“It’s necessary. Trust me. I don’t like to hear that my future daughter-in-law is being followed.”
“It could’ve been nothing.”
“Perhaps. Or maybe it was something.”
“I appreciate your concern.”
“We’re family now, Marina.”
“I’m glad you think of me that way.”
“I hope you’ll do something for me. Since we’re discussing security.”
“Of course. Anything.”
“Grant mentioned you were working on a story for Press. He said he had hardly seen you since you returned from Paris.”
Marina looked away, unable to meet James’s gaze. “He’s right,” she said. “I’ve been quite busy.”
James frowned impatiently. “My son needs you right now, Marina. And the last thing we need as a family is for you to put yourself in danger running after a story. Grant said that you were thinking of leaving Press after the wedding. I was hoping you might do it now. You’ll be busier than you’ve ever been with campaign events. And it would mean a great deal to me—and to Grant, though I know he’d never say it to you—if you would be there to support our family during what will inevitably be a stressful time.”
“I, well—” Marina stuttered.
“Don’t answer now.” James held up a hand. “Just consider it. Talk it over with Grant. After the election, you can think about returning to work. But I don’t think you’ll want to. I think you’ll find that making the news is a lot more interesting than just writing about it.”
Marina smiled, tight-lipped. She knew him well enough to know that this wasn’t a request. It was a command. If she wanted to be an Ellis, she would fall in line.
“I completely understand.”
“Excellent.” James put his hand on her shoulder and smiled, his face relaxing into his usual, jovial expression. “Oh, I’m nervous, Marina. I’ve given a lot of speeches in my day, but this is a big one.”
“You’ll do wonderfully.”
“Thank you, my dear. I knew I could count on you.”
The crowd began to clap. Marina and James turned toward the stage. Grant was standing beside the chairman of the NYPD Foundation, a microphone in his hand. He smiled at the crowd. Finally the chairman gestured for everyone to quiet down, and Grant stepped forward with the mic.
“Thank you so much for this warm New York welcome,” Grant said. Marina was impressed by how relaxed Grant seemed. If he was at all nervous, he didn’t show it. “This has always been a special evening for my family. My father and I were both born and raised here in New York. This city is immensely important to us, and we both have spent our working lives trying to find ways to give back to the community that has given us both so much.”
“He’s a natural,” James whispered to Marina. “Just look at him.”
“I graduated from college in 2001,” Grant continued. “I was one month into an internship at a bank when 9/11 happened. Three days later, I enlisted. I thought my father would be angry, or at least worried. But he understood why I wanted to serve. I will admit he was a little horrified when he found out my starting salary, but he was proud of me, too. He said there was no greater honor for him than to have his son serving the public good.”
Grant nodded gratefully as the room burst into applause. Several members of the NYPD, all in dress blues, stood up, leading the crowd in a standing ovation. Marina felt a swell of pride. Grant was so humble. He had no interest in celebrity or accolades. Even at dinner with their friends, he talked little about himself. He had an incredible way of turning questions back to his companions. Unlike so many New Yorkers, he listened far more than he spoke. It was one of the things that Marina loved and admired about him. It was a nice change to see him standing on stage in front of a thousand people, getting applauded for his service.
“Grant is what this country needs,” James whispered in her ear. “He doesn’t care about the applause. He genuinely cares about doing good. If I’m successful at this—and I hope I am—I want him to be next. He doesn’t realize it now, but he was born to be a politician. I mean that in the best way possible.”
Marina looked at James. His eyes glowed; his lips curled into a small, contented smile. The clapping faded; Grant raised the mic again. “In recent months, my father and I have talked a great deal about legacy. About the kind of mark we’d like to leave on this world. My father, as you all know, has achieved a great many things in his life. He’s been immensely successful in business. He’s been a patron of the arts and a generous philanthropist for decades. He’s been a proud and loyal husband to my mother, Betsy, for thirty-nine years, and a terrific father and mentor to me. That’s why it’s with great enthusiasm that I take this opportunity to introduce my father, James Ellis.”
The crowd rose to its feet again, roaring its approval. Everyone around them turned to stare at James and Marina, who stood shoulder to shoulder at the edge of the room. Marina blinked as the cameras winked in her direction, momentarily blinding her with their flash.
She felt James’s hand on her shoulder. “Come on up with me,” he said, pushing her lightly in the direction of the stage.
“Are you sure?” In front of her, Grant stood waving at the crowd. When he made eye contact with her, he smiled. He gestured for her to join him. Betsy was already climbing the stairs.
“Yes. They’ll want a photograph of the family.”
His fingers wrapped around her upper arm, his grip firm. In front of them, the crowd parted, opening up a path to the stage. At the front, Marina noticed a cluster of journalists. Some were taking notes; others, photographs. She recognized most of them. At the front was her old friend Leon. He winked at her as she passed. Marina paused and blew him a kiss. Then she turned and ascended the stage.
Annabel
Annabel was in Geneva for what she hoped was the last time. At Heathrow, she’d fought the urge to run. To board a plane bound for another destination and simply disappear. She could dye her hair. Change her name. Start over. A part of her thought that if she returned to Geneva, she’d never leave it alive. But she also knew that if she ran, whoever had killed Matthew would find her. Running made her look guilty.
Annabel found herself standing at her front door, key in hand. She remembered the first time she saw the apartment. It never occurred to her that she’d live somewhere so elegant, so spacious, so grand. The foyer itself was nearly the size of their entire apartment back home in New York. The views—of the cobblestone streets, the elegant Old Town buildings, the crystalline sky that turned slate gray in the snow—were better than any painting. After everything they had been through—the miscarriage, the death of Matthew’s father—she’d felt like they deserved this. A new start. A beautiful life.
Before Annabel could turn the knob, the door creaked open on the hinge. Her heart seized up. The front door was unlocked. She had not left it that way.
She pushed the door with one palm, and it banged open against the foyer wall. Annabel didn’t need to enter to know the place had been ransacked. Whoever had done it wanted her to know they had been there.
“Hello?” Annabel called out. Her voice trembled. “Is anyone here?”
She heard only the rumble of the cable car on the street below and the rustling of the curtains. The windows, she realized, were open.
She shivered and drew her coat close. The room was freezing. Crisp November air streamed in though the open windows. She thought, perhaps, she ought to turn around and run. But in her gut she knew the apartment was empty. Whoever had done this must have come in the night. They were long gone now. Or maybe they were close by, lying in wait. Maybe they were watching her from across the street, observing her every move through long telephoto lenses.
Annabel walked through the apartment in silence, observing the damage. The cabinets had been emptied, their contents scattered on the floor. Her drawers, toss
ed. The safe in the closet—where she kept her good jewelry, their passports, their marriage certificate—gaped open. The jewelry was still inside. Nothing appeared to have been taken, except for the laptop Annabel had left in a locked drawer in the office. She had purchased the laptop right before she left for London; the same model as Matthew’s. It had no information on it. She had locked it in the drawer as a kind of a test. Now, she was glad that she had.
The couches in the living room were slit open and gutted like fish. The paintings and mirrors had been removed from the walls, presumably to check for hidden safes behind them. The one Annabel had painted herself—for Matthew as an anniversary gift—had been dissembled from its frame. It lay in tatters at her feet, the Florence skyline reduced to strips of gray and brown.
Annabel knelt beside it. As she collected the fragments of canvas, something inside her snapped. To lose this painting—worthless to everyone except for her and Matthew—was too much.
“Enough!” she screamed into the empty apartment. “You’ve taken enough.”
Annabel stood. Pure fury burned away the fog of grief that had enveloped her since Matthew’s death. For the first time in days, Annabel felt clearheaded and filled with purpose. If Jonas wanted a fight, she would give him one. She would not stop until every person responsible for Matthew’s death was dead or in jail.
But first, she would give them what they wanted. She would wave the white flag. She would let them think that they had won.
She picked up the phone and dialed.
“Julian,” she cried when he answered. “I’ve been robbed! The whole apartment—it’s been torn apart!”
“Are you all right? You aren’t hurt, are you?”
“No, thank God. I wasn’t home. I was in London, collecting Matthew’s things. But I came home just now, straight from the airport, and—” Annabel let out a hysterical sob.
“I’ll be right over. Have you telephoned the police?”
“No, no. You’re the first person I called. I should, shouldn’t I? I’m sorry. I’m just so upset.”
“Of course you are, darling. Don’t worry. I’ll call them. And I’m on my way to you now. Are you safe there?”
“I think so. The apartment is empty.”
“Was anything taken? Anything of value?”
“I don’t know. I haven’t really checked. Please hurry, Julian. I need you.”
“Of course. Don’t worry, Annabel. I’ll take care of this. I’ll take care of everything.”
No, Annabel thought to herself as she hung up the phone. You won’t. But I will.
She went to the bathroom. She splashed water on her face, causing her mascara to run down her cheeks. She tousled her hair. The show was about to begin, and she was ready for it.
Before Julian arrived, Annabel made one last call.
“Office de la Police,” a female voice answered. “Agent Du Pres.”
“Agent Bloch, please,” Annabel said. She glanced down at the card in her hand, double-checking the number that she had dialed. It was correct.
“I’m sorry,” the woman replied. “Agent Bloch is no longer with Fedpol. May I help you?”
“Agent Vogel, then.”
“Ma’am, there is no Agent Vogel.”
“Thank you,” Annabel said, as coolly as possible. “I must be mistaken.”
“Can I help—”
Annabel hung up the phone before the woman finished her question.
Marina
Where are you?? We’re ready to go to press. This is your story. Let’s get it out there.
Marina was standing on the sidewalk outside Owen’s apartment when she read his text message. She hated what she was about to do. Owen was going to hate it, too.
I’m outside your apartment, she wrote back. Ringing buzzer now.
Owen’s face lit up when he opened the door. In his hand was a corkscrew.
“You came just in time,” he said, ushering her inside. “About to open up something really special.”
“Isn’t it a little early for celebratory toasts?”
“As my dad used to say, it’s five o’clock somewhere in the world.”
“I mean, isn’t it premature? Are we really publishing the story now?”
“Spoke to Christophe an hour ago. Everything will be ready to go by tomorrow night at midnight, New York time. Stories will be uploaded simultaneously. The following morning, we will be front-page news at basically every major source around the globe.”
“That’s great.” Marina offered him a tight smile.
“Your enthusiasm is overwhelming.”
“I’m sorry. It’s really amazing. Truly. I’m happy for you.”
“For me? How about for us?” Owen presented her with a bottle of Château Margaux. “Does this look familiar?”
Marina studied the label. Her eyes widened when she remembered. “Duncan sent that to you, didn’t he?”
Owen nodded. “As a thank-you for my help on the Darlings investigation.”
“And you’ve saved it all these years?”
“He told me to drink it with someone special.”
Marina met Owen’s gaze. She felt a shiver of desire. His eyes changed colors according to his mood, and today they were a gold-flecked green. He leaned in, and for a moment, Marina thought Owen was going to kiss her.
I should pull away, she thought. Instead she stood transfixed, and her eyes fluttered closed.
They popped open when she felt the corkscrew in her hand.
“You do the honors,” Owen said.
“Where’s Yael?” Marina replied, flustered. Suddenly, she was a flurry of action, removing her coat, glancing around the apartment.
“Sleeping.”
Marina craned her neck toward the bedroom.
“At her own apartment.”
“Are you two . . . ?”
“Nah.” Owen shook his head. “We were. For a second. About three years ago. But now we’re just friends.”
“Is that really a thing? Being friends with an ex?”
Owen chuckled. “You don’t think that men and women can be friends?”
“I don’t think that men and women who sleep together can be friends.”
“I guess we shouldn’t sleep together, then.” Owen’s eyes twinkled, but in his voice there was a touch of seriousness.
“I guess not.”
Owen looked at her for another second before turning away. He gestured for her to give him the bottle. He inserted the corkscrew and twisted, pulling the cork from the bottle in one smooth movement. “Good. Because I have a proposal for you.”
“I’m already engaged,” Marina said with a nervous laugh. “Remember?”
“I want you to come work with me.”
“At the Deliverable?”
“Yes. I need a managing editor. You can still write, too. You pick your own projects. Though I’d suggest you start with the Morty Reiss story. There’s plenty to go off of from the material we’ve looked at so far.”
“Wow.” Marina took a seat. “That’s a really generous offer.”
“You’d be my second-in-command. Right below me on the masthead.”
“Thank you, Owen. I’m honestly flattered.”
“But you’re going to say no.”
Marina couldn’t bear to look at him. She could hear the disappointment in his voice. A lump rose in her throat. “I’m sorry,” she said, “but I can’t.”
Owen nodded. For a moment, they were both quiet. Then he picked up the bottle of Château Margaux and poured it into the two glasses he’d set out on his dining room table. “Okay,” he said, “well, if you change your mind, my door is always open.”
“Thanks. That’s very kind.”
“Let’s have a toast, anyway. To this story. From the two of us to Duncan.”<
br />
Marina picked up her glass and tipped it toward Owen. She felt her heart pounding hard in her chest. She’d been through plenty of breakups before—a few had been horrible. This felt worse.
“About this story,” she said, putting her glass back down on the table.
“What’s wrong?”
“I want you to run it under your name.”
Owen looked genuinely perplexed. “Why? It’s your story. You broke it. It will be a career-maker for you, Marina.”
“I know. But I’m giving it to you. Okay?”
“Is this about the Ellises?”
Marina frowned. “It’s my decision. I just can’t put myself in danger anymore. I don’t like being followed. It’s been really scary. And there’s already enough media attention on Grant and his family. I don’t need to stoke that fire.”
“Stoke it how? By doing your job?”
Marina shot him a look. “Don’t make this more difficult than it needs to be.”
“I’m confused. Does Grant want you to quit?”
“Grant is supportive either way. But I’m going to have obligations now, Owen. I’m going to have to travel with him. I’ll be out on the campaign trail. My career is over, whether I publish this story or not. So why not give you the credit?”
“Because that’s not what we do!” Owen banged his fist on the table.
Marina flinched, startled. “You don’t need to shout at me.”
“I’m sorry,” he said, lowering his voice. “But our whole business is about truth. That’s how I see it, anyway. I thought you did, too.”
“I do. Of course I do. I just— I want to protect Grant. I’m going to make plenty of enemies if I publish this piece. Some of them might be family friends, business associates. Some of them might even be world leaders. I just can’t do that to Grant or his father. It could be devastating to their careers. And for what? So I can have a byline?”
“It’s not about a damn byline. It’s about being proud of the work you’ve done. These people are criminals, Marina. And you’re worried about your husband maintaining a good relationship with them?”
The Banker’s Wife Page 17
