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She’s dead serious. And delusional.
I’m speechless. This is like a horror movie where the stupid girl gets in the car with a stranger and you shout No! No! No! at the screen and hide under a blanket so you don’t see him slit her throat.
I need a solution that she’ll agree to. Think. Think. Think.
Tamar. “Let’s talk to Tamar. She works for you, and she can help trace the digital prints. Right now, most of what we have is speculation. We need hard evidence.”
It’s probably more than speculation, but at this point, I’ll say anything to move her away from the idea that she can manage this herself.
“She won’t be able to keep something like this from Rafael.” She pauses. “But you can trace the digital prints. You’re good at that kind of thing, Lexie. So good that Tamar has you on her A team.”
Even if I could do it, then what? I can’t keep Valentina safe if everything she thinks is true.
“I’m too inexperienced. I could fumble through, but I would leave digital prints of my own that he could trace back, and that would put you in more danger.”
“I don’t care about the danger. Women are dead, and maybe worse, because of me. I’m not hiding behind layers of protection. I need your help. I want us to figure out everything we need to know before I confront him. He’ll admit to it. I know what pushes his buttons. I want to capture it all on tape so we can take it to the police.”
Oh my God. This is nuts. Even by my standards. “Valentina. Think this through. If he’s responsible in any way, for any of it, he’s not going to be foolish enough to tell you, unless he plans on killing you after. I won’t help you do that.”
“You’ve built Rafael up to be something all-powerful. Marco won’t tell him shit. I’m telling you, if what you told me about the photo is true, more women will die. I can get him to talk.”
The idea of her confronting Marco is a nonstarter. But I don’t respond, because Valentina’s functioning on fumes and not thinking clearly. She’s taken some huge emotional blows in the last thirty-six hours and she’s talking nonsense. It’s almost like she’s having a breakdown.
Valentina grasps my arms. “Fine. I understand that you don’t want to help. But don’t betray me to your boyfriend. I’ll never forgive you if you tell him. I mean it.”
Don’t betray me to your boyfriend. I’ll never forgive you if you tell him. Sharp words with an unimaginable sting. Never is a long time. I can’t imagine our friendship, our sisterhood, will completely sever, but the fracture will be deep and painful. Betrayal always is—and that’s how she’ll see it. And if I don’t tell him, that’s how he’ll see it too.
It doesn’t matter what I do. I’m screwed. As the realization hits me, I chew on the inside of my cheek so I don’t cry. The last thing this situation needs is me a blubbering mess, unable to think straight.
Her shoulders are squared and her head high. She’s been thinking about bringing him down for the last day and a half. She’s dug in. If I don’t agree to help, she’s going to go after him herself. I have no doubt. “You haven’t heard a word I said, have you?” I ask.
“I heard everything. But I need to do this, Lexie. I will not be a victim. And I won’t be the woman who stuck her head in the sand while her husband did bad things to innocent people. I know how he thinks better than anyone. I can stop him. He snaked his way in through me, and I’m going to stomp all over him until his life is hell.”
I need to buy time to figure out what to do. “I’ll help you,” I say softly. “I’ll help you.”
60
RAFAEL
I try to spend a couple of afternoons a week in my office at Sirena, even if what I’m working on is Premier business. While I’m proud that we created a safe place for guests, my heart’s no longer in it—not the way it was before Lexie came into the picture. Fortunately, Xavier and Stella are pros, and I don’t have to worry that the standards I set are slipping.
My phone vibrates, and I glance at the screen.
Tamar: We have a match.
I stare at the four small words with their life-changing possibilities.
Lexie will be out of danger, and she’ll be free to do whatever she likes—including returning to London. Valentina will be safe, too, but the life she planned is likely to be in tatters.
Even welcome news wields the point of a sharp blade.
I want to hurl the phone at the window and watch the glass shatter in a million pieces. But better sense prevails, and I call Tamar instead.
“What’s his name?” I demand.
“Philippe Moriarty.”
“Who the fuck is that?”
