His eyes are finally getting heavy, and he rolls onto his side. Soon he drifts off, finds himself in a troubling dream. Something—or someone—is after him. Damian is running from sharp claws, or maybe a dagger, but he’s weak, his legs barely functional. Suddenly a thud jolts him awake. It’s the sound of an object hitting the tiled floor. It could be nothing—a dropped book or a phone—but he bolts upright, listens.

  Is there someone in the hall? He tries to quiet his own breath and heartbeat and listen. There’s nothing but silence now. No voices. No footsteps. The house is quiet, and he assumes his hosts have gone to bed. He lies back down, but his nervous system won’t settle. Is he wound up from the ugly dream? Or is his intuition warning him of danger?

  He’s tried to ignore his doubts and fears, but they bubble to the surface now. Does Curtis Lowe really trust his guests to get their money and ride off into the sunset? To accept five million bucks as compensation for the death of a beloved sister? Curtis was a savvy businessman in the cutthroat world of New York real estate. Are they to believe he’s suddenly become so gullible?

  If Damian was being blackmailed, he knows what he’d do. He’d erase the problem. He’d play along, make like he was going to pay the money, and then, when the extortionists dropped their guard, he’d strike. But Curtis Lowe is a pussy, a coward, a creep who preys on little girls. He could never summon the courage to take on Damian, even though Curtis’s marriage, reputation, and everything he cares about are on the line. Could he?

  No. There’s no way the smaller man would try to physically attack him. It would be a death sentence. Damian is stronger, faster, and tougher in every way. Only a gun would tip the balance of power in Curtis’s favor, but he’d assured Damian that he didn’t have one. In fact, he’d been highly offended when Damian had suggested he might own one that night at dinner. And this is Europe, where it’s famously difficult to obtain a firearm. Reassured, he drifts away into sleep.

  The room is dark, silent but for the rain pattering on the roof, when the pain shocks him awake. It’s a ripping, tearing sensation in his lower intestines, a powerful wave of nausea. Damian rolls over and vomits on the floor, a cascade of red wine splashing the tiles. Jesus. He didn’t think he was that drunk. In fact, he knows he wasn’t. Another surge of intense cramping curls him into the fetal position, and he grits his teeth against the anguish.

  It’s food poisoning. And it’s bad. Damian tries to remember what he’d eaten that day, but the searing pain is too distracting. His viscera are being torn apart, and he groans audibly. He needs to get to the toilet, though the thought of standing upright makes him whimper. But he’s not going to shit the bed, not in Sydney’s house. Doubled over in pain, he staggers across the hall to the bathroom, slams the door behind him.

  Immediately, he collapses onto the cold tiles, hands reaching for the cool porcelain of the commode. A cold sweat prickles his skin, and his entire insides feel liquefied. He’s sick. Really sick. He needs Curtis to drive him to the ER, but he can’t leave the bathroom. Not yet. In the distance, he hears a braying, wounded animal. It must be a wild boar, shot by a hunter with a gun or a crossbow. The creature is dying slowly and painfully, its anguish echoing through the quiet hillside.

  Just before he loses consciousness, Damian realizes the sound is coming from him.

  Curtis and Sydney

  54

  Curtis vividly remembers the first time they saw the Spanish house. The Realtor, José Sainz, had picked them up from the small apartment they’d rented in Girona, had driven them toward the sea. Curtis had sat in the cramped back seat, allowing Sydney to sit up front and take in the views. José had regaled them with tales of the area, its medieval history, its culture of passion and bravery. It was imperative that his wife fall in love with Cap de Creus. This was where they’d rebuild their life together.

  The villa that would become their home had been vacant for several months. José apologized for the state of disrepair as they meandered down the hillside toward it, but his words barely registered. The view had them mesmerized, glimpses of the whitewashed town and the sparkling Mediterranean seducing their attention. Eventually, José turned into the gravel drive, and they jostled toward the house.

  José’s business motto was clearly underpromise and overdeliver. While there were repairs to be made, upgrades desperately needed, the bones of the house were good. And the magnificent windows! The sweeping views! The charming beamed ceilings! Curtis had never felt a visceral longing to live somewhere before, but he felt it now. Sydney felt it, too. They’d fallen instantly in love with the place.

  They hadn’t even tried to play coy with the salesman; they couldn’t. Wandering through the rooms, they’d estimated the work required, tallied up the costs on a notes app. It was significant, but Curtis and Syd were up for the challenge. They needed a project that would bring them together, a shared goal. That was why they’d moved here.

  When they’d surveyed every inch of the house, José took them outside, walked them around the fence line. “It’s one of the larger plots on this hillside,” the Realtor told them. “With full sun most of the year at the west fence line. You could grow vegetables or fruit.”

  “Grapes?” Curtis queried, and caught Sydney’s eye. Her smile was small but optimistic, and she’d never looked more beautiful to him.

  “Of course,” José insisted, moving toward the massive oak near the back fence. “This hillside would be perfect for Airén grapes. You could make a beautiful small winery here.”

  Curtis could envision it. An aspirational new business. He and Sydney working side by side to create their own wine. It would be hard work, long hours, and it was unlikely to be financially rewarding. But it would be theirs.

  José had reached the tree now and rested a hand on the trunk. “This beautiful Holm oak tree is hundreds of years old,” he said. “It will give you shade for picnics. And it will be perfect for your future children to climb on.”

  It was a patriarchal assumption, and Curtis’s eyes had darted to Sydney’s. But she seemed unfazed, comfortable with the decision they’d made together to remain a family of two. She kept her gaze on the massive tree. “It’s beautiful,” she responded.

  José squatted next to the base of the thick trunk and plucked a small mushroom from a cluster growing there. “These mushrooms are very poisonous. Extremely dangerous.”

  Curtis bent over to look at the offending fungi. “They look a bit like straw mushrooms.”

  “That is the problem,” the real estate agent said, righting himself. “Many people make that mistake and pick them. They taste quite good, apparently. But even cooked, they can kill you.”

  “Thanks for the warning, but I’m allergic to mushrooms,” Syd said, even though she wasn’t. She wandered up the hill to take in more of the view.

  “We’ll steer clear,” Curtis assured their guide, but José wasn’t finished.

  “People get very sick, and then, a few hours later, they feel better. They think it was simple food poisoning, so they don’t go to the doctor. But the poison is still inside them, destroying their organs. And then, they die.”

  “Brutal.”

  “You call these death caps in English,” José stated.

  “I think we have those back home,” Curtis said, but it wasn’t like he’d been foraging for food in the sidewalk cracks of Manhattan.

  “Curtis!” Sydney called from the upper fence line. “Look at the view from up here!”

  He’d hurried to join her, the death caps forgotten.

  Until today.

  The memory had revisited him shortly after he’d discovered the machete, wrapped it in an old sweater, and hidden it at the back of the shelf in their bedroom closet. He’d known he’d never be able to use it. As desperate as he was, he couldn’t hack Damian and Bianca to death. It was so gory, so bloody. And Damian was much bigger and stronger. He’d wrestle the weapon away from Curtis and likely cleave him in half.

  But poison was relatively clean, hands-off, and should be effective. Traditionally, it’s been considered a woman’s method of murder. Damian would have had a field day with that one… except he wouldn’t because he’d be dead. And unlike a bloody machete attack, this would look like an accident. Bianca and Damian had gone out for lunch, had accidentally ingested the mushrooms. Curtis would dispose of his tormentors and get away scot-free. The plan was perfect. He felt elated, practically high.

  While Sydney was sanding the basement bathroom and Bianca and Damian were at the beach, Curtis had crept out to the big oak. Dropping to his knees at its roots, he’d plucked several of the innocuous-looking fungi. José had informed him that they were safe to handle with his bare hands, that their power wouldn’t be diminished by cooking, that ingesting even a few would be fatal without medical intervention. Storm clouds were gathering by then, foreshadowing a heavy rain that would send their guests scurrying back home. He had no time to waste.

  In the kitchen, he prepared the death caps carefully, treating them with a deserved reverence. He washed them, sliced them uniformly, and then sautéed them with butter and sprigs of fresh thyme. Sydney didn’t eat mushrooms, so she was in no danger. But Damian and Bianca would be suspicious if Curtis didn’t partake. He found a few conventional mushrooms in the fridge, slightly withered with age. He sliced them to match the death caps, sauteed them in a different pan, and hid them in the stove. While his guests were at the beach, he prepared the stroganoff, adding all the ingredients except the death caps. He set two servings aside: one without mushrooms for Sydney, one with the regular mushrooms for himself. It was simple enough to dish up their meals and serve himself last.

  And now, lying next to his wife in bed, he stares sightlessly at his book, and waits. It will take a few hours for the amatoxins to take effect, to begin attacking the blackmailers’ gastrointestinal systems. José had been so detailed that Curtis hadn’t even needed to research the effects. If the police check his devices, they’ll find no searches for poisonous mushrooms, nothing suspicious. It’s a foolproof plan, and he bites on a smile.

  Sydney drops her hardcover on the floor with a loud thump. Curtis flinches. He’s tightly wound, on edge. “Sorry,” she says, reaching over to turn off her lamp. “I hope I didn’t wake the guests.”

  “Damian had a lot of wine,” Curtis says. “And the rain on the roof is pretty loud.”

  “Good night.” It’s slightly cool but not unusually so. And there’s no kiss, which has become the norm since his “affair.” The tender voicemail she’d left him earlier seems to have been forgotten. Syd snuggles down under the covers, presents her back to him. Curtis flicks off his lamp and curls around her. He feels her stiffen slightly, but soon she relaxes into him.

  “I’m glad they’re finally leaving,” he whispers, his mouth close to her ear. “I just want it to be us again.”

  At first, his wife doesn’t answer. She’s so still, so quiet, that he wonders if she’s already asleep. Eventually, she mumbles something that sounds vaguely affirmative. It sounds like she’s agreeing with him, like she’s eager for their guests to go, too. Syd’s been hard to read lately, has seemed trapped in her own head. But once Bianca and Damian are gone, they can work on restoring their closeness.

  And that will be very soon.

  Sydney Cleary and Curtis Lowe, Couples’ Counseling Session

  Ellen Dwyer, Psychologist, PsyD

  July 29

  TRANSCRIPT 6.

  Ellen:

  How are you both doing?

  Curtis:

  I feel like Syd’s shut down. Like our relationship is regressing.

  Ellen:

  Healing from an affair is really hard. Sydney, why don’t you share what’s been going on with you so we can sort this out?

  Sydney:

  Curtis came home late the other night. I started to worry.

  Curtis:

  I had a client dinner that ran late. I’m co-owner of the company. These things aren’t optional.

  Sydney:

  I know that. But when you stay out late, I can’t stop worrying that you’re with Collette. Or with someone else.

  Curtis:

  I don’t know what else to do. I came clean, Syd. I told you everything. I’ve given you access to my phone and my computer. Do you want me to quit my job? Because I will.

  Sydney:

  You built that company. I’d never ask you to abandon it. I know you need to go out and network and schmooze. I know that dinners and drinks are part of your job. But… I’m just not sure I can stay married to you.

  Curtis:

  You’re more important to me than the company. Far more important. I’ll sell my shares. I can do something different. Or we could move. Start over.

  Sydney:

  Are you serious?

  Curtis:

  Deadly serious.

  Ellen:

  That sounds like a pretty drastic measure to rebuild trust. Can we focus on some other possibilities?

  Curtis:

  Thanks, Ellen. But I think we’re done here.

  55

  Sydney is lying awake in the dark, her mind racing as it tries to slot all the pieces into place. Her body is tense, a block of stone against her husband’s touch. And then she hears it: the distant cry of a tortured beast. The sound rolls over her like a wave, a cold chill pricking her skin. It’s a moan of anguish like she’s never heard, the guttural cry of an injured animal. Or it’s Damian, dying on the bathroom floor.

  “Curtis,” she says, shaking him awake. “What’s wrong with him?”

  Her husband sounds fully alert when he answers. “I have no idea.”

  “I’ll go check on him.” Syd twists her legs out of bed, but Curtis stops her with a hand on her shoulder.

  “I’ll go.” He climbs out the other side in his boxers and T-shirt. “This could be messy.”

  Sydney waits, her pulse skittering, her mind running over the possibilities for spontaneous and excruciating pain. It could be a twisted bowel or a kidney stone. Damian could have had a preexisting condition that’s just flaring up now. His moans continue, and she grabs her phone, considers calling 112 for an ambulance, but she waits for Curtis to return.

  “Seems like a case of food poisoning,” her husband says, climbing back into bed. “He’ll be fine in a few hours.”

  “What did he eat?”

  “I don’t know. They probably had something spoiled at lunch today.”

  “Is Bianca okay?”

  “She’s not there.” He fluffs his pillow, sounds remarkably unconcerned. “She must have slept in the van.”

  “We should check on her.” Syd moves to get up. “She might be sick, too.”

  “Give her some privacy. If she’s puking and shitting herself, she may not want witnesses.”

  Sydney pauses. He has a point.

  “Besides,” Curtis continues, “she’s not as dramatic as her boyfriend.” Damian’s moan, quieter but no less agonized, punctuates the sentence, and Curtis snorts. “He acts like such a tough guy, but a few bad mussels and he wails like a baby.”

  Disdain drips from her husband’s words. He’s more than indifferent to their guest’s suffering; he’s enjoying it. The picture begins to form, a puzzle she’s been trying to solve all evening.

  “Did you do something to them?”

  “What?” Curtis sounds incredulous, offended. “Like what?”

  “I don’t know… Did you feed them something that was off? Or spoiled?”

  “Are you serious?” He sits up. “Why would I want them to be sick in my house? That makes no sense.”

  Syd’s confidence wobbles in the face of his outrage. But she won’t be manipulated, not anymore.

  “Don’t lie to me, Curtis.”

  “I’m not lying.” He reaches out, touches her hair. “I’ve always been honest with you, babe. Even about the affair.”

  “But you didn’t have an affair, did you?”

  His hand falls from her hair, and his eyes turn wary. “How much did you have to drink tonight?”

  He’s trying to gaslight her now. But she knows more than her husband realizes, the information festering inside her. It’s time to let it out.

  “Collette Jasper doesn’t exist. You made her up.”

  “You saw her Facebook page, Sydney.”

  “You created that Facebook page using someone else’s photos. You knew I’d be curious and try to search for Collette online.” She watches his expression for traces of guilt, but Curtis’s face is closed, a mask. “I wondered why the page disappeared, but Meta must have taken it down because it was fake.”

  He shakes his head, like he’s shocked and confused. But it’s a ploy. “I don’t get it, babe. Why would I admit to an affair I didn’t have?”

  “Because you were covering up for something else. Something worse.”

  He reaches for her again, his eyes pleading. “What could be worse than cheating on the woman I love? You know how much I adore you.”

  Her stomach churns at his words, and she recoils from his touch. Because there are worse things. Far worse things. “Come with me,” she commands, sliding out of bed.

  “Where are we going?” he grumbles, but he trails her through the house, Damian’s agonized groans growing fainter as they move toward the stairs. They descend silently to the basement. Syd had spent much of the day down there under the auspices of painting prep, but she’d been otherwise engaged.

  The antiquated security system had been ignored since they moved in, its wires tangled, the console covered in dust. At first, video surveillance of their private oasis had seemed unnecessary. Sydney and Curtis had felt so safe and comfortable in their idyllic hideaway. After they discovered the machete, the video cameras had felt insufficient to protect them from a lurking psychopath. So the system had remained untouched, inoperable. But it had been included in the real estate listing as an asset. If it couldn’t be made functional, why would José have mentioned it?