“You look like you need it,” he says in heavily accented English.

  “Do I?” She’s flirting. It comes so naturally. This young man is into her; it’s obvious in his gaze, his body language, not to mention the enormous drink he’s offering her.

  She already knows what comes next. It’s probably ill-advised, but she will do it. Because sex with this random bartender will allow her to stop feeling. For those eight to twelve minutes, it will make the pain and rage go away, expunge her disappointment and disillusionment.

  The bartender leans on the bar, his face close to hers. His eyes are deep and sexy, and Bianca focuses on them, choosing to ignore his rather tiny hands and how he needs to trim his nails.

  “Where are you from?” he asks.

  “Canada.”

  “My name is Carlos.”

  “Melissa,” she lies. Because Melissa the Canadian doesn’t have a dead sister. And she didn’t come to Spain to seek revenge for her murder. Melissa is just a girl on vacation, day-drinking in a dingy bar, about to have fast, rough sex in a bathroom or a storage closet. Melissa doesn’t have to feel bad about what she’s about to do.

  She doesn’t have to feel anything at all.

  49

  Damian sits in Curtis’s car, listens to the rain pummeling the metal roof. Bianca is still wandering the streets, getting drenched, so focused on her rage and hate that she’s impervious to the weather. He’s texted her a bunch of times, tried to call, but her phone is off or set to Do Not Disturb. That means she’s still not ready to play nice. But how long is he supposed to sit here and wait for her to calm down? As long as it takes. He has no choice.

  He can’t leave Bianca in town in the middle of a rainstorm. The steep trail that leads back to the house would be treacherous in this weather, and Spain’s tragic history with floods runs through his memory. Besides, returning without his girlfriend would elicit too many questions. Sydney would be concerned, of course, would insist on searching for Bianca. If she found her, who knows what Bianca would say to Syd one-on-one. If Bianca chose to reveal all of Curtis’s dirty secrets, their mark would have no reason to pay them the money. Damian can’t let that happen.

  In the distance he can just make out a couple headed his way. The man holds a canvas jacket over their heads, providing a little shelter from the deluge. The woman is laughing, clutching his arm. She’s wearing shorts and a T-shirt, and she’s a little unsteady on her feet. Tipsy, probably. The couple has come from a boozy lunch or an afternoon at a bar.

  As they move closer, he realizes the woman is Bianca. The couple’s heads are obscured by the jacket, but he doesn’t need to see her face to know it’s her. He recognizes her walk, her body, her clothes. And the way she holds on to this man like she gives a shit about him when she really doesn’t.

  The pair stop several yards from the car, and Bianca puts her lips close to the man’s ear. The guy (Christ, how old is he? He looks fifteen.) peers over at Damian, waiting in the car like a cuckold. The man’s surprise and confusion are visible even from here. Bianca kisses his cheek and runs through the rain to the Citroën.

  “Who was that?” Damian asks as she climbs into the passenger seat.

  “I made a new friend. His name’s Carlos.”

  “Cool,” he grumbles.

  Damian starts the car and blasts air on the windshield to combat the condensation obscuring his vision. Backing out of the parking lot, he grinds it into first gear and pulls back onto the main road. Bianca sits next to him, lips curled into a placid smile. There’s something smug in her expression, like hooking up with Carlos was a big fuck you to Damian. They’ve never been monogamous, have worked to separate the physical from the emotional, but he can’t help but think she did this to punish him. For having feelings for Sydney. For looking out for himself.

  They climb the hill in tense silence, the wipers slapping rhythmically at the torrential rain. Damian keeps his eyes on the road, focuses on gearing down to grip the steep incline, but his mind is trapped on their predicament. Bianca will not budge from their initial demand of five million dollars. If Curtis can’t come up with it, she’ll wreak havoc. And then what? They’ll go home to their shitty little town, to their shitty little jobs, content that they’ve avenged Lyric’s death. No way. He’s never going back. He’ll do what it takes to ensure his future.

  Reaching the turnoff to the house, Damian slows the car, stalling it briefly. But he starts it up again, lurches forward into the driveway. As they creep down the gravel path, Bianca seems to shed the afterglow of her fling. She sits forward in her seat, suddenly tense and on edge. Like him, she must be wondering what the next few days will bring. How this is all going to play out.

  Before Damian has even turned off the ignition, Curtis appears on the doorstep, holding two black umbrellas. He pops one open and approaches the driver’s side. As Damian climbs out, Curtis hands him the second umbrella and says, “We need to talk.” He hurries around to the passenger door and holds the umbrella over Bianca as she emerges. The three of them huddle together for a moment.

  “I’ve found someone who can float me the full five million,” Curtis says, fiddling with the umbrella in case Sydney is observing them. “I should have it by end-of-day tomorrow.”

  Relief surges through Damian’s veins like an infusion. “Great.”

  “Wiring that much money to your bank will raise red flags,” Curtis continues. “Bitcoin is best.”

  “Yeah, I know,” Damian snaps. He’d already asked for the money in crypto. Curtis is such a condescending douche bag. “I’ll send you my wallet details.”

  “I’ll send mine, too,” Bianca pipes in. “Half the money to me, half to Damian.”

  He looks at his partner in surprise. Since when does she not trust him to share the money with her? This was never discussed. It’s an unnecessary added complication. But Curtis shrugs it off.

  “No problem.” He glances toward the house. “We’d better get inside before Sydney wonders why we’re standing out here in the rain.”

  The men take a step, but Bianca doesn’t budge. They turn back to face her. Her eyes are locked on Curtis.

  “Does this mean you accept responsibility for what you did to Lyric?”

  Damian watches Curtis’s face, the flicker of recognition, the struggle to remember. Then he says, “Lyric. The young woman from the party.”

  “She wasn’t a young woman,” Bianca spits. “She was a child. And she was my sister.”

  Curtis flushes, his voice wobbly as he speaks. “I’m sorry that she got wrapped up in that whole scene. And I apologize for my role in it.”

  “For what you did to her,” Bianca growls. “Say it.”

  “I—I’m sorry for what I did to her.”

  But he’s not. He just wants to make them go away. For some reason, Bianca seems to accept his lame apology. She nods briefly. “Okay.”

  They hurry through the rain toward the house.

  Damian and Bianca head to their room to dry off and change. He strips off his damp T-shirt, grabbing a dry button-down. “Crisis averted,” he whispers, but he can’t keep the jubilation out of his voice. They no longer need to worry about negotiations with Curtis, about their conflicting goals.

  His partner doesn’t speak as she peels off her soaked top. He hands her a towel, watches as she dries off her wet skin. Her expression is dark and troubled despite the good news.

  “So someone’s going to lend Curtis five million dollars, with no questions asked,” she states, dropping her wet shorts to the floor, stepping out of them.

  Damian buttons his shirt. “These rich assholes have piles of money lying around. It’s not a lot to them.”

  “But how will Curtis pay it back?” She pulls a sweatshirt over her head. “He has no income. He can’t build his winery without startup money.”

  “That’s his problem.”

  Bianca tosses the damp towel on a pile of clothes, steps into a pair of cozy sweatpants. “If Curtis used the house as collateral, they could seize it. And Sydney would find out everything.”

  Damian keeps his voice calm, but it’s tinged with irritation. “We asked him to get the money, and he did. Why do you care how he pays it back?”

  She looks at him with those cold, hard eyes. “I don’t.”

  He may as well ask. “When did you set up your own crypto wallet?”

  “Back home,” she says, grabbing her phone. “Did you think I wouldn’t look out for myself, Damian? That I wouldn’t make sure I got my share of the money?”

  “No, but I thought we…”

  But she’s already moving toward the door. Without another word, she leaves the room.

  50

  The aroma of fried onions, of meat and seasonings, wafts through the air as Bianca walks toward the kitchen. Curtis stands by the stove, wearing an apron and stirring a large pot. He’s surrounded by dirty pans, chopped herbs, an open bottle of white wine. He must have been cooking for hours, preparing their final meal.

  Damian is on her heels. “Smells great,” he says, Aussie accent in place though there’s no sign of Sydney.

  “Hope you like beef stroganoff.” Curtis seasons the massive pot. “You had the car, so I had to make do with what I had in the fridge and freezer.”

  “Love it,” Damian replies, and Bianca mumbles her agreement.

  Sydney emerges from the basement stairwell and joins them in the kitchen. Her hair and clothes are dusty. She’s clearly been working downstairs while the rest of them took the day off. She smiles at Bianca. “Did you get caught in the rain?”

  “Yeah,” Bianca says. “But we’d already had lunch and a swim, so it was okay.”

  Syd turns to Damian. “Were you able to swim with your sore shoulder?” Her delivery is benign, but Bianca sees the sharp glint in Sydney’s eye. Does she think Damian faked his injury to get out of working on their winery? Is she resentful that they enjoyed themselves while she sanded the basement walls? Fuck her. Bianca and Damian don’t owe her any more unpaid labor.

  But Damian’s reply is chipper. “I just paddled around a bit. It was fine.” Either he has missed the edge to Syd’s remark or Bianca has imagined it. She’s not sure which.

  Sydney moves toward her husband at the stove. “What’s for dinner?”

  “Beef stroganoff.” He gives her a wink. “Don’t worry, I made a separate batch with no mushrooms for you.”

  Syd kisses his cheek in thanks. “I’m going to have a quick shower before dinner.”

  Curtis says, “We can eat in an hour. I’ll make negronis.”

  Bianca and Damian lean against the counter and watch as Curtis mixes the cocktails. He pours the three liquors into cut-glass tumblers, slices the fresh oranges, their citrus scent permeating the strong cooking smells. Bianca’s never had a negroni; she’s not sure she’ll like it, but she stays mute, not wanting to dampen the celebratory mood. She’s never seen Curtis so upbeat, almost manic in his happiness. And Damian is cheerful for obvious reasons. Bianca should be, too. Soon, she’ll have everything she wanted: millions of dollars and Curtis Lowe’s decimation. But for some reason she can’t get there.

  Something feels off about Curtis’s obvious jubilance. Of course, he’s happy that they’re leaving. He wants them gone so they can’t fuck with him anymore, can’t tell his wife that he’s a monster. But how can he be so happy about being five million dollars in debt with no obvious means of paying it back? And why is he so sure he can trust them not to talk to Syd once they’ve received their cryptocurrency?

  Curtis hands her a drink, and she takes a small sip. It’s cloyingly sweet and bitter at the same time, but she nods and smiles her thanks. Bianca doesn’t plan to drink it. She’s already had too much wine today, and she feels the need to keep her head on straight. She needs to be ready for any and all eventualities.

  Glass in hand, she leaves the men chatting about Formula 1 racing like old friends and heads toward the French doors. She stares out at the pool, the underwater lights illuminating the raindrops pummeling the surface. The trees are blowing in the distance, and the moon casts an eerie glow from behind the cloud cover. The whole scene feels creepy, even ominous. But maybe it’s all in her head. And then Bianca sees a tiny red dot glowing in the darkness. Sydney is huddled under the overhang of the house, smoking a cigarette.

  Bianca wants to stay inside, warm and dry, but she’s uncomfortable around Curtis and Damian. Their sudden camaraderie feels like a betrayal. Now that Curtis has found the money, Damian seems to have forgotten that he’s an abusive predator. That what he did to Lyric was so disgusting, so heinous, that she descended into addiction and lost her life. Setting her drink on an end table, Bianca opens the door and creeps outside.

  The roof offers about a foot of overhang. Bianca slinks down the side of the house to join Sydney and stay out of the rain. “Can I bum one?”

  Syd’s hair is wet from the shower, combed back from her face. She holds out the pack to Bianca. “I thought you had asthma?”

  “I don’t.” Bianca takes one, lights it with Syd’s lighter. “I just said that so you didn’t smoke around me. I’m trying to quit.”

  “I’ve been trying to quit, too,” Syd says, staring out at the rain. “It’s going really well.”

  Bianca chuckles, takes a drag. They smoke in silence for a few moments, and it’s surprisingly comfortable. But Bianca can feel the malaise emanating off her host, the aura of discontent.

  “Sounds like we’ll have our fuel pump soon,” she says to lighten the mood. “Maybe even tomorrow.”

  “That’s good news.” Sydney blows smoke into the darkness. “Are you excited to continue your adventures?”

  “Yeah. It’ll be good.”

  Syd’s gaze is intense. “I feel like I never really got to know you, and now you’re leaving.”

  Bianca arches an eyebrow. “We made out.”

  Syd laughs, rolls her eyes. “There’s still a lot I don’t know about you.” She takes a drag on her cigarette, speaks on the exhale. “Tell me about your sister.”

  Bianca’s flinch is imperceptible… at least she hopes it is. How the hell does Sydney know about Lyric? “I don’t have a sister.”

  Syd cocks her head. “Damian said you did.”

  Drawing smoke deep into her lungs, Bianca composes herself. Damian must have slipped up, mentioned Lyric in an offhand comment. He wouldn’t have told Sydney anything that would impact their plan. “I have a half sister,” she covers. “We’re not really in touch.”

  “Where does she live?”

  “Back in Freo. Last I heard.”

  “Why aren’t you close?”

  Bianca shrugs a shoulder. “Different dads. Big age difference.”

  “How old is she?”

  “She’s just a kid.” A kid who would never get older. She tosses her half-smoked cigarette onto the wet bricks. “Why are you so interested?”

  “I always wanted a sister,” Syd says. “Someone who’d look up to me. Someone I could take care of.”

  Bianca’s throat tightens and tears prick at her eyes, but she shuts down the emotions. Once the money hits their accounts, she will tell Sydney all about Lyric, every vile, disgusting thing that Curtis did to her. Then she can cry and scream and fall apart, if she needs to. But not now. Not yet.

  “We were close when she was young, but she grew up. And it got complicated.”

  “What happened?”

  She’s prying. She’s onto them. Bianca needs to shut this conversation down now. “I don’t want to talk about it. It’s painful.”

  “Sorry.”

  “Curtis made negronis,” she says, forcing a cheerful tone. “Let’s go in.”

  Pressing themselves against the house, the women scurry to the French doors.

  51

  When Bianca and Sydney enter the kitchen, Damian can tell they’ve been smoking. The scent of cigarettes emanates from their hair and their clothes, causing him a knee-jerk stab of irritation. But as he takes the last sip of his negroni, he lets his annoyance go. There’s really no need for Bianca to hide her smoking habit anymore. The lies, the secrets, and this fucked-up game are almost over.

  “Sit,” Curtis says, ushering the women toward the table. “Damian, can you open a bottle of red?”

  “Sure.” Damian moves to the wine rack and pretends he has a clue which wine to select. He grabs one, brings it to Curtis at the stove. “Is this okay?”

  Curtis drops egg noodles into a pasta bowl, tops them with a scoop of aromatic stroganoff. He glances at the label on the bottle. “Excellent choice,” he says, taking the bowl to the table and setting it in front of Bianca.

  Damian twists out the cork and fills four glasses. As he carries them to the dining room, he takes in the scene. There are candles on the table, their flames flickering as Curtis places bowls of food on the place mats. Syd takes her seat at the end nearest the kitchen. With her hair wet and no makeup, she looks sexy, but wholesome and ethereal. Bianca is seated beside her, looking drawn but placid. On the surface, this appears to be a rustic but upscale dinner party, four friends enjoying comfort food on a stormy night. Underneath, there is so much more at play.

  Handing each diner a wineglass, Damian sits next to Bianca. Curtis has served him a heaping bowl of food, and he realizes he’s starving. He scoops up a forkful, stuffs it into his mouth, and chews.

  “Mmm,” he mumbles appreciatively, glancing around at his companions. He knows this is all fake, that the collegial atmosphere is forced for Sydney’s benefit, but that doesn’t mean he can’t enjoy it. The plan he concocted back in Indiana has come to fruition. Curtis has promised to deliver on their demands. They can stop punishing him for one night before he’s left in ruins.

  “This is delicious,” Sydney says, taking a delicate bite.

  “Thanks,” Curtis responds. “It was my grandmother’s specialty.”

  She glances at her husband. “I thought your grandmother was British?”

  “On my mom’s side. But my grandma on my dad’s side was half Hungarian.”