Chapter 47
"But blessed with beauty and rage. Jim told me that, he hit me and it felt like a kiss” Lana Del Rey
Shit. A thousand times, shit.
The second we reached the gas station, the air had turned to ice—and not just because of the storm. Megan had started babbling, her voice a fractured mess, confessing that Peter was in the car. Dead. Which was a godsend in terms of the blackmail, but a logistical nightmare for everything else.
I sat in one of the kitchen chairs, a blank sheet of paper before me, scribbling out scenarios like a general planning a siege. Sarki had given me the room to handle it, but the truth was, I dreaded making the one call that could fix this. I didn't want to involve my sister.
Instead, I called Pietra because I know she had always been my shadow, my extension within that complicated family.
"What did you do this time to make you call me?" Pietra’s voice came through, her Italian accent thick and melodic, a sing-song lilt that made me ache for a life I’d left behind.
"I need help," I said, my voice dropping to a whisper. "I need to erase a body and reconstruct a crime scene. Who do I call?"
"Damn, Vanessa... I love a good mess," she laughed. "Too bad we’re already in Brazil. I’ll send you Psico’s contact info. Tell them you’re with me. They’ll have a narrative written in blood and ink before sunrise."
"Pietra, I love you."
"I love you too, Kiddo. Stay safe. I’m watching you."
Psico, the premier specialists in cleaning up Mexico’s most sensitive 'mishaps', responded within minutes. They were sending a team across the border immediately.
It took twelve hours. Twelve hours of explaining the darker corners of my life to Sarki, details she never needed to know, things that went far beyond what was written in the Constitution.
I was falling deeper in love with her every day, and that made the secret even heavier. But the mission came first. If Kelsey’s name was linked to this, her career was over. And Megan? She’d be lucky to see a courtroom again, let alone the Supreme Court.
Once the Psico team arrived, the script was finalized with incisive clarity:
Peter left the gala in a drunken, jealous stupor after seeing Megan with Donald.
He dismissed his chauffeur in a fit of rage and drove himself toward his hotel.
Consumed by depression, he went out seeking a fix; he lost control in the storm and plunged into the lake.
With the lie polished to a high shine, I had to face Kelsey. She looked defeated, her hand anchored to Megan’s as if letting go would mean losing her forever.
"You know what I’m going to ask, Peanut," I said softly, rubbing her back as she stared at the shell of the woman she loved.
"I’ve never felt this way, Vanessa," Kelsey whispered, her voice breaking. "Is there any other way?"
"We wait. We see how the public reacts," I replied, my voice hardening. "But if the heat gets too close, you’ll have to step aside. You’ll have to let her go so she can have the seat she’s worked her whole life for. Are you capable of that?"
Kelsey looked at Megan, the bandages, the immobilized shoulder, the wires mapping out her survival.
"You know I am," she breathed.