“There were famous people at that party. Movie stars and athletes and business moguls. Everyone was doing it! Far worse things than I did!”

  “Stop!” Sydney feels a nearly overwhelming urge to violence. She’s never struck another person in her life, but now she wants to attack. She wants to hit and punch and claw this man. This stranger. Because this is not her husband. There’s a monster trapped inside his familiar form, a demon. She’s never felt such overwhelming hatred.

  She rushes out of the room to the kitchen, desperate for distance from Curtis. She knows he’ll follow her, that he’s not done begging for absolution, but she needs space. Collapsing her arms onto the counter, she presses her forehead to the cool surface. Tears pour untouched down her face, and her body shakes with sobs. She can sense her husband’s presence in the room like a toxic gas, but she takes her time, lets out the pain. Eventually, her sobs subside, and she wipes her face with a tea towel. She feels calm now. Focused on what she needs to do.

  “I’m going to call Brian Hale. He’ll put me in touch with the DA in New York.”

  “You can’t.” Curtis’s voice is adamant. “I won’t allow it.”

  “You can’t stop me,” she snaps. She takes a few steps toward the bedroom to get her phone, but Curtis grabs her arm, yanks her back. He holds her roughly, his voice a growl.

  “There are huge, influential names involved in this, Sydney. They’ll do what needs to be done to protect themselves. West Beatty is fucking ruthless. That’s why I had to get rid of Bianca and Damian.”

  “You poisoned them.” After what she’s heard today, nothing can surprise her anymore.

  “I had to.” He loosens his grip slightly, allows her to extricate herself. “West would have sent a hired killer here to take care of them. It wasn’t safe for you.”

  Syd crosses the kitchen, turns back to face him. “What did you give them?”

  “Remember the death cap mushrooms the Realtor warned us about?”

  “Of course. But you ate mushrooms, too.”

  “I had some regular mushrooms in the fridge. I added those to my plate.”

  “Jesus.” The lengths he’s gone to to protect himself are astounding.

  “Once Bianca and Damian are dead, no one can implicate me anymore. Simon is providing the venues now. I sent him to a party, and he got himself wrapped up in it.” He takes a tentative step toward her. “We can still have an amazing life here. We can still build the future we’ve always wanted.”

  She looks at her husband, his expression so desperate, so pleading. He’s been lying and manipulating for so long. He must be exhausted. And he’s tied up all the loose ends, except for one. Her. Because Curtis and Sydney could have an incredible future in their beautiful Spanish villa. If not for the simple fact that Sydney has a conscience. And her husband knows it.

  Wordlessly, she moves to the fridge and pulls open the door. Inside, she finds Bianca’s leftover meal covered in plastic. She removes the plate of poisoned food and sets it on the counter. It’s cold and congealed, looks unappetizing but completely benign.

  “What are you doing with that?” Curtis asks, but she ignores his question.

  “You know I can’t let this go. I couldn’t live with myself if I didn’t try to stop it.”

  “You can’t stop it, Sydney. You’ll be erased.”

  “The feds could build a RICO case,” she continues, as if he hadn’t spoken. “You’ll likely be charged as a co-conspirator. You’d go to jail as a pedophile. And a sex trafficker.”

  “And you know what would happen to me there!” he cries. “But I’d never make it to jail. Ratting on Beatty is a death sentence. For both of us.”

  For a breath, Sydney wonders if she should be afraid of her husband. She’s the only thing standing between Curtis and a blissful life in Spain. But everything he’s done—the move, the lies, the poisoning—has been for her. He is a corrupt, weak, and selfish man, but he loves her.

  “I’m offering you a way out,” she says, pushing the plate of food toward him.

  “You want me to kill myself? Are you serious?”

  “I’ll make an anonymous call to the DA and leave both our names out of it.” She moves to the kitchen drawer and pulls out a fork. “If you die of an accidental poisoning, I can go on with my life without the shadow of what you did. It’s the only way that I won’t be painted with your disgusting brush.”

  “After all our years together, you want me to die a slow, agonizing death? To suffer like Damian is?”

  “But Damian’s weak, remember?” She sets the fork on the counter. “Surely you’ll handle it better.”

  Curtis stares at the plate of poisoned food, his expression a blend of shock, disbelief, and grief, almost like he can’t believe involving himself in a pedophile ring has had such a dire outcome. He looks up at his wife.

  “If I eat this, you have to promise me you’ll call the DA from a burner phone. And you won’t tell them your name.”

  “I promise.”

  “I—I love you so much,” Curtis blubbers, letting the tears pour from his eyes. “You mean everything to me.”

  Sympathy grips her heart, but just for a breath. It’s undeserved, and she pushes it aside. “Then you’ll eat. Or the world will know you’re a pedophile. And we’ll both suffer the consequences of that.”

  A sob bursts out of him as he picks up the fork.

  Sydney turns and walks out of the room.

  Bianca and Damian

  58

  At some point in the night, Bianca managed to drag herself out of the rain and into the van. Now, she wakes on the linoleum floor, shivering in her damp, dirty clothing. She feels weak and nauseated, but the sharp pains in her stomach are gone. Her bones ache from sleeping on such a hard surface, and there’s a pounding in her skull. But she has recovered. She’s survived.

  Hauling herself upright, she realizes the thudding sound is not just in her head. Someone is knocking on the panel door. Last night, she’d been afraid for her life, desperate to flee. But today, she feels resigned, too exhausted to care if Curtis Lowe is standing outside with a machete. Bianca fumbles with the handle, but she’s so frail, her grasp too weak. “Come in,” she croaks through her damaged throat.

  The door slides open to reveal Sydney standing in the predawn light. The sun is rising behind her, its gentle rays highlighting her ghostly pallor, the lines around her eyes and mouth. Sydney looks to have aged ten years overnight. Was she sick, too? Before Bianca can ask, Syd speaks.

  “I just found out what Curtis did to your sister,” she says. “I’m disgusted. And I’m sorry.”

  If she’s come to Bianca for absolution, she’s deluded. “Do you expect me to believe that you had no idea your husband was a sexual predator?”

  “I was naïve and stupid to believe his lies. I know that now. But I loved him.”

  “You were beyond stupid,” Bianca snarls. “You were a fucking idiot.”

  “I don’t care what you think of me, Bianca.” Sydney’s expression is stony. “You used your sister’s death to make five million dollars.”

  “I never cared about the money,” Bianca blurts. “That was all Damian’s idea. He said it was the best way to hurt Curtis. The only way that wouldn’t send me to jail for murdering him.”

  “Well, he’s not going to pay you,” Sydney continues, unfazed. “He fed you poisonous death cap mushrooms last night. You need to get to a hospital.”

  That devious piece of shit. Damian had convinced her Curtis could be trusted, but Bianca should have known he’d never pay for what he did.

  “Joke’s on Curtis,” Bianca says, struggling out of the van. “I survived. I feel better now.”

  “The poison is still in you, attacking your organs. Go to a hospital. You didn’t eat that much. You might still be okay.” Sydney turns and walks toward the Citroën.

  Bianca is weak, dehydrated, and the tsunami of information in her delicate state has made her woozy. She takes a few steps to follow Sydney, but she stumbles on the gravel, drops down on a knee.

  “Wait!” Bianca drags herself back to her feet, moves gingerly forward. “Where are you going?”

  “I’m not sure,” Syd says, eyes on the sun rising above the sea. But she’s lying. She doesn’t want Bianca to be able to find her. Fair enough.

  Sydney turns her gaze back to Bianca. “I’m going to call the DA in New York. And an investigative journalist I know. I’ll do everything I can to stop the sex-trafficking ring.” Her face softens, and her eyes are damp. “I know it’s too late for Lyric, but maybe some other girls can be saved.”

  There are things Bianca needs to say, but her throat is tight with emotion, still raw from her violent illness. She struggles to push the words past the blockage, to maintain her composure, but she won’t be able to speak without crying. And Bianca doesn’t do that. She’s too hard, too strong. But Sydney is opening the car door; she’s about to leave. It’s now or never. Bianca reaches out, clutches Syd’s arm. “I have more information.”

  With tears spilling from her eyes, Bianca tells Sydney about the restaurant where Lyric worked, a high-end establishment that hired a pretty teenager with no education and no experience. She tells her about the woman who called herself Fay, who preyed on the young girls who worked there. Bianca mentions Lyric’s roommates, who may have information about these parties, and Sydney types the address into her phone.

  Bianca has one last question. “Where is Curtis now?”

  “He ate the rest of your poisoned meal.” Sydney puts on her sunglasses. “It’s what he deserves.”

  Bianca nearly chokes on a sob. Of relief. Of gratitude. “Thank you.”

  “Save yourself,” Sydney says. “Save Damian if you want. I don’t care.” Then she gets in the car and backs down the driveway.

  Bianca knows she should get in the van, drive to the nearest hospital. She’s been poisoned, and time is of the essence. But something draws her toward the house—curiosity, maybe? She needs to know that Curtis really ate that meal, that he’s truly suffering. Or, despite all they’ve been through, is it concern for Damian?

  The house is eerily silent as she slips inside, wanders through the vacant rooms. The bathroom door is closed, locked. Someone is in there, but they’re quiet. She knocks tentatively.

  “Damian?”

  His response is a groan, followed by, “Fuuuuuuck.”

  He’s alive. For now, at least. But where is Curtis?

  Bianca walks into the kitchen, rifles through the drawers for a knife. In her weakened state, she’s unlikely to be able to defend herself, but she can’t approach Curtis without protection. He tried to kill her, even if it was in the most cowardly way possible. And he could still have the machete on his person. She selects a steak knife, sharp but light enough for her to grip. As she turns toward the stairs, she notices the empty plate on the counter, the discarded plastic wrap next to it. It appears Curtis has poisoned himself. Would he really end his life in such a torturous way? She needs to be sure.

  She grips the banister as she descends to the basement, the knife pressed against her thigh. The chill and the damp have made her tremble, but now anxiety takes over. Curtis ate the meal last night. He may be feeling fine by now. He could be lying in wait for her, ready to finish her off. She clutches the knife in her tremulous hand. But as her feet land on the concrete floor, she hears an unmistakable sound.

  Sobbing.

  Bianca hesitates, listening to the outpouring of self-pity. It’s Curtis—there’s no mistaking it—weeping for all he’s lost. He’s wailing about the end of his marriage, crying over the imminent and highly unpleasant end to his life. And maybe he feels some regret for what he did to Lyric, to all the girls who were used and exploited and discarded. Soon, the poison will torture him to death. As if she’s willed it, he gasps and groans. The process is underway. She can leave now.

  59

  Damian stumbles into the kitchen and fills a glass with water. It hurts to swallow, but he forces the liquid down. He’s dehydrated and woozy from last night’s gastro attack. What the hell caused such horrible symptoms? Was it food poisoning? Some strange Spanish virus? It doesn’t matter now. He’s survived the worst of it, and he’ll be feeling a hundred percent soon. He has to be strong and ready. Tonight, the money will arrive, and Damian will begin his new life.

  A presence behind him makes him jump, but it’s just Bianca lurking in the entryway. God, she looks like shit. It’s clear she suffered the same illness he did, but she endured it out in the rain. In addition to her ghostly pallor, her clothes are damp and dirty, her hair matted and tangled. And then he notices the small steak knife clutched in her hand.

  “What are you doing with that?”

  “I went to check on Curtis,” she says, setting the knife on the counter. “He’s sick, too.”

  “And Sydney?” He feels a sharp jab of concern. She’s so fragile, so delicate. A bad case of food poisoning would take its toll on her.

  “She left,” Bianca says.

  “Where did she go?”

  Bianca shrugs. “Maybe to get some Pepto-Bismol?”

  She’s making light of their shared sickness, and he allows a small chuckle. But there’s nothing funny about what he just endured. Last night, he’d been sure he was going to die. As he lay on that cold tiled floor, his life had run through his mind like a film. It was so small, so pedestrian. And that was all Bianca’s fault. If not for her, he’d have left their small hometown, made his way in the world. He’d have been looking back on a life full of travel, adventure, and experiences. But Damian’s been given a second chance, and he’s not going to squander it.

  “I won’t be going to Greece with you,” he says.

  Her reaction is mild: a slight narrowing of the eyes, a subtle nod. She’s been expecting this. She moves past him to the sink and fills a glass from the tap. He watches her drink, rivulets of water running down her cheeks. She sets the glass on the counter and looks at him. He continues.

  “You can take the van. Go wherever you want.” His tone is magnanimous. “Once the money comes in, I’ll tell Sydney what Curtis did to Lyric. She’s going to be upset. I want to stick around and make sure she’s okay.”

  “That’s nice of you.”

  Is she referencing him giving her the van or supporting Sydney? Either way, the compliment sounds disingenuous, even sarcastic. He’s been diplomatic for so long, but he lets himself lash out.

  “It’s time I put myself first, Bianca. I sacrificed my dreams and my future for you. I stayed in Indiana so you could support your little sister and you failed. Lyric ended up a prostitute and a drug addict. And now she’s dead.”

  The words are harsh, even cruel, but his partner has always been adept at shutting down her emotions, presenting a cold, unreadable facade. She does it now, meeting his eyes with her icy blank stare. Then she steps up to him and presses her lips to his cheek. They’re dry, lifeless, but she holds them there for several seconds, the connection between them strong and constant.

  “Good luck with your future, Damian.”

  She turns and walks out of the room.

  He takes a long, hot shower, scrubbing away the remnants of his illness and his past life. He’s fresh, clean, and ready for the next phase of this plan as he heads out to the pool. The sun will nourish him, help him regain his strength. And he needs to get away from Curtis’s tortured moans rising from the basement. His host is in the throes of the illness now, his insides twisting and tearing. Curtis is smaller and weaker, the bacteria hit him harder. Damian got over it so much quicker. In fact, he feels almost normal now.

  Last night’s raindrops cling to the grass, the trees, and the deck chairs. The morning sun hits them, makes them sparkle like diamonds. The whole scene is surreal and magical, like an omen of good things to come. Damian feels an awesome sense of possibility. He can imagine that this house, this land, these glittering views are all his. When Sydney learns the truth about her husband, when she turns to him for comfort, his dream could become a reality.

  Wiping the surface of a deck chair with his sleeve, he lays himself down on it. The morning rays warm his skin through to his bones, restoring his energy and vitality. An unfamiliar feeling settles on him, and he sits with it, ponders it. It’s true contentment. No, it’s more than that. It’s a sense of achievement. Because he made this happen. He’d been stuck for years, and he got himself unstuck. He’s built the perfect fucking future.

  Something dark and unusual catches his eye in the pool. He leans forward, but he can’t quite see the objects on the pool floor. Struggling to his feet, he moves to the edge, peers through the water. Nestled at the bottom are three phones. He recognizes his own, Curtis’s, and the other is a cheap burner phone, likely the one Curtis had been using to call his shady friends. Who threw the phones into the pool? And why?

  It had to be Bianca. She was angry with him, for obvious reasons. Still, tossing the devices into the pool seems childish. Petty. And why would she destroy Curtis’s phones, too? Her behavior solidifies his decision to end things, validates his feelings for Sydney, who is more mature, more grounded. Syd would never do something so vindictive.

  It’s likely too late to save the phones, but he wades into the water to retrieve them anyway. He sets them on the pool deck, attempts to turn them on, but they’re dead. What’s the hack for a wet phone? Salt or rice? He can’t remember. Apparently, his brain is still a little fuzzy, and he wobbles as he climbs out of the pool. He’s dehydrated and exhausted. He needs to rest. And he’s not concerned about his old, dated device. In a few hours he’ll be rich. He can buy a new phone.

  He returns to the deck chair, lets the sun dry him off. As pleasant thoughts filter through the brain fog, he slips into a state of lethargic contentment. Soon the money will come in. Sydney will return. And Damian will finally get everything he deserves.

  He clings to that beautiful promise as he slides into a delirious sleep.