Chapter 71 Cara
SEVENTY-ONE
CARA
—@StephanieVDLProperties
Deinfluenced: Escape from a Hell of Your Own Creation.
She came up with the name on the twenty-two-mile drive down Pacific Coast Highway to Broad Beach Road. If only she knew what the final level looked like—and whether she’d find herself at home or in prison after she finished the game.
Cara exited the garage and found herself in a courtyard with a pool and hot tub bordered by smooth, black river stones and a small outbuilding with an outdoor shower and surfboard storage. At the back of the house, she keyed in the second, more secure code—5, 2, 7, 1—and stepped inside.
Painted in light grays with navy blue nautical touches, and huge sliders opening onto an oceanfront deck, the home was warm, beachy, and cozier than she’d expected. Its vibe was East Coast cottage meets California sun.
When Karl was alive, when they had friends with beach houses, Cara would have roamed around with phone in hand, snapping Insta-worthy photos in every room.
Now, she had to painstakingly inspect every inch of the fully furnished place to make absolutely sure it was vacant, and the absent owners hadn’t hidden any cameras in a plant or a sconce.
When she was finally satisfied, she dropped her tote bag on the bed in the small nanny’s room off the kitchen—chosen because it had its own exit outside—and padded down the hall to the office, where a desktop computer had been left behind.
Internet included.
Cara jiggled the mouse, and the screen lit up. Stephanie must have used it recently, because the guest-user icon appeared with a passcode keyed in. All Cara had to do was press the return key.
This time, she had no desire to doom scroll until she panicked.
There was no need to confirm that Taylor had released her Ring doorbell video to every media outlet that came calling.
And Cara didn’t want to see Roy Abel’s smug face ever again.
For the first time, all the comments and conjecture meant nothing to her.
She felt light and free as she focused on the tasks at hand.
First, she looked up the addresses for Sanjay Jain and Devin Mayer in San Francisco and Rae Salter near Oakhurst. She searched drawers in the office until she found envelopes and stamps, then addressed the envelopes, adding Fisk’s name to Rae’s because she somehow doubted he got much correspondence at his compound, assuming it had survived the fire.
She dropped $150 in Sanjay and Devin’s envelope and $1,000 in Fisk and Rae’s to repay their kindnesses, then stamped and sealed them.
Then she typed Gioni Enterprises into the search bar.
Google returned five pages of relevant entries.
Clicking and reading every link on the first few pages, Cara learned that the Gioni family was large, lived mostly in LA, and invested heavily in real estate, as well as various import/export and retail businesses.
Driton Gioni, 58, had producer credits on three B movies she’d never heard of.
Identical twins Esad and Fatmir were younger and steroid-buff, appearing together in photos at ribbon-cuttings for a strip mall, a condo complex, and a large liquor store.
Driton had been accused of smuggling in 2004 but not convicted.
Esad was married to a former Playboy Playmate named Ashlee, and they had four children.
Fatmir was divorced and had a profile on Millionaire Match that looked vaguely familiar from her dating days.
Gioni Enterprises’ corporate headquarters were at 205 S.
Beverly Drive in Beverly Hills, slightly more affordable than anything north of Wilshire, but the company appeared to be successful, profitable, and diversified.
If they had also invested in Campbell Cosmetic, then why did Karl have a handwritten promissory note and not a formal, notarized contract?
Cara took out her phone and pulled up the photo she’d taken of the note. She touched the screen and pinched it open to enlarge. Ajila Gioni, CFO, had signed for Gioni Enterprises. The signature appeared to match the handwriting on the rest of the page.
Cara searched for Ajila Gioni.
The top result was a business called Olive and Sal.
Cara clicked through to a page touting premium organic olive oil and sea salt, and clean, enlightened southern European food and beauty products.
These were apparently sold retail from a high-end boutique on fashionable Abbot Kinney Way in Venice, along with an impressive array of tea, organic honey, nuts, dried fruits, chocolates, and olive oil-based skincare.
On the About Us page was a short biographical statement: In the Mediterranean, the olive once symbolized wealth, and salt was a valuable trading commodity.
As a young girl growing up in Albania, these two food staples symbolized so much more to me: daily life, family, income, and the bounty of the harvest. I am always looking for ways to reap, share, and grow.
Please contact me for more information or to join my team.
When Cara’s eyes found the photo of Ajila Gioni under the text, she suddenly found it difficult to breathe.
The owner of Olive and Sal sat at a sunlit table with her face turned mostly away from the camera.
Her hair was long and blond.
Cara’s head throbbed so hard she had to close her eyes. She saw herself at Johnson’s Point. Saw Karl. Saw the long, blond hair. Saw the swinging hammer.
She opened her eyes and forced herself to breathe. Had she finally found Karl’s killer?
Was the marketing copy over the photo code for we lend money at usurious rates on penalty of death?
After creating another fake email under the name Cora Conrad, Cara used the store’s contact form to request an appointment.
Dear Ms. Gioni,
I would like to speak to you about an opportunity worth its weight in salt. 10 AM tomorrow?
Best,
Cora Conrad
Cara felt hopeful as she logged off the computer.
And hungry.
In the kitchen, she opened the beadboard-fronted Sub-Zero refrigerator and pulled out the half-full bottle of white wine, single green apple, and wedge of brie Stephanie had left behind after her last showing.
In the pantry, she found an unopened box of rice crackers only a month past their best-by date.
A feast.
Grabbing a wine glass from the living room’s wet bar, she carried everything out to the expansive wooden deck.
While other homes were crowded in on either side, Malibu was all about laid-back privacy, and every lot had strategically placed walls.
Neighbors couldn’t see into each other’s spaces unless they walked along the beach or swam out into the vast expanse of ocean.
As she uncorked the wine and poured herself a glass, Cara felt small, unremarkable, and reassuringly anonymous. She sipped the slightly sweet wine, then cut a slice of apple and dipped it into the brie. Before she took her first bite, she dialed Dylan.
She owed him a thank you.