Nikki shifted uncomfortably as she skimmed the intimate confessions. She felt like an intruder—as if she’d found a stranger’s diary.
The entries stretched back to August, shortly before the family set sail onThe Prophet. As Sally indicated, Claire had been infatuated with her employer. Most entries read like the thoughts of a typical young woman, but when Claire wrote about Jayston, whom she referred to as “Rochester,” the language was florid—as if she were the heroine in a romance novel.
The fixation seemed to originate at a restaurant where Jayston noticed she was cold and loaned her his jacket.
SO thoughtful. And it SMELLED like him! Heaven! Incredible.
Beyond this, Claire described only professional interactions with Jayston; nothing sexual or inappropriate. Given Lydia’s account of her daughter’s shyness and inexperience with men, Nikki wondered whether Jayston was even aware of Claire’s limerence.
Apart from her overwrought declarations about Jayston, Claire was enthusiastic in her descriptions of life aboard the yacht—exploring Greece and Croatia, and playing with Audrey. She loved andenjoyed the awkward little girl, and sympathized with the trauma of losing her younger brother.
Audrey’s tendency to run away or hide on the yacht seemed a frequent occurrence, which Claire attributed to her parents’ battles, and Audrey’s unmet need for her mother’s attention.
Claire had created the blog well after the start of the hostilities with Fiona, and by then was already clearly distressed by the adversarial relationship. The topic appeared frequently and, as Fiona’s criticism escalated, Claire’s posts darkened.
She says she’s hired private detectives to get dirt on Rochester. She saysI know why you’re really here. Don’t think you’re the first one, Princess. Like she actually knows. She’s a liar. I know that. But I need to be more careful. She’ll never let him go.
Yet there were hints that their interactions had once been warmer. Claire mentioned clothing and jewelry that Fiona had once loaned her—until their rapport soured and Fiona demanded them back.
Nikki startled as the door buzzer sounded. She stood and shut her laptop.
—
Nikki’s father was on the landing, rocking back on his heels and finishing a cigarette. He stubbed it out on the iron railing.
“Ah, Nina! There she is!”
He kissed her cheeks and followed her inside, rubbing his hands together.
“Sì, sì, sì,” he muttered.
“Do you remember Sandro Balestrieri?” Nikki asked. “Adriano’s friend from the carabinieri? He said he saw you in the office.”
“Of course! He’s a big man now in the agency. I had coffee with him yesterday.”
Nikki exhaled. “Good. I need his contact information.”
“What for?”
“There’s a man who doesn’t show up in the police facial recognition search. I thought Sandro might have access to different databases.”
“What man?” He was suddenly interested. “Show me.”
Nikki texted him the photo Valerio had sent.
Raoul put on his reading glasses and studied the image, squinting.
“Don’t recognize him.” He sounded disappointed. “Looks Slavic…Eastern European.”
Nikki smiled. “Are you supposed to recognize every criminal?”
“I could—at one time,” he said, with a matching grin.
“So, will you ask Sandro?”
“Make me coffee, and you have a deal!”
—
