Page 25 of Captive Ruin

“Jesus, Lukas. You’ve got it bad, haven’t you? Would you like me to tell you, or would you like to keep interrupting?”

I clench my jaw, staying silent. Haynes is insufferable sometimes, but on this occasion… he might have a point.

“As I was saying,” he continues, irritatingly slowly, “Webber pays her a visit. He’s there barely ten minutes, and she kicks him out. So as I was in the area, I followed him. Guess where he’s gone?”

Oh, so now he wants me to speak? “Do tell.”

“To the house of some other woman. He’s there right now, fucking her in her bedroom. I’m parked across the road with a prime view. Curtains open and everything.”

That worthless, cheating bastard. How dare he treat Amelia like that?

“Do you think she knows? Are they in some kind of open relationship?”

“Why don’t you play the feed? Maybe you’ll find out. I followed your instructions—I don’t have access.”

“I’ll do that. Get photos, will you?”

“Already have. They’ll be in your email within the hour.”

“Good work, Haynes.”

“Thanks, boss.”

“I have to go to Switzerland. In my absence, make a start on the Volkovs.”

“I’ll get on it.”

“You do that.” I kill the call, and it hits me that now I’m mirroring Bastien. I’ll have to watch myself.

I’ve been resisting Amelia’s videos all evening, and Haynes just handed me the excuse. I pull up the folder. There are several files labeled by location—living room, bathroom, three different files for the bedroom. The bedroom ones are incrementing in size as I watch. It’s all motion-detection, so that means she’s in there right now.

I want to see what she’s doing, but I want to know about her boyfriend first. I open the living room file; it’s several hours long. Ten minutes, Haynes said, sometime this evening. I skim through at triple speed. The camera’s in the ceiling, giving a goldfish-bowl view of the whole room. Amelia watching television, making some food, getting out a bottle and two glasses. I slow the playback. She goes to open the door. It’s not Webber, it’s another woman.

Fast forwarding again, I watch them talk for a while. There’s clearly tension; it’s equally clear they’re close. They get up and hug, and it looks emotional. Intrigued, I pause and rewind it, going back to the moment where it all began.

“So Steven Serranto won’t be bothering you anymore,” Amelia says.

My eyebrows rise. This must be her sister. That explains the similar dark hair and pale skin, the likeness in their faces. I’m looking at the very reason Amelia and I met. Maybe one day I’ll buy this woman some flowers.

“Such a mess,” her sister replies. “I feel so goddamn foolish. Don’t get me wrong. I’m grateful, really grateful—I had no idea he was like that—but if all I have to do is be nice to him… for the sake of your work…”

Amelia dismisses that. “Not even a concern anymore. It’s all taken care of.” She looks thoughtful for a moment. “You ever hear from him again, you tell me right away, okay?”

I hit pause, chuckling to myself. Amelia’s just given assurances, based on what I said to her. She’s trusting me, and so she should—I told Serranto to stay away from them both.

That conversation was interesting, but it wasn’t the one I wanted to see. I skip forward again, but barely has Amelia’s sister left, when a man turns up. I hit play, watching as the scene unfolds.

His hands on her. She seems to be resistant, then the bastard kisses her. She’s not into it; he doesn’t notice. I scowl. They argue, she kicks him out. His parting words, the way he expects her to come crawling back. He accuses her of cheating, then leaves to go fuck another woman.

Sickening. How dare he treat her like that? She’s far too good for him.

Someone else I need to pay a little visit to.

The playback runs out shortly after, and the timestamps show she went to her bedroom, then the bathroom for long enough to bathe. I open the bedroom videos, running the three feeds side-by-side. Another ceiling camera, one directly over the bed, and one in the wall, facing it. She comes out of the bathroom with a towel in hand, her gorgeous body naked.

She barely dries herself, like she’s distracted, then lies on the bed, on top of the duvet, spreading her legs.

The cameras show me everything I could want to see, but it’s her face I focus on.