Captive, Mine(35)

Lake picked up the paper — the resort somehow, miraculously, had access to several US newspapers — the story just below the fold something he was particularly interested in.

Terrence Randall Facing Trial on Numerous Federal Charges

“Burn, you sonofabitch.”

Maybe when he finally saw the murderer hauled away in cuffs, it would finally feel over, even though he knew it wouldn’t be.

Maybe the rain, and quiet, and solitude of the Queen Charlottes would help wash it all away. Someday the ache would ease, assuming he lived that long. At least seeing Randall in the clink would let Lake let her go. Finally.

A gust of wind galloped in off the water with an angry snapping sound as it caught the faded fabric of the umbrella shading Lake’s table.

He raised the bottle, tipping it toward the water. “I hear ya’, honey.”

With Randall gone, the pain of Sara’s passing would finally fade, if not at rest, at least avenged. It would have to be enough.

Lake waited until almost sunset to walk back to his room, his thoughts returning to Lily as he opened his door. He sat at the sliding glass doors as day slowly gave way to night, as memories of the past gave way to regrets about the present, dread of the future.

Without Lily there with him, perhaps his penance for what he’d done, for the choices he’d made. Life had a way of settling accounts. The knowledge that she surely must hate him by now did make it easier, or at least took away that illusion of choice, or options. Sometimes what we want lies behind a door our actions have locked tight.

The question was, what did she really want? And what was Lake prepared to do to give it to her?

It was idiocy, but how many nights had Lake laid awake in the sweltering dark, the AC off, the fan blowing the hot, weighted air over his skin? How many nights had he wished it were Lily there with him, in his arms, the choices, the decisions, the consequences no longer mattering?

All that mattered was that she’d be there with him. Confronting a future neither had chosen, a future neither wanted to face alone.

Lake was hiding from it, from the unavoidable, awful, terrifying truth of it.

And it wasn’t just from the long reach of Terrence Randall.

You have to tell her, Lake.

Lake turned away from the muted cries of the seabirds, the inebriated, chattering expats stumbling along the beach outside.

As fatigue weighed heavily upon him, deep in the sweltering night, sleep finally found him, the vision of Lily’s beautiful, luminous eyes the last thing he saw before the dark swallowed him up.





Chapter 19



Even though winter in the south of France was moderate, I welcomed the warmth of Mexico. Discarding my wool sweater, I left the windows of my rental car down and began the long drive to the house where Lake had been living for the last year.

I had done what I had always wanted to do after Lake had left me at the bank that day. I had booked a flight to Nice and rented a small house on a hill in Chateauneuf, near Grasse. I had been living quietly there for a little over a year. My hair was finally growing out from the pixie cut I’d sported at first, and it now just touched my shoulders. It was also finally back to its natural color and not the caramel blonde I hated but had to do to alter my appearance.

The first months, I’d been scared. Sleep was a luxury then, and I had kept mostly to myself. I spoke French fluently, which helped, and people seemed to respect my privacy.

In the last four months, though, things had changed, starting with Randall’s arrest. He had been tried, finally, and, earlier this week, I had learned that my dad’s testimony would put him away for life. Along with the details of Randall’s verdict and sentence was an article crediting DeSalvo with leading the roll-up of the cartel and speaking of his promotion because of it. DeSalvo, whom I still remembered sitting in the car next to me, sliding on his leather gloves to keep his prints off my body as he did whatever he wanted to do to me before handing me over to Randall. I wanted him punished. It was unfair that he not only got off scot-free, but was rewarded as well.

I’d learned long ago that life wasn’t fair, though, and sometimes a compromise was the only alternative. I couldn’t punish DeSalvo, but that didn’t mean I’d roll over either.

My father was out of prison and had started a new life in the witness protection program. We still had contact — that had been a non-negotiable part of my dad’s deal from the start — but I felt like it was time to pick up my own life again.

After all this time, I would finally see Lake.

I’d found him six weeks ago. It hadn’t been easy, but being the daughter of a crime boss had its benefits and I wasn’t above taking advantage of them when I needed to.

I’d done a lot of soul searching over the last year. At first, I chalked up my feelings for Lake to Stockholm syndrome and forced myself to think about the bad things, the punishments, the humiliations. I wanted to forget him and hating him was the closest I could come to that…except that I didn’t hate him.

And forgetting him wasn’t working.

Those days in the cabin, in the “bad girl’s room,” they had changed me. It was like they’d chiseled off this layer to expose a part of me I’d never known existed, but that was more real than anything else, made me feel more alive than I’d ever felt before. In a way, even though life had been easier before Lake, I didn’t want to go back to that, to that version of myself. I couldn’t. I loved Lake. It took a lot for me to finally admit that and know that it wasn’t some residue of the trauma that had become my life in those weeks.

It was real. I loved him.

The sun began to set as I neared my destination in the small fishing village. The setting was beautiful, the spot he’d chosen off the beaten path. I slowed to check the GPS on my phone and continued onto the unpaved road closer to the cove. A beat-up old work truck was parked by the small house and, from this distance, I could see there was a light on inside.

I slowed the car, my heart beating faster and my stomach nervous as I neared the place. What would it be like to see him again? What would I feel? What would he feel? I smiled. He’d be surprised, that’s for sure.

But would he be happy to see me?

I glanced in the rearview mirror, suddenly questioning what I was doing here, so far from home, on a hope and nothing else. What if he wasn’t happy to see me? What if he didn’t feel the same? What if he’d long forgotten me? And worse, what if he wasn’t alone?

“No.”

I straightened up and drove the last part of the road to park next to the truck. Dust kicked up around the car, and my face felt grimy and hot from having driven with the windows down the whole way. Brushing nervous fingers through my hair, I climbed out of the car and walked on heavy legs toward the house. I tried for a friendly smile as I neared the door, my heart pounding in overdrive as I neared it, but before I even reached it, the door opened.

I stopped, hesitating, the smile I’d attempted fading because it wasn’t Lake who stepped out to greet me from behind that door. It was a woman, an older woman. She looked at me, her expression one of worry. A child of about ten peeked out from behind her, wrapping her arm around the older woman’s waist. She was too young to be her daughter. This was her granddaughter, at least.

I said hello in Spanish, extending my hand in greeting, my presence obviously making her nervous.

“You’re American?” the young girl asked, her words accented heavily.

“Yes. You speak English?”

“A little.”

“I’m looking for someone, I thought I had the right address,” I started, showing them the address I’d written out.

The old woman said something and the girl answered her, but I couldn’t follow.

“This is the address,” the girl said, looking at my paper. “But my family lives here now.”

I looked at the old woman who studied me, saying something else to the girl.

“Are you sure I have the right address? Is it possible—”

“What’s your name?” the girl asked.

“Lily. Lily Cross.” I hadn’t used my real name in a year. I’d been Lynette Moning, as my new passport read.

“Wait here,” she said as the older woman went inside.

The last of the sun would be gone in minutes, and I watched it disappear into the horizon. The water shimmered, and I inhaled a deep breath of salty sea air, trying to listen to the sound of the water rather than giving in to the panic rising in my mind.

The old woman returned, holding an envelope. The girl took it and handed it to me.

“We are to give you this. He left it if you ever came.”

She looked at me, the concern in her ten-year-old eyes too heavy, making mine fill with tears as the realization that he wasn’t here, that I was too late, dawned on me. A few moments passed while I just looked at her, unable to glance at the envelope I held.

The old woman spoke to me this time, gesturing toward the house.

“She says for you to come inside. It’s late, and there’s no hotel here. It’s not safe for you to drive alone now. You may spend the night.”

I looked down at the envelope, my hands shaking. He’d written Lily across the front of it. No last name, just Lily.

“Come.” It was the old woman this time, and I went with her, my body feeling numb as I walked into the tiny house with its broken-down furniture, the smell of food cooking, the sound of the television playing an old American Western in the background. I sat on the couch, and the young girl brought me a glass of water. They then both went into the kitchen, leaving me alone.