So Close, page 34
“Your boat?” he asks sharply.
“I don’t know. Maybe.”
“It’s a sick joke. The only way to find a shipwreck is to sink to the bottom of the ocean.”
“He wasn’t in any condition to make wisecracks.”
“Okay.” His words are clipped. “We’ll look.”
“Something else … I think she might be alive.”
“Who?”
“You know who,” I retort wearily. “When Val first saw my face, I’m sure he thought I was her for a split second. He didn’t look shocked.”
“You can’t know that. You rushed the guy with a knife. It’s all instinct at that moment, for you and him. You can’t read anything into facial expressions.”
“He said she’ll be proud of me. Not that she would have been, but that she will be.”
“That doesn’t mean anything,” Salma dismisses, rubbing the spray into my hairline.
“He was lying on a bathroom floor with a knife in his heart,” Rogelio argues. “That he even said anything at all tells you he had the strength of an ox. He was dying and gibbering. Not to mention you’re in shock. What you’re thinking and feeling, what you remember or don’t … it’s all going to be scrambled in your head. Remember, eyewitnesses are notoriously unreliable.”
“Forget what I saw,” I tell him. “Go with what I felt. Okay?”
“There’s no way she’s alive, querida. I know you’d feel better if you’d buried her body, but she went overboard miles out to sea during a storm. The chances of her surviving are non-existent.”
“I survived.”
“You didn’t have a bullet in your chest!”
“Rogelio, please.”
He exhales heavily. “If Laska’s been communicating with your mother, the evidence will be on his phone. If it’s there, we’ll find it.”
“She has multiple aliases. She might even be using a masculine name. She and Val may use a coded language or –”
“I know what to look for. I’ll let you know if I find anything. The jewels are back in the safe.”
“Thank you.”
I listen to him leave, then hear Tovah’s lighter steps approach. Salma resumes tugging on my scalp annoyingly.
When Witte returns, rolling into the kitchen with a wire cart filled with groceries, we’re seated at the kitchen table, eating the salads. Lacy is working in a distant part of the condo after the security team gave us a heads-up of Witte’s return. Tovah, Salma and I are reading a gossip blog on the tablet and laughing over a photo of Tom Hiddleston wearing a tank top with “I love T. S.” – i.e., his girlfriend Taylor Swift – emblazoned across it.
“Would Kane wear something like that for you?” Tovah queries.
“Never,” I say with feeling.
We all laugh, Witte smiles, and I feel like I’m living a sitcom version of my life. Nothing feels real. The salad, which has Tovah and Salma in raptures, feels and tastes like I’m eating damp chunks of cardboard. My stomach revolts against digesting anything, but I force it to comply. I can make my body do many things it instinctively doesn’t want to do.
“I was able to pick up some lovely ripe strawberries,” Witte says. “I can serve them with fresh whipped cream if you’ve any room left for dessert.”
“That sounds amazing,” I tell him.
“Do you have a brother, Witte?” Tovah asks. “Please say yes.”
“Or a son?” Salma quips.
It’s all so horribly, frighteningly normal. I play my part, telling myself I’ve done what I must to keep this unexpected life with you.
When you come home, I’m waiting by the door. It swings open, you step inside, and I launch myself at you the way I did at Val – with all the force I possess. You rock back on your heels and drop your satchel, catching me with a laugh. My feet leave the floor.
“Well … I definitely like coming home to this, Setareh.” You give me a youthful grin followed by a deep, lush kiss. “I missed you like crazy, too. Almost more than I could stand.”
And while I have you in my arms, I think it’s all been worthwhile. I hope the worst is over. I’m also terrified it’s not.
48
WITTE
Manhattan shimmers like diamonds on black velvet as the city sprawls around the penthouse tower. A storm is brewing. The skyscraper where we reside creaks as it sways in ever more tempestuous winds. Light rain pelts the windows, clinging to the glass like tears. In the distance, I see lightning. The flashes of destructive beauty briefly illuminate the roiling clouds, then plunge them into stygian black.
My employer sits at his desk, looking at my mobile’s screen. He’s freshly showered and has changed into black silk trousers, and a matching dressing gown belted at the waist. His hair is still damp.
His hand covers his mouth in the absent way of deep thought. A frown sits heavily on his brow.
I wonder if he sees what I do. The woman who left Valon Laska’s body on a blood-drenched lavatory floor carries her clutch tucked under her right arm. When previously photographed, Stephanie Laska carried items tucked under her left arm. The difference is not insignificant when one considers left- and right-handed dominance and the natural tendency to leave the dominant arm unencumbered.
Lily is left-handed.
Mr Black stands and passes my mobile back to me. “I’ll discuss his death with her tomorrow.”
I wait for him to say more, but he rounds his desk.
He pauses beside me, the two of us facing in opposing directions. He sets his hand on my shoulder. “She seems fragile today. I felt it this morning and debated staying home. I don’t want to get upset right now because it’ll upset her. So, let’s pick this up in the morning, okay? That’s soon enough.”
“Of course.” I haven’t noted the fragility of which he speaks. There was some melancholy directly after he left, but Tovah and Salma lifted her spirits. It was fortuitous that they had time available when Lily most needed a distraction.
Why a woman known for having dozens of friends would prefer passing the time with strangers is yet another mystery.
In any case, I’ll have to thank Lacy again for recommending the two women. In the few years she’s been with us, Lacy has proven to be an asset beyond her duties as a member of my household staff.
My employer pauses on the hallway’s threshold. “Gideon Cross gave me a recommendation for a psychologist – a Dr Lyle Petersen. See what you can find out about him, would you?”
“Of course.”
He goes to his wife, and I make my final rounds for the evening. The interior of the penthouse is dark and silent. Outside, fierce winds whistle through the tower’s blow-through floors and sheet lightning flashes below the clouds. The rain is steady now and lashing against the glass.
I collect the delivered dry cleaning from the elevator vestibule cupboard, nodding at the two guards, who are still drinking the coffee I provided earlier. I wonder if my employer will see a need for security services now. I’ll have to convince him that it’s best to leave things as they are for the time being. I’m still unsure whether the threat or not, but caution is the eldest child of wisdom, as Victor Hugo once wrote.
I head down the hallway with its mirrored walls to the private side of the residence Mr Black now shares with a wife we’d thought for ever lost to him. I pause on the threshold of his former bedroom, absorbing the sense of desertion. We freshen the room daily, as we do the entire penthouse, yet there’s a feeling of neglect here. I suppose because it never truly held life. It was a place of stasis, of longing that consumed all hope.
Lily beckons from her place on the wall, a seductive siren luring her husband to join her in an infinite moment. Never evolving or ageing, living or dying.
I stare at her. The image arrests me, as always. She is a mystery as deep and vast as the ocean, a puzzle that remains unsolved. A flurry of questions scratches at the back of my mind, giving me no peace.
In Mr Black’s wardrobe, I hang his garments, then straighten his shoes and adjust the angle of his ties. Lightning flashes with growing frequency as the storm churns in from the Atlantic. I hear voices and find myself moving to the open door of the sitting room.
The television is on, its glow reflected off the various mirrored surfaces. They lie together, Mr Black and the woman whose name we don’t know. He sprawls against the corner of the sectional sofa. She reclines against his bare chest. They watch an improbable motorbike chase in which leather-clad men shoot at each other between fast-moving traffic. He embraces her, his hands stroking her arms in soothing motions. Her long, sleek legs are wrapped in a throw blanket, and his dressing gown has been tossed aside on a chaise. His trouser legs ride halfway up his calves.
Lightning flashes in an explosion of reflected illumination. A moment later, thunder cracks so loudly that I flinch. Everything vibrates.
She gasps, and he laughs, holding her tighter. When she tilts her face up to him, he stares for a long moment, a smile curving his lips. When the lightning strikes again, it illuminates two lovers in a moment of deep connection.
Didn’t I once wonder what a force of nature Mr Black must have been with his wife at his side? As the tempest howls and the tower groans, I realize I was wrong. Together, they are the eye of the storm, anchored and at peace. While destruction and chaos rage around them, they’ve found shelter in one another.
I back away silently.
My employer is correct – tomorrow and all the days that follow will be soon enough to unearth the secrets yet buried.
Are you prepared for the electrifying conclusion of the Blacklist series?
Acknowledgments
Bringing So Close to life took a great deal of hard work, and I couldn’t have done it without my editors: Maxine Hitchcock, Hilary Sares, and Clare Bowron. Thanks also to my agent, Kimberly Whalen of The Whalen Agency, who gave feedback on numerous drafts.
I’m very grateful to Tom Weldon and Louise Moore for their support. It has always been a joy to be published by Michael Joseph, and I’m thankful for each team member who helps shepherd my books with great care.
I’m also thankful for my editors at Brilliance Audio, Sheryl Zajechowski and Liz Pearsons, and the wonderful teams at Heyne, J'ai Lu, Psichogios, Swiat Ksiazki, Harper Holland, Politikens and Kaewkarn.
The striking cover concept is the brainchild of Frauke Spanuth of Croco Designs. I’ve been so fortunate to have such a fine artist work with me on my novels for nearly two decades. I’m grateful for her perfect visual rendering of my story, which inspired the lovely UK/Commonwealth jacket.
Many things haunt the characters in So Close: past choices, character flaws and mental illness, to name just a few. Rebecca de Winter also casts a vast, deep shadow. Daphne du Maurier’s Rebecca instilled in me a deeper appreciation for flawed women and the hopeful and sinister ways marriage can alter one’s sense of self.
On the personal front, I couldn’t have made it through the rough spots without the encouragement of my children: Justin, Jack and Shanna. And the support of my dear friends: Karin Tabke, Christine Green and Tina Route.
And finally, I’m grateful to my readers. Thank you for following as I hop genres and experiment with new-to-me ways to tell a story. I’m a writer who loves to experiment, grow and continually challenge myself to try harder, do better and imagine greater. I’m so thankful to have an audience willing to journey with me. Your loyalty is a precious gift. Thank you so much for your support!
About the Author
Sylvia Day is the #1 New York Times, #1 USA Today & #1 international bestselling author of over twenty award-winning novels, including ten New York Times bestsellers and thirteen USA Today bestsellers. She is a number one bestselling author in twenty-nine countries, with translations in forty-one languages and over twenty million copies of her books in print. Visit her at sylviaday.com.
Sylvia Day, So Close
