And now Silverman was following along, too.
Jordan didn’t necessarily want to go rogue. He just wanted a few hours to think about what it all meant. Maybe see if he could be the first to figure out what Campbell was up to.
He took pictures of the documents’ top pages and put all the folders back in the safe. Then he carried the gun case back downstairs. Wen and Taylor stopped talking when he held it up.
“The gun’s still there, unless your father had more than one.”
Taylor shook her head, apparently disgusted that she hadn’t actually been threatened at gunpoint. “Ofcourseshe lied.”
“If she’s not armed, that’s a good thing,” said Wen.
Jordan put it on the counter, realizing he wasn’t surprised Campbell had left the gun behind. He would have been more surprised if she had taken it.
Did that mean he believed she wasn’t capable of killing?
SEVENTY-ONE
CARA
3 BR 3 1/2 BA. Incredible Malibu beachfront property. Family fun or romantic hideaway? You decide! Pricing upon request.
—@StephanieVDLProperties
From the road, the Malibu beach house was deceptively unassuming—just a weathered gray garage with white trim and an eight-foot privacy fence. Cara climbed out of the idling Mustang and keyed in the garage door code—2, 4, 6, 8—thinking it seemed far too simple for a twenty-million-dollar property, even if it was overpriced and had a foundation crack. As the door rolled open and she parked the Mustang in one of three empty bays, she definitely felt like she’d completed one of the upper levels in her real, life-and-death game.
Deinfluenced: Escape from a Hell of Your Own Creation.
She came up with the name on the twenty-two-mile drivedown Pacific Coast Highway to Broad Beach Road. If only she knew what the final level looked like—and whether she’d find herself at home or in prison after she finished the game.
Cara exited the garage and found herself in a courtyard with a pool and hot tub bordered by smooth, black river stones and a small outbuilding with an outdoor shower and surfboard storage. At the back of the house, she keyed in the second, more secure code—5, 2, 7, 1—and stepped inside.
Painted in light grays with navy blue nautical touches, and huge sliders opening onto an oceanfront deck, the home was warm, beachy, and cozier than she’d expected. Its vibe was East Coast cottage meets California sun.
When Karl was alive, when they had friends with beach houses, Cara would have roamed around with phone in hand, snapping Insta-worthy photos in every room. Now, she had to painstakingly inspect every inch of the fully furnished place to make absolutely sure it was vacant, and the absent owners hadn’t hidden any cameras in a plant or a sconce.
When she was finally satisfied, she dropped her tote bag on the bed in the small nanny’s room off the kitchen—chosen because it had its own exit outside—and padded down the hall to the office, where a desktop computer had been left behind.
Internet included.
Cara jiggled the mouse, and the screen lit up. Stephanie must have used it recently, because the guest-user icon appeared with a passcode keyed in. All Cara had to do was press the return key.
This time, she had no desire to doom scroll until she panicked. There was no need to confirm that Taylor had released her Ring doorbell video to every media outlet that came calling. And Cara didn’t want to see Roy Abel’s smug face ever again. For the first time, all the comments and conjecture meant nothing to her. She felt light and free as she focused on the tasks at hand.
First, she looked up the addresses for Sanjay Jain and Devin Mayer in San Francisco and Rae Salter near Oakhurst. She searched drawers in the office until she found envelopes and stamps, then addressed the envelopes, adding Fisk’sname to Rae’s because she somehow doubted he got much correspondence at his compound, assuming it had survived the fire. She dropped $150 in Sanjay and Devin’s envelope and $1,000 in Fisk and Rae’s to repay their kindnesses, then stamped and sealed them.
Then she typedGioni Enterprisesinto the search bar.
Google returned five pages of relevant entries.
Clicking and reading every link on the first few pages, Cara learned that the Gioni family was large, lived mostly in LA, and invested heavily in real estate, as well as various import/export and retail businesses. Driton Gioni, 58, had producer credits on three B movies she’d never heard of. Identical twins Esad and Fatmir were younger and steroid-buff, appearing together in photos at ribbon-cuttings for a strip mall, a condo complex, and a large liquor store.
Driton had been accused of smuggling in 2004 but not convicted. Esad was married to a former Playboy Playmate named Ashlee, and they had four children. Fatmir was divorced and had a profile on Millionaire Match that looked vaguely familiar from her dating days. Gioni Enterprises’ corporate headquarters were at 205 S. Beverly Drive in Beverly Hills, slightly more affordable than anything north of Wilshire, but the company appeared to be successful, profitable, and diversified.
If they had also invested in Campbell Cosmetic, then why did Karl have a handwritten promissory note and not a formal, notarized contract?
Cara took out her phone and pulled up the photo she’d taken of the note. She touched the screen and pinched it open to enlarge. Ajila Gioni, CFO, had signed for Gioni Enterprises. The signature appeared to match the handwriting on the rest of the page.
Cara searched forAjila Gioni.
