"Dad sent you?" I force a laugh. "What, another stalker? Should I check under the bed for bodies?"
"There's been an accident." He doesn't move closer. Doesn't soften. "Your father's yacht. An explosion."
The words hit like a fist to the chest.
The margarita glass slips. Crashes. Tequila bleeds across white tile and my bare feet, and I think absurdly,This is going to stain.
"What?"
My voice doesn't sound like mine. Small. Breakable.
"I'm sorry." No inflection. Just fact. "The Coast Guard recovered remains this morning."
Recovered remains.
Like he's debris.
Like Richard Davenport III—the man who snuck me cookies before dinner, who taught me to read tide charts, who called me Izzy when Mother insisted on Isabelle—is just something that washed ashore.
Inside the villa, someone laughs. High. Champagne-drunk.
"How?" The question scrapes out. "How did this happen?"
"Gas leak. That's the official finding."
"Bullshit." The curse surprises us both. "My father was meticulous. Every system checked twice. Every detail catalogued. A gas leak would've required him to ignore like a hundred safety protocols."
"I know."
Something in his voice makes me look up.
"He hired me a week ago. Gave me your location. Your itinerary. Said there were people close to him he couldn't trust." Those grey eyes hold mine. Flat. Unreadable. "I was supposed to meet you when he got back."
The words settle like stones.
People he couldn't trust. People close.
"He knew." My voice comes out hollow. "He knew something was coming."
"He suspected enough to call me."
I need to sit down. My legs aren't working properly. I sink onto the edge of the lounger, wet bikini against hot fabric, and stare at the pool, where I was floating five minutes ago, thinking about cocktails and tan lines.
Five minutes ago, my father was alive.
Now, he's remains.
"Your plane leaves in two hours." Sergei checks his watch. Not looking at me. "I'll handle the arrangements."
"I can't—" My throat closes. "I can't just?—"
"You can." He turns toward the villa, already moving. "Get dressed. Pack light. I'll be outside."
No comfort. No soft words. No hand on my shoulder.
Just efficiency.
I should be offended. Should want someone to hold me, tell me it's going to be okay.
