Slowly, slowly. Shuffling my bare feet across the floor so that I don’t stumble, until my knee hits something solid. I reach down, dizzy, and find myself gripping the side of the tub. I could climb in, lay down against the cool ceramic and sleep until this is all over. But the mental image includes steaming hot water, fragrant bubbles, a Taylor Swift album playing through my ear pods, and candles.
Candles!
Heart racing, I feel my way around the tub to the taps and almost shriek with excitement when I touch a basket filled with tealight candles.
Yes!
Now all I need is something to light them with.
Okay, think, Remy. Where would George’s girlfriend keep a lighter? In the vanity unit? She wouldn’t want it to spoil the aesthetics, so of course she would keep it hidden.
I forget the pain in my skull. I forget that George is still in the apartment waiting for his bank account to swell with a few more zeroes. I need light. If I have light, I’ll be able to think more clearly, and then I’ll figure out what to do next.
As predicted, the vanity unit is on the opposite side of the room from the tub. This bathroom is huge, but I’m only vaguely aware of its size. I’ve blanked out everything but lighting a candle from the basket I’m holding. I open the cupboard doors and kneel in front of the unit, feeling around for a lighter or a box of matches. It’s empty.
No. No. No.
Setting the basket down, I stand up. My eyes are adjusting to the gloom, and I pray for a lighter in the cupboard above my head. I can make out hazy shapes. Bottles of cologne. Face and hair products. The usual contents of a bathroom cabinet.
Then my fingers touch a slim cold object. Cylindrical. A tiny metal wheel at one end. I rub my thumb across it and my heart leaps when a tiny flame flickers in front of me.
I fumble for a tealight candle in the basket, swaying precariously when I lean forward, more bile rising into my mouth. The wicktakes a moment to catch the flame, and when it does, I find myself in a bubble of comforting light.
I stand up and examine the contents of the wall unit. Cologne. Men’s hair products. Men’s shaving balm. Nothing here that belongs to his fiancée. Perhaps they have separate bathrooms, separate bedrooms too. I won’t dwell on it. A loveless marriage is what he deserves.
Then I spot something at the back of the bottom shelf that makes my stomach clench.
At first, I think it might be a small dead animal. Then, I realize that it’s rubbery. Mottled pink and black. I touch it with my fingertip and recoil. In the flickering candlelight, I can’t make sense of what I’m looking at, but I can’t close the cupboard door and walk away either.
I pick it up between my fingertips, fighting the urge to gag.
Hold it closer to the candle and choke on a muffled scream.
It’s a mask. A mask with a black eye, swollen on one side, the lips bruised and crusty with fake blood.
It all comes flooding back. George said that Cash assaulted him, but his face is unmarked. The globs of glue on his jawline and above his eyebrows. The flushed skin and beads of sweat.
He’s been faking the assault to get the cops involved. More pressure on Cash to comply with his demands.
I drop the mask and back away, repelled, waiting for another explanation to present itself, one in which my only relationship wasn’t with a narcissistic maniac.
But I’ve spotted the fluffy white towels on the heated rail. The gold emblem in the corner of each towel that I vaguely recognize. Where have I seen it before? It’s important. My brain hurts, but I can’t let this one go.
Then the memory ignites a spark inside me.
The coasters in Cash’s private booth. The backs of the seats in the casino. The symbols embossed on the windows at the entrance
I’m still in the Titan.
21
CASH
Isabella walkswith us to the private elevator while Terry takes care of Mr. and Mrs. Leone and his team tracks down George Quinn. She walks with a straight back, facing the world as if it literally is her oyster.
She could be toying with us, buying her fiancé some time to disappear. But my gut is telling me that I want to hear what she has to say.
I could be out there trawling the city, searching for Remy. But I’m curbing my impatience until I have a positive lead. I’m better placed to help the woman I love here, with resources at my disposal, rather than stopping people in the street with a photograph and asking if they’ve seen this woman.
