“Yes,” he said, not giving me anything more than what I’d asked.
“You’ve heard about this Bianca London?”
“Yes,” he said again. I pursed my lips to stop myself from expressing my frustration with him.
“She contacted Larry about the company?”
“Her father died and Larry handed her a few boxes of his personal papers.”
“Without going through them first?” I frowned. Why would he just hand over the papers?
“What can I help you with, Jakob?”
“Do you think this Bianca is going to be a problem?”
“To whom?”
“To anyone?”
“Yes, she represents a risk.”
“Is Larry worried?”
“Larry has tried to take care of all the potential problems.”
“How?”
“He had me go see Mr. London as he was dying.”
“And?”
“He wanted to make sure that I took care of the problem.” Steve’s British accent became slightly Australian and I tried not to roll my eyes. I wasn’t sure why he thought he was such a good actor.
“What did you do?” I picked up my pen and tapped it against my desk.
“I didn’t kill him.” Steve laughed. “If that’s what you were wondering.”
“I wasn’t wondering that,” I lied.
“I could kill if I had to,” Steve said softly. “But I didn’t have to.”
“What did you do?”
“Larry wanted to make sure that the truth didn’t come out.” Steve’s voice was deep, and I could picture the look on his gaunt, skinny face as he spoke. “Or if it did, he wanted an alternate story to come out.”
“What alternate story?”
“He wanted to ensure that he and Jeremiah weren’t caught up in any truths that might come to light.”
“How?”
“He wanted London to sign a deathbed confession.”
“Really?” I twirled my fourteen-karat-gold pen in my fingers as I sat back in my leather office chair and thought for a second. “Did Bianca get this confession in her paperwork?”
“No,” Steve said. “It will only come to light if Bianca starts making trouble.”
“I see.”
“David wants us all to discuss everything at the ball.”
“All of us?”
“We need a plan.”
“Yes, I suppose a plan would be in order.” I nodded thoughtfully. “I’ll see you on Saturday, then.”
“Yes, I’ll be there.”
“It’s all coming out now, isn’t it?”
“Yes, it is.” Steve’s voice was harsh. “It’s time for people to pay.”
I hung up without asking him what he meant. I knew Steve wouldn’t explain his cryptic words to me and I didn’t really care. Not now, when I had more important things to think about. This was the beginning. I knew that as surely as I knew that my mother’s life and sacrifice wouldn’t be in vain.
I went to Google and typed in “Bianca London.” A number of different pages showed up and I clicked on the first link. “Brad Pitt to Star in Slave Movie,” read the title of the article, and I clicked out of it quickly. That wasn’t going to help me. I looked through the rest of the links and saw that all of them were articles about movies. I clicked on the second page of the search results and saw a more in-depth profile on a university page. Bianca was a history grad student. I stared at her photo for a few seconds, studying the face of the woman who was creating so much turmoil.
She looked like a grad student. Her dark brown hair was tied back and she looked into the camera with a small, shy smile. Her big brown eyes looked earnest and her outfit was nondescript. She looked like a nobody. Certainly not the product of two conniving individuals. There was something about the way she was staring into the camera—her expression was almost wistful. I frowned as I gazed at her photo. This wasn’t the image I’d expected to see. I wasn’t expecting Bianca London to be a history nerd with a penchant for writing movie articles. I exited out of the page quickly and checked to see whether she had other, racier and more provocative photos out there on the web. Unfortunately for me, none of the other photos I found showed Bianca in a different light. Not that I would let that stop me; her appearance didn’t matter. She still had to pay for the sins of her parents.
*
I was eighteen when my mother first mentioned the names Angelina and Nicholas London. It was a day I’ll never forget, for that was when I was finally able to direct my mother’s disappointment and pain at someone other than my father.
“I once had a love so great that I thought I could stop the world from moving,” my mother murmured as we’d waltzed around the living room to the sounds of Johannes Brahms. “I do so love this composition.” She sighed happily.
“Waltz in A-flat major,” I said as we spun around the room.
“I wish you hadn’t stopped your piano lessons.” She looked at me then with a small frown.
“If I was playing the piano, I couldn’t dance with you.” I smiled at her gently.
“You think you’re so smart, don’t you?”