He hung up.
Sandy stared at the handset.
Her heart raced. She needed a cigarette, but she’d just put one out. Her smoking had got out of hand this week. No wonder, she thought. She tucked her phone into her jeans pocket and left her room, looking up and down the corridor. She should have gone to Dow Bank House with Hank and the others. There they were safe. It was a slice of US territory tucked away from the rest of the world. Nobody could touch them there.
But first she had something important to do.
One more week wouldn’t hurt, then she was officially retired. One more trip into the wilderness wasn’t going to kill her, though drinking anything made by FairGro might. The things she knew could sink them and they all knew it.
She could be bought. She had a price. Everyone did. She’d been doing it all her life. But her priorities had changed. Money no longer interested her. It was helpful, sexy even, and she’d rather have it than not, but it no longer sent her heart racing. Her fees were different now.
Anonymity.
Peace.
Safety.
Who knows, she even might just run away with Lee Lovett.
Happy there was nobody around, she went downstairs. There were less people in the foyer now, and the police were nowhere to be seen except guarding the hotel entrance. She assured herself it was to keep nosy journalists from getting in rather than to keep them caged in here. They were free to leave anytime they wanted, and the company lawyers were on standby to represent anyone who had hassle from the police. It was the way business was done. Jamie might be dead, but reputation and profit were everything, not necessarily in that order. And Angelina was dead too. So, it was true. Jamie knew the risks. It was a shame because his sister’s paintings were beautiful. Sandy recalled Angelina’sethereal vulnerability and the way Hank looked at her when she came to reveal the Rydal Caves piece in New York.
She headed down to the lake, where she saw a lone figure sitting under a tree near the pebble beach, watching her. She stared at him, and he raised a hand slowly and waved at her. She looked around, checking for company.
She was quite alone.
She gazed up at the hotel and saw no one checking on her from the windows of the grand suites, and no VIPs stalking her from the upper floors. The thuggish bodyguards had gone to Dow Bank House. The detectives seemed to have cleared out.
By the time she got closer to the beach, she realised that this part of the garden was entirely private, and she could no longer see any hotel doors or windows. The awareness was a double-edged sword because if she couldn’t see anybody then they couldn’t see her either. And she had yet to decide if she could trust this man entirely. He’d been useful, for sure, but he played a good long game, and Sandy didn’t know where it would end. As she got closer, she took in his disguise. It had been superbly convincing to everyone but her and she admired his balls. He’d been at the conference all along, recording conversations, taking notes and stealing samples.
He’d fooled them all, except her.
Sandy recalled his face when Jamie fell from the upper floor.
It was unforgettable.
Regretful. Woeful.
They were close.
She greeted him by clapping. In praise of his performance. High praise indeed. He’d fooled them all.
‘Nice outfit. Shit disguise, but you had them eating out of your hand. I saw you.’
He bowed. ‘You’re welcome,’ he said, lifting his lanyard. ‘I had to gain access to the snake pit somehow.’
‘You’ve got balls. Given what’s happened to Jamie and his sister.’
At this, the young man flinched and Sandy realised that he must know Angelina. There was something else. Grief.
‘You knew her?’
He nodded.
‘Will you at least walk with me?’ he asked. He made it clear he didn’t want to discuss Angie.
‘No. I’m close enough.’
‘Fair enough,’ he said, wiping sand off his jeans. He faced her and kept his distance.
