CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
Come sundown, he’s in desperate need of a punching bag.
What he wouldn’t give to spar with Danya right now.
Lachlan’s irritation climbs like ivy every time one of these stupid fucking people laughs at something that’s not funny, whenever they fawn over one another, whenever either of the Delacroix twins speaks.
The sun is overbearing.
The heat is oppressive.
The sea is a nightmare to watch, too much glare and poor visibility.
Lachlan hates it more than he’s ever hated the Estate.
He’s sorely tempted to take thirty minutes for himself, try to cool down somehow, but he can’t leave, can’t look away, not safe.
After lunch, Jules goes for a nap.
Lachlan has rounds to make.
He’ll apologise later, make it right when he has time.
Along the way, he hears Kessler speaking to Thomas Whitlock while the pair stand outside the sauna. They’re alone, talking quietly. Lachlan stops and stays out of view, listening unashamedly.
‘—generators after the last time.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Absolutely.’
‘It didn’t come back on for days before. The place was like an oven.’
‘We’ve performed a thorough upgrade since then, I assure you.’
‘That’s good to know. Last time was less than ideal.’
Kessler chuckles. ‘I remember. Everything is in hand. Enjoy yourself.’
Lachlan stays where he is until they’re both gone before moving. He heads to the staff building fifty paces away from the mansion, knocks on the door.
‘Is Paola there?’ he asks when a man answers.
The man calls for her and she comes out.
‘Mr Lachlan,’ she says. ‘What can I help you with?’
‘Is there a weather warning?’ he asks without preamble. ‘Storm on the way?’
‘No, sir. We get updates each morning. Clear skies for the next week, nothing even close by.’ She gives a bland smile. ‘It’s going to be a nice party.’
It bothers him more than it should.
He’s starting to feel like Fenwick, fucking paranoid about a storm that isn’t even coming. The skies are empty but for scalding sun. Not a cloud in sight.
Lachlan spends the remaining daylight hours making what even Danya would call unnecessary perimeter checks around the mansion. He circles the grounds repeatedly, committing routes, foliage and sightlines to memory until the island is mapped back to front in his mind.
The mansion surroundings are kept immaculately clean.
Staff clear debris constantly and the interior grounds are pristine, but even so, wildlife presses close around the edges; lizards, rats, land crabs and snakes. Pelicans, ibises and ospreys fly constantly overhead, hunting for all four.
A severe headache is building in his skull, pressure makes his nose creak whenever he knuckles between his eyes, but he can’t stop running through more worst-case scenarios, more mapping, more contingencies.
The vegetation is dry, high wildfire potential.
One dock. One staging island. One way off.
When the sun sets, he’s frazzled.
Pent up and on edge.
The party isn’t for another hour, so he calls Danya from his spot on the beach and asks him to check the weather for their general location because when Danya searches for Sable Key, nothing shows up on GPS.
‘Clear skies,’ Danya confirms. ‘Why are you worried?’
‘They were talking about generators.’
‘For the party?’
‘I don’t know.’ Lachlan rubs his eye with the heel of his palm. It itches beneath the lid. ‘I don’t know what they’re doing but something’s not right.’
‘You don’t sound good.’
‘I need you to work on the location for me.’
‘Why?’
‘Just in case.’
‘You want to activate a contingency trigger?’
Lachlan exhales slowly and nods. ‘Yes.’
‘How many hours?’
‘Twenty-four.’
‘You sure? Twelve is better.’
‘It’s hard to find time to get away here.’
‘Heard.’
‘Everyone’s OK there?’
‘Eight bells,’ Danya promises. ‘I will be counting down.’
‘See if you can backtrace our calls.’
‘No good. You’re in a shadow zone.’
‘Can you work around it?’
‘I’ll try but you know these things take time. Describe the island to me. Maybe I can narrow it down.’
‘Jagged oval. Coastal exterior. Three miles wide.’
‘That’s not helpful.’
‘I know.’
‘Neighbouring islands?’
‘There’s a staging island close by, but not on the horizon.’
‘What about the staff?’
‘They’re brought in on a crew boat.’
‘How often?’
‘No change out since I’ve been here. It’s not manned year-round.’ Lachlan shakes his head. ‘Danny, this place is bad. I can feel it.’
‘Stay cold. I’m on it.’
‘Thanks.’
‘We’ll talk soon.’
‘OK. Bye.’
Lachlan turns off the phone, clicks the antenna back in place and when he turns away from the sea, he sees a figure lurking near the trees, waiting.
‘Sorrenko.’
‘Lachlan. I was hoping to catch you.’ Mikhail glances around, seeking to ensure they’re alone. ‘I wanted to speak with you about my son.’
‘Vasily’s fine.’
‘I don’t mean him. I know Vasily is safe with you.’
‘Are you concerned about Roman?’
The older man’s gaze is fixed on the waves. ‘My sons are important to me.’
‘I know that.’ Lachlan moves closer. ‘What don’t I know?’
‘There is much you do not know.’
‘You didn’t seek me out to talk riddles.’
‘No, I did not. It is hard to trust you,’ Mikhail utters quietly, line between his eyes. ‘I want to trust you, Lachlan Tanner, but I know Alistair very well.’
‘We can’t talk here for long.’
‘I know. I am sorry, but I must put you in a difficult position now,’ Sorrenko says in a voice Lachlan’s never heard him use. Weaker, softer, more nasal. ‘I wish I had known you sooner, but time cannot be reversed nor deeds undone.’
‘What’s wrong?’
‘I need you to—’
‘Mikki.’ Alistair Penhalyx ambles towards them both with no urgency whatsoever. Lachlan stands to attention anyway, helplessly so. ‘There you are.’
Sorrenko’s formerly blank expression comes to life. He grins, smarmy and arrogant, becomes the Mikhail Sorrenko that Lachlan has always known. ‘Five minutes more and you might have caught me in flagrante, Alistair.’
Alistair looks between them, expression searching.
‘Is that so?’ Dressed in board shorts, a pressed shirt and sandals, Alistair has never seemed so casual to Lachlan, but nothing obscures his sharp interest. ‘Do you need more time? I don’t mind standing watch.’
‘I was asking your bodyguard for a favour.’
‘Another?’
‘It was your suggestion that we find a distraction for Roman, was it not?’ Mikhail pats Lachlan’s forearm. ‘He is very distracting.’
‘And were you sampling him first?’ Alistair comes closer, voice silky soft.
‘Testing the waters.’
‘We can both do that, can’t we?’
Throughout their entire conversation, Lachlan keeps himself still and quiet. He’s furniture, he’s a wall, he stays still like the lizards and the snakes.
He has a truly awful feeling in the pit of his stomach.
‘Alistair, we should—’
‘Lachlan,’ the old man cuts over Mikhail sharply. ‘Kneel.’
He doesn’t let his eyes close.
He doesn’t let it show.
He kneels in the sand, efficiently obedient.
‘Good boy,’ Alistair says, the affectionate tone spreads a fever itch of hatred and revulsion through Lachlan, hidden only by skin. He plays with Lachlan’s hair, touch lingering. ‘You never had a Daddy, did you, hmm? Not a nice one.’
Lachlan stares ahead.
Go where it’s quiet.
Where there’s grass and mud and sunshine.
Cartwheels.
It’s only the body.
‘Fuck his mouth, Mikki. That’s what you wanted, so do it while I watch.’
His little girl is on the grass, talking to the worms and the crows who are watching from afar, they’ll keep her safe, she can befriend them, she’s so special.
‘Or were you lying to me? Did you have some other reason for sneaking around in the shadows with my bodyguard?’
She is so special, his little girl, his daughter.
‘I was speaking to him about Roman.’
‘Lachlan, is this true?’
‘He told me, I wanted to speak with you about my son. Verbatim, sir,’ Lachlan recites, fully on autopilot.
He is beneath the sunshine of Varrow City on the grass of the Penhalyx Estate in the cuddly pile-up of a failed cartwheel while Mimi laughs and Jules tries not to and Blaire captures it all inside a flash.
‘Good boy.’ Alistair lightly claps Lachlan’s cheek. ‘Up.’
Lachlan rises. Sorrenko eyes him warily. ‘You’ve done it then?’
It’s clear he’s speaking to Alistair.
‘Not entirely, no. It takes years, but thus far, he shows potential. They don’t break like others but much like a bonsai, if you bend them young enough, they’ll grow in whatever shape you’d like.
’ Alistair claps Lachlan’s shoulder. ‘You are mine, Lachlan. Take care to remember that, unless I give you permission, your body is mine to command and no one else’s. Do you understand?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Get inside.’
Lachlan goes.
He just makes it to a bathroom, collapses hard and with no sand to cushion the fall, his knees bark against the cold, pristine tile but he couldn’t care less because then his stomach voids itself entirely, muscles rolling with cold waves of sickness and he can’t recall the last time his body even did this, although he definitely remembers the first.
He stays for a while until it passes, drags himself up to splash water on his face and brace himself on the small countertop.
The man he sees in the mirror is so pale.
Furniture.
Wall.
Body.
Toy soldier.
Bonsai.
Killer.
Lachlan gathers himself enough to finally turn and when he does, he finds Jules behind him, back against the closed door. Lachlan didn’t even notice he was there. Jules is pale too, though likely not for the same reasons.
‘Sorry,’ Lachlan croaks, clears his throat and drags a hand across his mouth.
It’s trembling.
He is trembling.
‘What the fuck happened?’
‘Nothing.’ Not a lie, nothing did happen.
‘Why did you throw up?’
‘I haven’t eaten enough.’ Not a lie, he knows he hasn’t.
‘Bodyguard.’
You are mine, Lachlan.
His balance pitches to the side, knees gone unexpectedly weak which is insane, ridiculous, what the fuck is even happening? Lachlan catches himself on the door when Jules starts forward, alarmed.
‘Are you hurt?’