The Lion's Den(106)
“I’ll text you from the burner when I get it,” Eric replied.
George kissed him on both cheeks. “Take care.”
I watched her disappear into the building before pulling away from the curb. “Dylan doesn’t believe the suicide story,” I said. “Yesterday when I spoke to him, he mentioned something about it feeling off and being afraid you’d gotten caught up in something.”
“I didn’t think he would,” Eric said. “He knows me too well. And he knew what I’d gotten into with my dad. But I’m surprised he said anything to you.”
“He didn’t mention specifics. Did you tell him about what happened to the informant?”
“Not yet. I wanted to confront him over it, but I didn’t get a chance before Summer tried to off me.”
“It sounded like he was attempting to warn you through George that your father’s looking for you,” I ventured. “Maybe you should give him a chance to help you.”
“That’s a stretch.” He shook his head. “Anyway, it’s too much of a risk. Even if he didn’t go running to John, he’s likely being monitored by him. Without a body, I doubt John believes the suicide story, either—probably thinks I tried to fake it. There’s no question he’s got people looking for me.”
I replayed the phone call with Dylan in my head as we wove through downtown traffic. He’d sounded distressed, concerned for his brother. And here I was, driving Eric to Mexico without any evidence that his crazy story was true. My instinct was to believe him, and I was pressing on with the expectation that he was sincere, but somewhere in the recesses of my mind, a nagging voice kept reminding me that he was involved with Summer. Could this all be some elaborate plan by the two of them to bilk John out of his money? I couldn’t quite come up with what that plan might be or how I fit in, but…
If I wanted to back out, this was my chance. Eric had his money now. I could leave him at the Metro station and try to forget this ever happened. I’d slowly phase Summer out of my life. Get new friends, normal friends. Friends whose fathers weren’t criminal billionaires, friends who didn’t try to kill their ex-boyfriends.
This was probably what I should do.
But I knew I wouldn’t.
I believed him. I couldn’t explain why, and I hoped it wasn’t just because of those sea-green eyes, but I wanted to help him.
“You’re quiet,” Eric observed.
“It’s a lot to process,” I said. I accelerated onto the freeway, only to find it crawling at a glacial pace. “How did Summer know John was your father?”
He sighed. “A number of his properties and subcompanies are owned through family trusts, so I get a constant stream of documents in the mail that have to do with Lionshare, most of which I ignore. But one morning, probably a year ago, I woke up to find Summer sitting at my desk, going through a pile of papers that had accumulated there—property deeds, stock info, signature requests, one of which was for the purchase of a new jet—things that had his name and info on them. I asked her what she was doing, and she said she was looking for a menu. She never again mentioned anything about it, and I didn’t think about it until last week, when Dylan called with the news that Summer was dating our father.”
“Weird. I talked to Dylan a bunch of times in the past week and he never once mentioned about Summer dating your dad to me.”
He shrugged and threw me a glance as if to say, See?
“At least he told you when he found out,” I pointed out. “She claimed to me that she met John when he randomly flew JetSafe.”
He frowned. “It wasn’t random. I did a little sleuthing after I found out they were dating. She applied for a job on his new jet and had one of his travel coordinators that she’d worked with at JetSafe call on her behalf and arrange for her to work a flight he was on.”
“So you do care.”
He stared out at the palm trees that peered over the top of the freeway wall. “No one likes to be used. Or lied to.”
“The funny thing—if any of this is funny—is that they truly are perfect for each other,” I said. “They’re both monsters.”
Day 7
Friday afternoon—Ligurian coast, Italy
The wildflowers are resplendent in the afternoon sun as I hasten down the dusty path toward a colorful village built into the bluff above the sea, but I’ve got no time to stop and appreciate the view.
My legs are wasted from the climb, my throat parched. A couple of sunburned hikers talking excitedly in German stall as I hurtle past them down the trail; I can only imagine what I must look like: dirty, sweaty, bloody, probably sunburned and wholly improperly dressed. But it’s all downhill from here. I’m ten minutes from water—and, I’m hoping, cell service.
The path empties out onto a cobblestone street that winds through the quaint town toward the port. I follow it past a bed-and-breakfast with all its windows open, under laundry flapping in the breeze, past a restaurant with a sign in the window that says they will return at four…and then, like a mirage in the desert, I spy a small café.
My focus narrows. I beeline into the dark interior, to the refrigerator, and grab the biggest bottle of water they have. My mouth salivates as I peruse the premade sandwiches displayed in the case, pointing to one with what appears to be salami. The owner eyes me curiously, but takes my money without argument, and the next thing I know, I’m sitting on the curb, guzzling cold, refreshing, delicious water. I’ve never been so thirsty. I drink all of it but the last inch or so, which I use to splash my face and wash my hands. When I’m finished, I make quick work of the sandwich, hardly noticing the spicy, perfectly cured meat, earthy olive oil, and soft focaccia.