“Somewhere safe. Don’t worry.” It sounds like they’ve stopped right outside my closet. “We can deal with her once the storm has passed. The problem is Felicity. She’s missing, and so are two of my guns.”
Oh, come on. Like I’m some comic book vigilante running around in a hurricane, shooting people. Although, come to think of it, it’s not actually that far from the truth. If only I’d known about those guns sooner. But I’ve decided not to kill anyone, I remind myself. Not even Cole.
Unless I have to.
In the hallway, Cole continues. “Good thing I still have this one.”
The hairs on my arms stand up.
“What’s Felicity have to do with this?” Jackson asks gamely.
“She’s the dead woman’s daughter.”
“What?” To his credit, Jackson sounds genuinely shocked.
A tremendous crashing noise over the constant din of the storm outside drowns out their voices. When it subsides, I no longer hear them. Shit, where have they gone? Desperate not to lose them, I slide my feet into my still-wet sneakers and quietly open the door a crack to peer into the pitch-black hallway. Afraid to use my light, I feel my way along the wall and stand listening behind the door to the lobby to make sure they’re gone before slipping through.
Outside I can hear the storm raging like a demon in heat. Every nerve in my body cries out to return to the linen closet and sleep until it’s over, but that’s not an option. What if Cole’s discovered Stella helped me? I don’t even want to think about what he might do to her. And where’s he going with Jackson? I steel my nerves and nudge the front door of the spa open a crack. Immediately it flies wide, ripped from my hand by the vicious wind. A blast of air and water smacks my exposed face as I survey the area for any sign of Cole and Jackson.
Surely Cole won’t harm Jackson; he’s his son, and Cole’s so self-centered he would never imagine that Jackson would choose me over him. I try to convince myself, but my heart is sick with worry.
A flash of lightning illuminates the chaotic scene, sending me scuttling for cover behind the door frame. To my left, a giant oak has fallen into the restaurant, smashing the roof to bits, while ahead of me, so much debris is strewn about the pool deck that it’s difficult to determine the exact location of the pool itself. A golf cart is upside down in the bushes, and the roof of some unseen building now litters the trees. A deafening clap of thunder draws my eyes toward the sky in search of flying debris.
Through the branches of the fallen tree I spot a winking pinprick of light moving toward the building beyond. Cole’s flashlight. It disappears near where I have to guess the door to the main lobby must be. So I’ll need a different entry point. I map the building in my mind, recalling all the doors Jackson and I shored up this afternoon. I decide on a staff entrance around the back of the building that opens into the employee locker rooms.
Before I can chicken out, I kick the door to the spa shut, lower my head, and sprint toward the main building. The wind pushes so hard I’m leaning at nearly a forty-five-degree angle as I fight my way through sheets of rain and flying detritus. A gust throws me into the muddy tangled roots of the oak, terrifyingly pinning me there for a moment before it changes directions. When it lets up, I run like hell around the corner of the building, narrowly missing being nailed by a falling branch before I yank open the staff door with all my might and dive into the relative safety of the locker room.
I click on my flashlight to creep toward the door, where I extinguish the light before softly pushing it open and slipping into the hallway like a ghost. I pause, listening intently for any human sounds, then grope my way back toward the lobby, where the complete blackout lessens to the darkest gloom. Though the high-beamed ceiling is still intact, a steady breeze buffets the leaves and sand now strewn about the tiled floor as a result of the compromised roof of the restaurant. I can’t make out much in the dark, but I note an overturned chair, a smashed lamp. No sign of Jackson and Cole, or Stella.
I steal across the lobby in the direction the breeze is coming from but don’t make it halfway before I trip over something and tumble to the floor with a clamor that would wake the dead. My knee throbs where it struck the tile.
Footsteps.
I have to hide fast, but where, when I can’t see? Recalling the overturned chair, I scuttle backward toward where it should be, fumbling as noiselessly as I can. My reaching hands land on soft upholstery, and I tuck myself behind the seat of the chair just as a shaft of light cuts through the darkness. I huddle in the shadows and hold my breath while Cole prowls the room, shining the light around the space. I’m nearly sure he can hear my heart thumping as the seconds drag on, but finally he must decide there’s no one here because he turns and stalks briskly out the side door.
A whoosh of air sweeps in as the door shuts behind him. What has he done with Jackson and Stella? An image of my mother, her eyes fixed, her skin ashen, flashes before my eyes. I can’t let the same thing happen to them.
As I unfurl my limbs, my hand strikes what feels like a wet tennis shoe. I tentatively trace my fingers over it. It’s definitely a shoe. A woman’s running shoe soaked in water and mud. A shoe that can only belong to one person. I grab it and creep blindly toward the hallway where Cole came from, fear driving me forward.
When I reach the hall that connects the lobby to the restaurant, I can feel the wind from above rushing through the splintered ceiling, blasting the branches of the fallen tree into a dangerous frenzy of bark and leaves. I drag my hand along the wall until I find the stairwell that leads down to the wine cellar, and gripping the handrail, carefully descend the steps. Once I’m safely around the bend in the stairs, I click on my flashlight. My breath catches in my throat as the beam illuminates the shoe in my hands. It’s one of Stella’s white tennis shoes, streaked with mud. On the toe is a single drop of blood.
I tear down the remaining steps to the basement, where a hallway lined with movie posters featuring Cole’s face leads to a giant steel door that I can only imagine opens into the fabled wine room. “Jackson?” I call. “Stella? Hello?”
I grasp the long steel bar that holds the door in place and slide it back in its track, then pull the heavy door open and shine my light into the room. Jackson squints up at me from where he sits on the floor, filthy and wet. Thank God. “Are you hurt?” I ask, rushing over to him.
“I’m fine,” he breathes. “Just glad you’re okay.”
As I kneel beside him, I bump into the stack of framed posters that leans against the wall next to him, sending one of them clattering to the floor. I right it, noting it’s a framed poster of The Gentleman Gangster 2, featuring Cole in front of a bank vault with a hatch not dissimilar to the door I opened to enter this room.
“What happened?” I ask.
“He found me, told me you and Stella were—”
“I heard that part. I was in the linen closet listening. I never slept—the caffeine pills kept me awake. How’d you end up here?”
“He said it was the best place to ride out the storm, but when we got here, he pulled a gun on me and told me he was locking me in for my own good.”
“At least we know he doesn’t want to kill you.”
“He doesn’t know I’m on your side,” he returns.
Cole’s face taunts me from the poster behind Jackson’s shoulder, and all of a sudden it hits me. “He locked you in here just like he locked the tellers in the bank vault so they wouldn’t get caught in the shoot-out in Gentleman Gangster 2,” I say. Something inside me clicks, like a crucial puzzle piece that, when it snaps into place, makes the rest of the picture clear. “Stella said the drugged lemonade was his idea too. It was from the fourth movie in the series,” I add, realizing. “Only it was tea, used to put the guards of a museum to sleep while he lifted a painting.”
Jackson stares at me, baffled. “What are you talking about?”
“Do you notice everything he does is from a movie he’s been in? It’s like he’s taken piec
es of his characters with him and is acting out the plotlines over and over again.”
“Was being a shitty father one of the plotlines?”
He obviously means it as a rhetorical question, but I thumb through the file of his films I keep in my mind, snapping my fingers when it comes to me. “Bad Boy. His father bribed him to keep quiet about company secrets he’d discovered by giving him a large stake in the company. He played the son, but he’s become the father. So yes, even that.”
“Okay,” he says slowly. “I see the pattern, but what are you getting at?”
“I found Stella’s shoe in the lobby.” I hold it up, and his gaze immediately lands on the drop of blood. “Did Cole say anything about her?”
“Only that she was somewhere safe, and he would deal with her after the storm passed.”
“Anything else? Anything specific? Think.”
He closes his eyes, thinking. “Something about her choosing her ship?”
I recognize the line. “To sail into a storm of her own making?”
He nods, eyeing me strangely.
“It’s a line,” I say. “In the third Gentleman Gangster movie, he says it before killing a man aboard a boat, then sending it sailing into a storm while he escapes on a Jet Ski. He’s playing a character. Or a lot of them. Everything he’s doing is something he’s done in a film.”
Jackson’s countenance hardens. “We’ve gotta get to his yacht.”
Stella
The oblivion of unconsciousness morphed to thick darkness and violent lurching, underscored by the deafening roar of the sea and wind. Water sloshed around me; my throat stung with salt and thirst. One of my ankles throbbed with an unknown injury, and my hands were tied with rough rope around something solid above my head. The stabbing pain that split my skull pulsed with every plunge and toss, as though I’d been thrown into a washing machine in hell.
Confusion turned to panic as I realized where I must be. I remembered everything leading up to the moment the gun came down on my temple—the same gun Bad Billy had used to brain Wildman Sam, if Cole’s story was to be believed—and then he must have tied me up out here on his boat in the middle of a hurricane. The only good news, if there was any, was that the boat seemed to still be tied to the dock. I felt a dull, jarring thunk every time a wave slammed it into the rubber bumpers.
I’d been a fool to think I could lie to him. I’d been a fool to get involved with him at all. I knew better, goddammit. Biggest mistake of my life, marrying him. And I’d made a lot of mistakes in my life. If only I’d stayed away from him, Felicity would still have a mother; I’d have a career. But that line of thought was useless now. I wouldn’t let the heavy brick of regret drag me to the bottom of the sea. I had to fight.
My arms were sore and nearly numb from being trussed over my head; I wiggled my wrists against the rope and found they were already rubbed raw. I stretched my fingers, reaching for the tie, but no matter how I tried, I couldn’t get them to even touch it, let alone unfasten the knots. A thorny coat of terror wrapped tight around my throat. Thinking I could use my teeth if I could get them close enough, I attempted to pull my feet in, only to find they were firmly tied to something else, too far away to give me enough leverage to reach my mouth anywhere near my wrist bindings. Please, universe, give me some shred of hope to hold on to.
I was still alive. Cole could easily have shot me, but he had only pistol-whipped me, which meant he must prefer me breathing, a positive sign to be sure. All I had to do was survive this horror carnival ride for the duration of the storm, then surely someone would come. But how long would that be? Cole must have gone to look for Felicity and Jackson. I had to believe he wouldn’t find them; the alternative wasn’t acceptable. I implored the universe to take Cole’s life instead of theirs—instead of mine.
If I made it out of here alive, I swore to the heavens I was going to be healthy again inside and out, whatever it took. I’d give up drinking and pills for real this time, take responsibility for myself and my addiction. I’d sell my jewelry and fix the roof, like Felicity had suggested—live within my means. Hell, maybe I’d sell the house. I’d give back, actually do something positive for the world instead of pretending. I could take one of the acting teacher jobs that were sometimes offered, mentor young hopefuls as they reached for their dreams.
A powerful wave slammed into the boat, violently jerking my body away from the wall as the boat keened.
If I make it out of here alive.
Ever since Iris died I’d thought that my life was over, but as I pitched and tossed in the darkness at death’s doorstep, I finally understood it was in fact quite full of possibility, and I wanted to live. Maybe my psychic’s prediction that I’d be okay once I was true to myself had less to do with being a star and more about accepting myself for who I was, unphotoshopped. I didn’t want to hide anymore. I wouldn’t be a victim any longer. I could be better. I swore I could. Please, universe, let me live.
The door suddenly banged open, and a glaring light nailed me in the face. I recoiled and squeezed my eyes shut until I felt the beam leave my field of vision, then stole a glance around. I was in the waterlogged living room of Cole’s new yacht, tied to a handrail next to a couch. Cole’s dark bulk filled the doorway, his flashlight veering haphazardly as the vessel pitched in the surf, leaning steeply toward the side where the pier seemed to be.
Dread tightened my chest. “What are you doing?” My throat was dry, my voice scratchy.
He stomped over and squatted in front of me. “You’re going for a sail, sweetheart.”
Oh no. No, no. “Please don’t do this, Cole,” I begged.
“Oh, come on, Stella.” He spat my name like it was distasteful to him. “You’ve been trying to kill yourself for years. I’m just helping you out. Something I should have done a long time ago.”
“Why?”
“You want to ruin your own life, fine,” he snarled. “But I’m not gonna let you ruin mine.”
“I’m not gonna ruin your life,” I pleaded. “I wouldn’t have come here if I wanted to ruin your life. I was grateful for the opportunity to work with you again, to heal our past wounds—”
He howled with laughter, turning the hand that didn’t clutch the gun into a talking mouth. “Soooo grateful for the opportunity to heal our past wounds, were you?” he mocked me. “You were so desperate, you would have fucked a donkey for five grand. That’s why I invited you here.”
I squinted at him. “What?”
“Don’t even try to pretend with me, you manipulative cunt. You knew I’d see that interview you gave about coming clean. Big coincidence it happened to be right after I finally stopped giving you handouts, huh? You tried to call my bluff, and you lost.”
I stared at him in shock. He’d hardly been giving me handouts. It was true the stream of residual payments from Faster, on which he’d added me as an executive producer, had turned to a trickle and then finally run dry shortly before I gave that interview, but I was only trying to drum up a new flow of revenue with a book deal, not to sell our secrets—my secrets—to the press.
But he had all the power in the situation, and I reasoned arguing with him on a literal sinking ship was not going to get me what I wanted. No, flattery was what I needed. “I told you I wasn’t really going to write the memoir,” I implored. “It was a stupid interview. You’re right. I was desperate—”
“So desperate you tried to get my own son to blackmail me—”
I was genuinely baffled. “Jackson?”
A wave crashed into the side of the boat, washing over my legs and sending Cole scrabbling for support. “I’m not stupid, Stella. You give that interview, and then he reaches out after years of hardly speaking to me to ask what really happened to Barbie?”
“Iris,” I corrected him.
“Whatever. She was a whore who was using both of us, and you should be thanking me for getting rid of her.”
Fury flooded my brain. I wanted to tear into his flesh with my
nails and hear him cry out in pain; it took every ounce of self-control to restrain my voice. “You said she died of an overdose,” I managed.
He laughed. “And she did. Only she wasn’t the one who administered the dose.”
God damn him. “You killed her.”
“She left me no choice.”
“But why?” I cried.
“She’d taped our session a few days before—”
“What do you mean?”
His eyes lit up in the gloom with the realization I didn’t know. “Sleep sex. She’d filmed it to blackmail me.”
Oh, Iris. She’d gone ahead and done it—gone back to him—after I’d told her not to. But had she told him about us? “Blackmail you for what?” I asked, my heart in my throat.
“To keep quiet about your affair, I assume.”
“Is that what she said?”
“She never listed her demands. She was as surprised to see me as I was her.” He braced himself against the bulkhead as the boat keeled. “She was confrontational, angry about this rabbit’s foot key chain that belonged to a friend of hers she’d found in my things—”
An image of the rainbow rabbit’s foot that disappeared from his drawer flashed before my eyes. Iris had acted so strange about it. “What does that have to do with anything?”
We stared each other down as the ship pitched and tossed, sloshing water all around us. “The friend died of an overdose,” he growled.
“So why did you have her rabbit’s foot?” I asked through gritted teeth.
He adjusted his grip on the gun. “She was one of the sleeping girls, before Iris. I found it under the bed after she died.”
“Did she die at our house?” I demanded, blinking seawater from my eyes.
He didn’t answer, but the dark mask of his face told me everything I needed to know. My body burned with hate. “Had Iris known before, that her friend was one of your girls?”
He shook his head. “But she put it together. Accused me of killing her, then rushed at me and fell into the coffee table and knocked herself out.”
The Siren Page 35
