Elodie is still shuddering when we step into the coffeehouse. “He made my skin crawl,” she says, after we’ve ordered our drinks and settled into a table by the window.
It’s midday, and the place is practically empty. Mr. X was able to tap into the security cameras and tell us precisely where to sit so that our screens won’t be recorded. Public places aren’t always ideal, but home isn’t an option. Waylen is there, and any reminder of this particular line of work is best avoided. Elodie says that her own house is chaos while her husband is taking care of the twins, both of whom have ear infections that have banned them from day care.
Elodie sets up her laptop and fits the thumb drive into place. “How will we know what to look for?” she asks. “We can get into his files, sure, but I doubt there’s a folder that says ‘ideas I stole from my sister.’ ”
I watch as a list of folders appears on the screen. “A thief doesn’t always go into a house knowing where the jewelry is,” I say. “It takes a little bit of creative snooping.”
“So we’re jewel thieves now,” Elodie says. “I like it.”
“I’m less interested in Erin’s software,” I tell her. “We’ll sort that out for her, of course. But I’m more intrigued by this missing Annie.”
“Right?” Elodie whispers, her eyes going wide. “All I could think about while we were in his apartment is, ‘Is this where he did it?’ and ‘Who helped him get rid of the body?’ ”
We don’t know that there evenisa body, to be fair. But Elodie is right. While Bertram was charming the pants off of us in there, I was putting myself into the shoes of some unsuspecting young woman bewitched by his billionaire playboy charm. Even now, some part of me screams that he’s innocent, that he really is who he claims to be. He was soft-spoken, not cocky like the narcissists I’ve hunted down before.
He’s good at what he does. Really, really good. But I’m better.
After we’ve clicked on the dozenth folder and browsed through the hundredth page of programming, Elodie is going cross-eyed with boredom. Bertram categorizes every aspect of his life, right down to the sales invoices for his online purchases. For a billionaire, he lives modestly, but he spends a lot on delivery. Typical of a reclusive genius.
When we open a folder unceremoniously titled “old data” I’m expecting to find something useful. A draft of Erin’s original coding, or some alterations he made to reconfigure his forged work into something he could plagiarize.
I amnotexpecting to see a photo of a woman standing on a beach in a blue and gold bikini, with a smiley face emoji covering her face.
All of the files are images. In all of them, the woman’s face is covered by that same emoji. In the ocean. Holding a cocktail against the sunset at a seaside resort. A smile emoji and Bertram together on a crisp down comforter, as Bertram holds the phone over their heads to take a picture.
“Jesus,” Elodie says. “He really hates her.”
“I don’t get it,” I say. “Why would he edit the pictures like this?”
Elodie flashes me a wicked grin. “You’ve never been through a bad breakup, huh?” she asks. “I’ve been there. You want to keep the pictures, but you don’t want to see that person’s face ever again.”
“Doesn’t it seem a little…serial killer?” I say.
Elodie shrugs. “A bad breakup will make anyone a little unhinged.”
Elodie is starting to grow on me, but she’s still—well, Elodie, and I suspect that will always be an acquired taste.
“They’re dated this past August,” Elodie goes on. “Only a couple of months ago.” All of the photos are dated within a week of one another, suggesting this was some romantic couple’s getaway. The last photo is of Bertram glancing down at his phone while seated at an outdoor dining table. I can see why Annie must have snapped it. Even in this candid shot, he’s beautiful, his chiseled jaw shadowed by the rising sun, a sly quirk to his lips. His hair is wet, like they’ve just gone for a morning swim, and his damp shirt clings to his chest.
Elodie whistles at the previous photo, of the woman’shand entangled in Bertram’s, with an engagement ring shining on her finger. “That looks expensive.”
Annie was a woman in love. Maybe it didn’t matter to her that Bertram had more money than God. Whatever she hoped their future life would be together, he’d promised it to her. Life, for a brief moment in time, was too good to be true.
Elodie points to the glittering sea behind him. “Maybe that’s where he dumped the body. The real question is why.”
Why, indeed.
“Okay, you haven’t said anything for a long time, and it’s starting to worry me,” Elodie says. “What’s going on? What are you thinking?”
“It just doesn’t add up,” I say. “Even if he had no intention of marrying Annie, even if everything he told her was a lie, what would be the point in killing her and risking his fortune to spend life in prison? Unless he knew he could hire someone to make it go away, or someone who did the dirty work for him.”
“Um, because he’s a psycho,” Elodie says. “Look at any of these tech billionaires and tell me you’d be surprised if they had aKiss the Girlssituation in the basement of one of their mansions.”
“Maybe,” I say, my voice trailing as I consider. But it doesn’t add up. If Bertram has it in him to kill someone for the pleasure of it, why not kill his sister? He could have stolen her software and made off with it, never having to worry about her going to the press.
“Did Erin mention if she’d ever gone to the media to dispute the real ownership of her brother’s app?” I ask.
“Not that I’m aware,” Elodie says.
