am I?” My voice is hoarse, scratchy.
“Lafayette Cemetery.”
“Why are we here?”
“Because the dead don’t talk,” he says softly. “And the living know better than to come here after dark.”
He straightens, hands clasped behind his back like this is a lecture, not a hostage situation. “But don’t worry. I’m not here to kill you. Yet.”
“Lucky me,” I deadpan.
Bisset continues as though I didn’t speak. “I’ve always appreciated cemeteries. All this beauty for the sole purpose of grief. The flowers. The carvings. The flattery etched in stone. But beneath it all? Decay. Forgotten names. Bones. I’m sure you understand this intimately.”
I do understand the illusion of peace etched in granite while everything that mattered is decaying below. That was my entire childhood.
For a second, I close my eyes, unable to stop the wave of emotional anguish that comes over me. My life is coming full circle. The man who orchestrated and executed my parents’ deaths now stands over me planning mine.
I try to push the thought away and concentrate on something else. The names etched into the tomb beside me. The curve of the moon above. The fact that my hands are going numb.
But I can’t escape the truth: I failed my parents.
And that failure will end my life.
I want to scream. I want to sob. I want to tear Bisset apart with my bare hands. But I can’t do any of that.
All I can do is survive.
And pray Ghost finds me in time.
A tear slips free. I grit my teeth against it, but it’s useless. My body isn’t mine right now. I stare at the sky, jaw clenched, trying to hold myself together as my situation threatens to overwhelm me.
Bisset peers down, his face scrunched in confusion. “You’re crying.”
I say nothing. I can’t summon the energy.
“You’re not afraid of dying,” he says. “That’s not what this is.”
I blink hard, another tear sliding down my temple into my hair. “No.”
He continues watching me, and something in his expression changes. He tilts his head like he’s studying me. “What is it, then? What pains you, chère?”
“That I couldn’t stop you.”
I try to turn my head, to find some corner of the night where he doesn’t exist. But there’s nowhere left to go. The tears keep spilling, traitorous and silent, cutting tracks through the makeup on my cheeks.
Bisset studies me in silence. And then he sighs. Like I’m pathetic and helpless. So I take advantage of his state and ask the question that’s ruined me.
“Who hired you?” I release a shuddering breath. “Although I’m not sure it even matters now.”
He purses his lips as though he’s deciding whether the truth is worth parting with. Whether a captive lying on a crypt in the middle of a cemetery deserves answers before her life ends. Or maybe he thinks to show me mercy. A gift to the dying.
When he speaks, it’s soft. Almost compassionate. “Victor Stanton.”
At first, I don’t react.
Because that name doesn’t belong here among the rot and the dead. That name belongs in conference halls and polished foundations. In gala programs and donor plaques.
That name belongs in my memories.
His hand gripping mine with polite strength. His smile, charismatic and practiced. He’d said, “Your insights into criminal psychology were fascinating.”
Victor Stanton.
A university supporter. And an executioner.
The realization doesn’t come in a building wave. It detonates me. A fracture that starts somewhere in my chest and splinters outward, burning through bone and breath.
I remember the way he lingered after my keynote. The admiration in his voice. The look in his eyes when he shook my hand with my parents’ blood on his.
And I smiled at him.
“I’m going to be sick.” I lean over the edge when my stomach heaves.
“She begged, you know. At the end.” Bisset’s voice doesn’t change. No cruelty. Just calm. More mercy that feels like malice. “Your mother didn’t ask for her own life. Only yours.”
Now I can’t breathe.
I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to coax my lungs to function. To keep me alive.
“I’ve no doubt he’ll do the same,” Bisset says. “Your Ghost.”
I flinch at the sound of his name.
“He’ll beg. Maybe not with words, but in every other way. He’ll bleed for you. He’ll break for you. And in the end…” Bisset steps closer, lowering his voice as if confiding a secret. “He’ll give me anything I want just to keep your heart beating another minute longer.”
“You don’t know everything. Ghost is unpredictable.”
“I knew the moment you landed in New Orleans,” Bisset says, stepping back into the moonlight, his shadow spreading across my body. “Does he really think he could walk into my city without me finding out?”
He shakes his head slowly. “I have eyes in every quarter. Ears in every bar, every back alley, every surveillance feed that matters.”
“Then where is Ghost right now?”
Bisset retrieves his phone from his pocket, squinting in the dark. “He’s due to arrive any minute.”
“And then what, Planner?” I glare up at him. “You kill both of us?”
“I don’t shoot people, chère. That’s for men with bruised egos and twitchy fingers. I dismantle. I reconfigure. I make people fold themselves into ruin.”
He steps closer again, crouching beside the tomb until his face is level with mine. “This. This is what happens next. You, lying amongst the dead, becoming one of them. And him, walking willingly into the same grave.”
The blooms in the trees overhead permeate the air with the scent of magnolia. I inhale deeply, taking a fortifying breath. A rusted gate creaks on its hinges, groaning with age, the noise echoing faintly down the row of tombs, carried away by the wind tugging at my hair.
Bisset stands, brushing his hands together. “Don’t worry, chère. This will be over soon, with Ghost on his knees.”
“Then let’s get this fucking party started.”
My pulse spikes with relief so stark, I nearly pass out.
Ghost steps out from between the tombs like the son of the Grim Reaper, dressed in black, eyes bright with the intent to kill.
Bisset turns slowly to face him. “Right on time.”
Ghost tilts his head, sweeping his gaze over me. It freezes on my bound wrists and then hardens.
The Planner doesn’t move, but I catch his eyes darting back and forth, gleaming with calculation. “Did you come alone?”
A slow, dark smile curves across Ghost’s mouth. “Yes, I’m alone, but so are you since I killed your men.”
Bisset’s face shows no hint of alarm, except for the muscle twitching in his jaw. He releases a shrill whistle that has me jolting in place.
From the shadows between the crypts, figures emerge, one after another. Three. Four. Five. Silent, coordinated, and armed. Bisset might not be fond of shooting people, but it seems like he’s not opposed to others using guns.
Ghost’s expression doesn’t change. Meanwhile, panic burns through me, heating my blood. The stone beneath me chaffs against my skin as I get into a sitting position.
“You thought I wouldn’t plan for this?” Bisset asks Ghost, his hands still folded behind his back. “You’ve underestimated me for a second time. There won’t be a third.”
Ghost rolls his eyes. “I’m shooketh.”
“Contingency is the key to survival. You should know that.” Bisset clicks his tongue in admonishment. “Did you bring the diamonds?”
Ghost sighs like Bisset is a complete moron, before reaching into his jacket and pulling out a black, fist-sized pouch. Then he tosses and catches it, the motion lazy, almost bored. “A deal’s a deal. The diamonds for the doctor.”
I force myself to stay motionless. No blinking. Maybe no breathing either. If Bisset sees even the faintest hint of doubt on my face, he’ll know Ghost is bluffing.
Whatever’s inside that pouch, it’s not the diamonds.
Bisset’s attention snaps to the bag like a hound catching a scent. He doesn’t respond, but he does lean forward ever so slightly, exposing his interest. “Set it down.”
Ghost arches a brow. “Release Geneva.”
“Set it down,” Bisset repeats, voice cool. “I plan. You improvise. Let’s not pretend we operate on the same level.”
Ghost grins, teeth white in the moonlight. “If you say so.”
He bends just enough to rest the pouch on the flat surface of a nearby tomb. When he straightens, his eyes are locked on the Planner like a sniper lining up the shot. “Before you shoot us and take the diamonds, you should know something…”
Bisset doesn’t respond immediately. His fingers twitch at his sides, like he’s wondering if this is a misdirection or a message worth hearing. “Tell me.”
Ghost shrugs. “You’re not the only one who left themselves a contingency.”
Bisset’s gaze narrows. Every microexpression that flits across his features shows he’s reassessing everything, recalculating each variable like a man suddenly aware he’s missed something critical. His confidence doesn’t vanish, but it wavers.
Ghost doesn’t fill the silence. He leaves it toxic and corrosive, eating through Bisset’s composure. Eventually, he gestures to the pouch sitting there like a bomb about to go off.
“You’re right about me, Bisset. I do improvise. So when you took Dr. Andrews…” Ghost shrugs. “Let’s say I made sure to play a game I could win.”
“You’re bluffing. You’re outnumbered and outmaneuvered.”
“Maybe… maybe not.” Ghost looks down, examining his nails. “Tell me, do you know where your son is tonight?”
The effect on Bisset is instantaneous. His composure falters. He lifts his chin and his shoulders stiffen.
Benedetto’s voice rises to the forefront of my mind. Not just a memory but an epiphany.
“He creates scenarios and leverage.”
That’s what Ghost brought with him tonight.
Not diamonds.
Insurance.
“You wouldn’t touch him,” Bisset says, his voice trembling with emotion.
Ghost lifts his gaze. “Did I stutter?” He pauses, and then shrugs. “Grown men don’t need curfews, but I decided to implement one for Fabien. Although, with him being over six feet tall, he’s one heavy fucker.”
Bisset doesn’t respond. For the first time tonight, he’s the one stuck trying to read someone else’s strategy. Trying to guess the possible outcomes of a plan he didn’t devise.
The man who killed my loved ones is finally realizing what it feels like to be on the other end of that threat.
“It’s a good thing you brought all of these guys with you,” Ghost says, lifting a hand. “You’re going to need them to find Fabien before he—erm, expires.”
“You’re lying,” Bisset snaps, but there’s no weight behind it. Just desperation disguised as disbelief.
Ghost laughs. It’s the same deranged sound I heard during his arraignment. Even now, knowing he won’t hurt me, the hairs on my arms rise.
“He’s not lying,” I whisper to Bisset. “Ghost is many things, a psychopath, and an asshole on occasion, but a liar isn’t one.”
Ghost stops laughing, and frowns at me. “Love you too, Doc.”
“Where is he?” Bisset asks.
Ghost lifts a shoulder in a half shrug. “Let’s just say your son’s experiencing a change in scenery. One with a lot less oxygen than he’s used to. The good news is that he’s here with us.”
I cover my mouth, stifling a gasp. He can’t mean…
“You buried him?” Bisset breathes, voice cracking.
“‘Buried’ is such a melodramatic word.” Ghost steps closer to the tomb, resting his hand lightly on the pouch as if it’s nothing more than a decoration. “Let’s say that I put him in a panic room for his ‘protection.’ It’s reinforced. Roomy. And very on-theme for the evening.”
Bisset’s composure fractures. He curses and scans the crypts around us, his eyes frantically darting to and fro. His men shift their stances, unsure of what to do.
Ghost clears his throat, drawing everyone’s attention. “So here’s the thing: I’m leaving with the doc and the diamonds. If you feel like shooting me, keep in mind that you’ll never find your son without my help.” He looks at me. “Come here, love.”
My legs ache. My wrists are chafed. But I hop down from the crypt, landing softly on the grass.
Ghost doesn’t move toward me, but he watches me with such intensity that I can’t look away. I hold his gaze until I reach him.
Immediately, he wraps an arm around my waist, pulling me against the length of his side. He doesn’t ask if I’m okay. He doesn’t need to. I’m fine now that I’m with him.
“Tell me which crypt he’s in!” Bisset yells.
“You should stop wasting time, Planner.” Ghost pulls his phone from his pocket and checks it. “Forty minutes left. Maybe. Regardless, I won’t tell you until the doctor is safe and away from here.”
Ghost snatches up the diamonds, pockets them, and then guides me toward the exit. Behind us Bisset orders his men to search the grounds, starting with the largest crypts and mausoleums.
I twist just enough to look over my shoulder at Bisset, glaring at him with the hate that’s been inside me for decades. “You remember my mother’s screams?” I ask. “You should try listening for your son’s.”