The Villa(56)

“Mari,” he says, his eyes surprisingly solemn. “I know you think I’m a despicable human, and most of the time, you’re not wrong. But listen to me now. Cut yourself free from all of this.”

“All of what?” she asks, and his mouth thins.

“You know bloody well what I mean. From Pierce and Lara and the whole mess. Use a knife, use a sword, use a pair of fucking kitchen shears if you must, but cut yourself free. Because if you don’t, you’ll drown just as surely as Frances has.”

He lets her go then, limping off back toward the house, and Mari stands there on the lawn, wondering how, on such a sunny and warm day, she can feel so cold.





CHAPTER ELEVEN





The book is almost done.

Somehow, after a year of hardly writing anything at all, I’ve written an entire draft in just a handful of weeks.

As I sit at the little desk where I now know Mari wrote Lilith Rising, I close my laptop, taking a deep breath. Outside, it’s another cloudy afternoon. Chess left earlier to go down to one of the shops in Orvieto, and the house feels very quiet.

I could probably push myself and finish the manuscript within the next couple of hours, but I’m not quite ready yet. I think I’m still waiting for Mari.

I’ve reread Lilith Rising all the way through again, certain that there must be another hint to discover, another clue in there about where the remainder of Mari’s pages might be. Because I am certain now that there are more. That fight with Pierce and Johnnie, Mari’s decision to stay at Villa Rosato—a decision which seals Pierce’s fate and hers—can’t be the note she decided to end on. She wrote about that night, I’m sure of it.

But what has me so convinced? A writerly intuition? Or something more?

I don’t believe in ghosts, but it’s not hard to feel Mari’s presence in this house, and there are times when I wonder if it’s her nudging me on.

There’s more. Find it.

Or maybe I’ve just spent too long going down all these rabbit holes, reading and rereading the same book, filling my head with murder and secrets, and now I’ve completely lost the plot.

Sighing, I drop my head into my hands.

I haven’t had another bout of sickness in a few days, and my brain has felt very clear as I’ve worked. But it’s always there, this threat that my body might betray me, attacking me like some kind of boogeyman, rendering me helpless.

That fear is what makes me think I should just go ahead and finish the manuscript while I can, get it done and off to Rose before I somehow lose myself again.

Speaking of Rose, I remember that I’ve been meaning to email her to ask about Matt and his lawyers. I’ve been putting it off, first because I didn’t feel well, and then because it had seemed silly. What was I supposed to say, “Hey, did you tell my soon-to-be-ex’s lawyers I was working on a new book?”

And I know I’m also putting it off because if I email Rose, it’ll mean there’s this part of me—albeit a little one—that didn’t really believe Chess when she said she hadn’t told Matt.

That she hadn’t talked to him at all.

But I know it’s going to bother me until I get it over with, so I quickly pull up my email and shoot a missive off to Rose. I keep it brief, breezy even, just checking in, legal stuff with the divorce, she understands, just checking what she told Matt’s lawyers about the new book.

I hit Send before I let myself overthink it, and then close my laptop harder than I need to.

On my desk, my phone beeps, and I glance down to see a text from Chess.

It’s a picture of a massive fish on ice, its glassy eyes staring out at the camera.

What if I brought this home for dinner?

Guilt sneaks into my chest, an ugly, oily feeling.

I don’t trust my best friend. That’s the truth of it, and I don’t know if it’s the house getting to me, if it’s Mari, if it’s just me, but there it is.

I type back, I’m actually on this very strict no sea monster diet, so pass.

Then the search continues.

Chess is determined to cook a big fancy dinner for some reason, wanting to buy all the ingredients herself rather than depending on Giulia. Personally, I think she’s using it as a way to avoid working. She hasn’t said anything, but I haven’t really seen her at her laptop all that often. Luckily, she seems to have believed my lie about working on the next Petal Bloom mystery, and the questions about Mari and the book have trickled off.

But that’s actually another reason to get this done quickly. Once it’s in Rose’s hands, I’ll feel better—safer.

I know it sounds paranoid, I know Chess is not actually out to steal this book from me, but I can’t shake the memory of her eyes glinting in the candlelight.

This really seems like one we should work on together.

Like she doesn’t already have enough. Like the book she’s currently not writing won’t sell tons of copies, even if it sucks.

She can’t have this, I think, surprised at how ferocious the thought is.

I’ve probably been spending too much time in Mari’s head, reading about how fiercely competitive she and Lara were, constantly locked in a struggle for the same man, for the same artistic recognition, for the same life in a lot of ways.

It’s true that I haven’t thought nearly as much about Lara as I have about Mari—choosing, I suppose, to be loyal to the woman I feel the most kinship with.