But why had he followed me here? If he knew I was headed to his apartment, why not wait for me there?
The cameras.
He must not want any record of us meeting today.
“I was curious about you,” is what comes out. “My friend was doing me a favor, but she isn’t a part of it. It’s just—I was always interested in tech, but I never had the opportunity to pursue it.”
It’s a weak lie, but one that will fuel his ego. I can only hope that’s enough. But his expression remains unreadable. He nods to the open door. “Get in,” he says. “We’re going for a ride.”
Now I take a step back. “No,” I say.
He reaches into his pocket and my hand goes toward my gun, but he’s only grabbing his phone. He swipes through something on the screen, then holds it up for me to see. The picture was taken this morning. It’s of me climbing into my car, Collette standing behind me in the driveway with her hair neatly braided, wearing her sparkly purple backpack. “Get in the car,” he says again.
—
I don’t ask about Mr. X. If Bertram has already gotten to him, if he’s still alive, just in case there’s a chance that Bertram doesn’t know about him.Please be tracking myfucking phone, I think. Bertram hasn’t tried to take it away from me. But it doesn’t matter because he’s already found my Achilles’ heel, the one person in the world I’d do anything for, including getting into this forsaken BMW that’s now taking me God knows where.
There’s a glass panel between us and the front seat, and its tint isn’t as dark as the outside windows. I can just make out the silhouette of a driver who hasn’t said a word to either of us. He seems to already know where he’s headed.
“You don’t need to be so nervous,” Bertram says, looking at the way I’m clenching my skirt in my fists. “I’m not going to hurt you. Just show you something.”
I don’t say a word. At least, not until I can get a good read on him.
After a few minutes, I no longer recognize where we are, but I make a note of landmarks in case I’m able to run for it. A Little Free Library. An abandoned rustic firehouse with weeds growing through the cracks in the pavement. We turn down an unpaved road that’s mostly dirt, until we’re on some sort of private beach.
I don’t check my phone, but nobody has tried to get ahold of me since Elodie’s call. It will be hours before anyone expects to hear from me. It will get dark out. Ellen will call Waylen to ask when we’re picking Collette up. He’ll know, then, that something has happened.
The car stops in the middle of the beach, right where the dirt road turns into sand. The sun has broken through the clouds now, giving light and color to the dreary autumn morning. But a cold wind blows through when Bertram opens the door.
I could shoot him now, as he turns his back to me toexit the vehicle. But then there’s the driver to contend with. I won’t be able to outrun him. And if the driver doesn’t try to kill me, but instead plays it straight and calls the police, that wouldn’t end well for me, either.
After weighing the limited, crappy options, I follow Bertram outside. We take a few steps toward the water, and then I see the strangest thing up ahead: There’s a blanket laid out in the sand, weighted down on all four corners with rocks, and what looks like a—is that apicnic basket, of all things?
“Sit,” he tells me, and the menacing deadpan voice has changed. He sounds more human now. As curious as I am confused, I do as he asks, and I watch him retrieve two glasses and a bottle of wine. Then a charcuterie board of fruit, cheeses, and crackers, wrapped carefully in layers of plastic.
“What is this?” I ask.
“There are no good beaches where I grew up,” he says. “At least, not like the ones here.” I watch as he undoes the plastic, revealing an array of fruit so colorful and fresh it’s almost cinematic. “Even on a cold day, it’s pretty, don’t you think?”
I take the glass of wine he hands me, warily. It’s a relatively cheap Bordeaux from the package store. I would expect something off-label and pretentious from a billionaire. Either way, I don’t drink, not even after he takes a sip from his own glass. “There are a lot of people who have found their way to me recently,” he says. “They use various aliases, under many guises.” He smiles, boyish and charming. There’s a dimple on his left cheek. “They want to cozy up to me for some favor, or—more often—someone has sent them.”
“And that’s what you think I’m doing,” I say. “Cozying up for a favor.”
“You tell me.”
“I already did.”
“Yes, but you were lying.” He eats a grape, then nudges the plate toward me. “I did a little digging, and you don’t have any background in technology. Went to school for fashion, dropped out your first year, got married, moved to a suburb, and now decorate living rooms and wedding venues for a living.”
Where the hell are you?I will my thoughts to Mr. X, who still hasn’t texted me back. Every day of my life, I can count on the fact that he’s following me, maintaining a protective perimeter. I imagine him dead and bleeding from a series of bullet wounds in an alley somewhere. Tied up and anchored at the bottom of the Long Island Sound. He has never given me cause to worry about him—it’s always the opposite, him worrying if it takes me more than two minutes to respond to his texts, or the GPS on my phone acts glitchy and he loses me for a few seconds too long.
But I betray nothing and meet Bertram with a cool gaze. I eat a piece of cheese from the charcuterie board. Brie, the expensive kind they sell at liquor stores.
“I’m a storyteller.” I say this like it’s a reluctant confession. “Not a journalist exactly. You’re right. I don’t work for a paper. But I get to the heart of things and then I write them down.”
He raises an eyebrow. “A novelist?”
“This one is nonfiction,” I say. I’m ad-libbing. But I’m a good liar, which is a source of contention with my husband, who wears his heart on his sleeve, and my daughter,who is better at it than she cares to admit. “I found out that you were living here and I wanted to learn more about the billionaire life. Elodie—she’s a senior editor—has ties to a publishing house. She said that if I could write about your life in a compelling way, she’d offer me a six-figure book deal. That may be small change to you, but it could do a lot for me.”
