The Lion's Den(79)

“Dylan?” I asked.

“Yeah, I’m here.”

“Do you think he would do it?” Again, he was quiet long enough that I wondered whether the call had dropped. “You still there?”

“Yeah, sorry.” He sounded tired. “No. It just doesn’t sound like…I can’t…But I don’t know. I mean, he has an artist’s temperament. He’s up and down…” Another long pause. “His mom committed suicide. I don’t think he ever really got over it.”

Suicide. My heart ached for young Eric, eleven and suddenly motherless. I couldn’t read Summer’s reaction with the hat and sunglasses obscuring her face, but if she was surprised, she hid it well. Had he shared this tragedy with her? Perhaps their relationship was indeed deeper than he’d made it out to be. I leaned closer to the phone. “Do you think you could help find him?”

“Of course,” Dylan said, pulling himself together. “I’m sure there’s an explanation for this. Let me see what I can do. Forward that email to me. I’ll get back to you.”

As I hung up the phone, I felt a prickling sensation at the base of my spine. Something just didn’t add up.





Day 6

Thursday evening—Saint-Tropez, France



It’s ten to five when we get back to the port. The day is still torrid, and when the boat has not arrived by five thirty, we trudge across the street and take a seat at the restaurant where we had a glass of wine earlier. I guzzle a fizzy water and blot my face with the napkin. I am not looking forward to my “meeting” with John—or seeing Summer, or Wendy, or any of it. If all my stuff weren’t on the boat, I’d be more than tempted to just bail, regardless of everything else. But for now I’m stuck. I don’t even have my passport.

I’m so distracted by my thoughts that I don’t see the Lion’s Den pull into port. Amythest grabs my arm. “Let’s go. We don’t want to get left again.”

The knot in my stomach tightens as we board the boat. The deck is deserted aside from Dre, who helps me down from the gangplank, whispering, “Sorry about this afternoon. All the crew wanted to wait, but they say no.”

I nod. “Thanks. Where is everyone?”

“In their rooms, dressing for dinner.”

“I thought we were supposed to be going to drinks with John’s friends here at five.”

“Change of plans,” he says. “Dinner on the boat while we go to Italy. Monsieur Lyons has a meeting there in the morning.”

He reels in the gangplank and the boat is moving.

When I reach the room, Amythest is sitting on her bed, phone in hand, giggling.

“What is it?” I ask.

“Just John.”

“Seriously?”

She titters. “That bitch thinks she’s better than us because she has all this, but it’s not hers; it’s his. She thinks she has him wrapped around her finger, but it could be me inviting you to come on this trip next year. And I would—I’d invite you. None of the rest of these hoes, but you’ve been good to me.”

“Amythest. You literally just promised me you’d keep your head down and go home without any more drama.”

“It’s not drama if she doesn’t know about it.”

I pop my knuckles in frustration. “Just…please be careful,” I plead. “You really don’t want her to find out. I know you’re pissed, but just maybe hold off till we get home. Let’s try to make it through the next two days without it becoming a soap opera.” Who am I kidding? It’s already a soap opera.

“More like a skin flick.” She winks.

In the shower, I try to psych myself up for my meeting with John, going over what I plan to say to him. My mind keeps cycling to what I’d actually like to ask him, but I know he wouldn’t answer and I’d only jeopardize my own safety. Beyond that, I’m divided about whether I want to get kicked off the boat or stick out the rest of the trip. I have no desire to be here anymore, obviously, but getting fired isn’t exactly ideal, either. Surely they would at least give me a plane ticket back if they exiled me?

While I’m washing the conditioner from my hair, Amythest slides open the shower door, already naked. “Camille came by. You have a meeting with John at six thirty.”

I wring out my hair. “Fun.”

“You should bring me with you.”

I reach past her for a towel, and she takes my place in the shower. “I don’t want to get you kicked off the boat, too.”

“If I get kicked off, I’ll get kicked off in style. Don’t think I haven’t recorded my sessions with John.”

“You’re kidding.” I’m hit with a tidal wave of both horror and pride. Didn’t know the girl had it in her.

“Nope,” she says proudly. “I recorded everything with my phone. You never know when something like that might be useful. I’m sure he doesn’t want the world to know how much trouble he has getting it up. And how nasty he is. I look great, though, so I don’t mind. Check it out—my phone’s on the bed. My password’s 6969.”

Of course it is. Do I even want to see this? But I have to know. I can only imagine what John and his goons would do—or worse, Summer. I scroll through her videos folder and click on one featuring an askew angle of the bed I’m sitting on right now. There’s something hanging down in the foreground…a purse strap. She’d set up the phone in her purse so John wouldn’t suspect. Smart. I cringe to see John’s junk on camera.