Chapter Eight
The newspapers run with the story first. Front-page headlines, the first story on every news site all over the world.
The story of Vic Roth being arrested for manslaughter, the rest of the nefarious doings that Zara has uncovered—and more, the fact that Zara Blake, Callum Blake’s daughter, is the one to tell the story.
The proceeds are more than Zara could have imagined. Enough for her not to worry about money anymore; enough for Astrid not to worry about money anymore.
Vic Roth in prison is a pathetic shell of who he used to be. He has never spoken about Lily Morehouse, nor about the threat to Astrid, who suspects he never will. But she has never been bothered by anyone again.
As for Callum, he has gone quiet. A paparazzi shot of him at the Golden Door spa shocked the public with how old and frail he looked. Zara has tried to call him, but he doesn’t call back.
“How was it?” Astrid is at Zara’s apartment, getting things ready to celebrate the exposé coming out.
She has cooked a Thai feast for all Zara’s friends, celebrating her newfound success.
This morning, Zara recorded a podcast, part of the same series that started this journey.
The podcast about the retrospective of the ’70s, but now, so much more.
“It was fantastic. They want to do a separate podcast about Lily Morehouse. It was a really good interview, and they’re looking at a ten-part series, separately, about Lily.” She shakes her head as she reaches over her mother’s shoulder and grabs a tiny fish cake. “Mmm. Mum. Delicious.”
“Still fifteen coming?”
Zara grimaces. “It might be twenty-five. Sorry. Word got out. Everyone wants to come and celebrate.”
Astrid, who always overcaters, grabs the extra fish cakes from the Tupperware, the chicken from the freezer, as she puts more noodles into a pot of boiling water.
Soon, the kitchen is full, Zara’s friends buzzing around the kitchen table, pouring themselves wine, all toasting Zara’s fantastic success.
There are more than twenty-five people here, thinks Astrid as she looks through the crowd, and she sees a familiar figure walk through the kitchen door. Someone she hasn’t seen in years.
Callum stands at the back of the kitchen, waylaid by all Zara’s friends, all aghast that they are in the same room as the great Callum Blake, despite what they now know about him.
Astrid is surprised, and glad, that she doesn’t feel anything as she looks at him.
For a second, she sees him as he is today—skinny, craggy, the vibrancy of youth long gone—but then, as he moves toward her, her brain shifts, and there he is, the man she once knew better than anyone else in the world, the man who was once her whole world.