All through my childhood, this pattern repeats itself. I fly from my aunt in Provence to wherever my father lives, year after year, the solitary unaccompanied minor on the plane.
The strained, strange man who snaps at me as often as not. The woman who simmers in repressed tension when she looks at me. This is my family.
I am always alone.
Chapter 13
Alexander:
“You took her to your farmhouse?”
Jean-Luc had been away the last week in Bangkok, overseeing the cleanup of one of Sylvia’s most profitable operations. We’d involved the Thai police discreetly, but elected to stay anonymous, of course. There were too many irons in the fire for openness.
The brothel had been shut down and Sylvia’s Thai assets frozen. With the help of an informant, the police had also succeeded in finding three of Sylvia’s Swiss bank accounts. They promised the informant protection, but he disappeared before they could do much more.
That was my doing. I could protect him better than the Thai police. I owed him. After all, I’d been the one who had persuaded him to switch allegiances and I always paid my debts.
“How was Bangkok, Jean-Luc?” I changed the subject.
Jean-Luc’s lips compressed into a thin, disapproving line but he shrugged. “Ah well, you are still alive. I guess I should give thanks.”
I laughed. “Sarcasm doesn’t become you, my friend,” I retorted. “Talk to me. What’s been happening?”
He frowned. “I also heard from Daniel Schneider. We settled at three-quarters of a million. I sent him a hundred thousand dollars as a gesture of good-faith. In return, he’s going to mail us something.”
“Mail?”
“Old-fashioned postal service. He’s afraid to send us an email, in case it can be traced back to him.”
“Dylan’s fucking powerless,” I snapped. “He can’t track anything and he doesn’t have allies anymore.”
“Don’t underestimate him, Alexander,” Jean-Luc replied. “Yes, Sylvia’s not helping him anymore and Durov is dead, but Dylan’s had a lifetime to accumulate favours. There are still a few bridges he hasn’t burned. Schneider’s right to be cautious.”
“Did he tell you what he was sending?”
Jean-Luc’s expression was of acute distaste. “Did you know that Dylan tapes his training sessions?”
I felt sick. Of course the old pervert would.
“I told him you needed anything on the identities of the women he’d taken. So he’s sending photos and video, and maybe copies of paperwork if he can find it. Evidently, Dylan’s been shredding a lot of stuff. The hounds are baying at the door and Dylan’s cleaning up.”
I knew that. My window of time for finding an informant had almost closed. Then, Grace Olusola, Schneider’s former lover, had taken a bullet in her shoulder. The instant Daniel had heard that, he had been mine. Under that hard mercenary veneer, Daniel had a rudimentary beginning of a conscience.
“Did you tell him I needed to find Ellie Samuelson?” I asked.
“I hinted,” Jean-Luc replied. “At the very tail end of the conversation, I mentioned her name and that of Claire Bectell and Wendy Zhang. Daniel told me he remembered Ellie, but before he could say anything else, he had to go.”
I felt a prickling sense of anticipation. I had searched for her for so long. She was the only reason Dylan hadn’t been apprehended by the law yet. Soon. I would be able to find her and make amends.
“So we wait for the post now?”
Jean-Luc nodded. “We wait. A week, maybe two. Will you go to Hanoi before that?”
I shook my head. “I’d prefer not to. If Daniel gives us enough to finally find Ellie Samuelson, I won’t have to go to Hanoi. I’ll have everything I’ll need to throw Dylan to the wolves.”
The expression in Jean-Luc’s eyes was mingled pity and understanding. I knew that I would prefer to avoid Hanoi entirely. I didn’t have the stomach to kill Dylan myself. I never had, right from the start and I hated this about myself.
Chapter 14
Ellie / Jenny:
“What do you do, Alexander?” My voice was curious. “For a billionaire, you seem to work some very fluid hours.”
He laughed aloud. We were sitting in the library after lunch, a week after we’d returned from Provence. For the last week, I had been occupying myself by playing tourist in Paris. Unexpectedly Alexander accompanied me on many of my sightseeing trips. In Paris, as he had been in Provence, he was a fascinating guide. He took me to see parts of the city that I would have never discovered on my own. The catacombs. The best ice-cream store. Vegetable markets filled with locals, with nary a tourist in sight. A private tour of Versailles, arranged after the Palace had shut down for visitors for the night.
But we didn’t go anywhere near Saint Denis. It was as if that house in the suburbs didn’t exist. It was as if that night two years ago had never happened.
I was reading a book and Alexander had been typing something on his laptop. “I’m working right now,” he replied. “I told you. I dabble in finance.”