Bea rose and made her way through the same exit she’d seen Catherine disappear through. Her heels made no sound on the carpet. The corridor was cool and deserted, the music fading to nothing. Her necklace suddenly felt too tight.
Catherine stood beneath a gilt-framed pastoral scene, phone lowered. It was strange being the one to approach, instead of the one cornered.
This was something she’d insisted on doing alone, and one of the few concessions Rafael had made. Bea felt the old reflex to shrink, but she stayed tall. “Catherine.”
The woman turned, surprise breaking through. Then the mask slid down. “Bea.”
They stood two steps apart, close enough that their perfume mixed, far enough that the air stayed formal.
“It’s nice to see you,” Bea said, because her upbringing refused to die.
“You as well,” Catherine returned, automatic.
A pause gathered between them, full of history neither of them needed to narrate.
“I’m going to ask you something,” she said. “And I need a direct answer.”
“Go on.”
Bea kept her voice even. “Did you send something to Oliver Fox?”
The pause was small, but it existed. “What are you talking about?”
“Photos.” Bea watched her face. “Of me.”
“Why would I have photos of you?” Catherine’s tone cooled. “Are you accusing me of something?”
“I’m not accusing. I asked a question.”
“You think I’d risk my reputation by being a source to a podcaster?”
“You’ve offered other half truths when it suited you,” Bea said quietly. “It’s not the first time.”
Color rose faintly in Catherine’s cheeks. Anger, or embarrassment. “I didn’t send anything,” she said, insulted.
Bea held her gaze. If it was a lie, it was a convincing one.
“We crossed paths at an art exhibition a week ago,” she added, arms crossing. “He asked questions. I answered a few. That was all.”
“You’re Catherine Vale,” Bea pointed out. “What you say has weight.”
Her mouth pressed into a thin line. “We talked about St. Ives. Not you.”
Bea clocked the rigid way Catherine held herself. She wouldn’t get more, not from Catherine herself. She turned, intending to leave it there.
“Bea.”
She paused.
Catherine hesitated, as if forcing the words out. “You and Rafael. You suit.”
Is she kidding?Bea spun. “Because I wasn’t good enough for Gage?”
“No,” Catherine said. “I’m trying to say, I don’t want to add anything further to what’s already been…complicated.”
How convenient, now that Gage was no longer the axis between them.
“Is that you calling a truce?”
