“Are you talking about cheating?”

“What? No, the book. It’s been with me all along.”

She stared at me, anxiously awaiting my reaction. Her eyes shimmered with something and now I understood. Her jumpiness didn’t stem from frayed nerves.

It was caused by fear. Pure raw fear.

The kind that makes you want to join the witness protection program. The kind of fear that makes you want to buy a gun, and then barricade everyone you love inside a panic room.

“What are you talking about? What book?” I asked, but even before she confirmed my biggest nightmare, I felt physically sick. “How is that even possible? It was stolen.”

“Not really.” She smirked. “I found it inside my bag. Somehow I must have grabbed it with the rest of my stuff before we drove back to Bellagio to buy the pregnancy tests.” She squeezed my hand apologetically. “I’m so sorry, Brooke. My bag is like a tiny Bermuda Triangle that swallows up everything. I swear whatever I put in there, it’s either lost or forgotten, only to resurface when it wants to. It’s all my fault.”

“You mean it’s been with us all along?” I said slowly.

She nodded.

“What about the disk?”

She nodded again. “The book, the disk, they’re all here. The only thing they took are the financial reports and the sheets of paper you found in the basement.”

My mind began to spin. “Oh, God. You realize this could be the reason why they killed Jett’s father, right?” I closed my eyes, wishing I could hide forever.

Descend into darkness, but into darkness I was already descending, and it seemed worse than I ever imagined it to be.

Jett’s father did not die because Jett didn’t warn him. He didn’t die because someone had put him on some hit list. He was killed because the people involved never got what they came for, and they were dangerous enough to commit murder.

“Robert Mayfield was a potential witness,” I said slowly, the words echoing in my brain with the intensity of drumrolls. “He knew the club inside and out. He held all the information we could have wanted. Being Jett’s father, they feared he might say too much to us. Add his statement to the book and the disk, and we could’ve had real evidence against whatever’s going on in there.”

My head pounded hard, reinforcing the sense of sickness inside me at the thought of what this might mean for us.

“I feel sick.”

I ran for the bathroom, faintly aware of Sylvie’s presence as I stormed into a cubicle. I lingered over the bowl until my stomach was empty. Sylvie’s hand brushed my back, but she remained quiet as I washed my face. The cold water cooled my hot skin and helped clear my head. And then I broke down. Like a bursting dam, the tears began to spill before I could stop them.

“How am I supposed to tell Jett?” I asked. “After what happened to his father, he might think I’m not worth the risk and end things with me.”

“You don’t tell him, Brooke.” Sylvie’s eyes met mine, and for a moment I was left speechless by the calculation and determination I glimpsed in them. “You just pretend nothing’s happened.”

“Until shit hits the fan?” I snorted. “Are you fucking nuts?”

“Then I’ll tell him. It’s my fault, not yours, so I’ll deal with him.”

“Are you sure it’s your fault?” I thought back to the day I found out I was pregnant. My memories were a blurry mess because of the huge news I thought would break my world apart. I remembered a handbag and papers and us hurrying out, but who grabbed what? “It could just as well have been me. You always forget stuff, and I always make sure to remember to retrieve whatever you leave behind. Besides, I tend to shove my stuff inside your bag because yours is always larger than mine.”

“It doesn’t matter who did what. I honestly don’t think you should tell him.” She shook her head.

A cold feeling settled in the pit of my stomach. We had promised each other honesty. Technically, not telling him wasn’t lying, but keeping secrets sure felt like it.

“I can’t.” I grabbed her shoulders in a weak attempt to make her understand my dilemma. “What if they hurt more people? He has to know.”

I looked into her eyes and saw my own fear reflected in them. Was that the reason why she was so hell-bent on going on a road trip, far away from the drama and the danger I seemed to attract like a magnet?

“If he breaks up with me, I’ll be fine,” I said, my mind made up. “It’ll break my heart probably even more than before and it’ll take a long time to heal, but at least I’d have come clean.”

“Why would he do that? It’d be stupid. Jett might be many things, but he’s not an idiot.” She smiled, but I knew it was fake and meant to make me feel better from the way it didn’t quite reach her eyes. The slight tremor in her voice signaled she was just as unsure of what the future held in store for us as I was. “You’re too good for him, and he knows it.”

“I’m not so sure about that.” I shook my head.

I had been kidding myself.

After the break-in, Jett had assured me that it was over. I could still remember his exact words.

They have everything they wanted, so there is no need for them to come back.

But they didn’t have what they wanted. Maybe they had intended to send out a message by killing Robert Mayfield. If that was the case, no one was safe. Not I, nor Sylvie, Jett, or Nate. But that wasn’t my biggest fear. Jett’s guilt kept nagging at him, and I couldn’t shake off the feeling that everything had happened because of me. For the umpteenth time since Sylvie’s confession I wondered how Jett would react once I disclosed the truth. What if he started to blame me for his father’s demise? And, most importantly, would he be able to forgive me? Because as sure as the sun comes down after a beautiful day, promising a cold night, he would be mad and I didn’t know what a full confession might mean for us. Would we stay together? Would he continue loving me?

And to think of all the times I had expected Jett would let me down; of all the times I had mistrusted him. Ever since I found out Jett had lied to me, I had been worried about him hurting me, which seemed ludicrous in light of the disaster that was about to unfold. For weeks I had watched him and tried to read every gesture and word while the thought never occurred to me that I might be the one to make a mistake so grave it would cost a life. I never realized I might be the one who failed, and I hated myself for it.

If Jett loved me truly, he’d forgive the unforgivable. But even if he did, would I be able to forgive myself for killing his father? My sister was one thing. Her death had been my fault and it still haunted me in my dreams. But what about Jett’s father? Could I live with a second death on my conscience?

Chapter 10

NONE OF US spoke during the taxi ride to Sylvie’s apartment, which we had shared for years until two weeks ago. After our arrival from Italy, Jett and I had decided that it might be safer for the baby and me to move in with him. I had agreed reluctantly because he had a point, but, standing in my former living room painted the color of lavender and decorated with way too much fluff, I couldn’t help the nostalgia washing over me. Maybe my memories were what prevented me from returning the key or from taking all my belongings with me, but I realized I wasn’t yet ready to close the door on this part of my past.

In silence, I watched Sylvie drop her handbag on the coffee table and shrug out of her jacket, tossing it on top of the bag, before she turned to me.

“I can’t tell you how sorry I am. I just—”

“Don’t.” I cut her off. “Let’s focus on the now and worry later. Show me the book.”

“Stay here. I’ll be right back.”

“As if I’d go anywhere,” I mumbled.

Waiting for Sylvie, I figured I might as well make myself comfortable, so I got us two cans of soda from the kitchen and slumped on the couch, then opened one and took a sip. I put it down on the couch table and seriously considered checking on Sylvie when she finally returned. The tension was so thick I could almost taste it. I peered nervously at the bundle Sylvie handed me.

The black leather-bound book seemed light in my hands, but it looked just as ominous as I remembered it. There was still a chance that Sylvie had somehow gotten her hands on someone’s journal with yellowed pages carrying the joy of a new relationship or maybe the secrets of a love affair—anything but five names and a few strings of numbers. I opened the first page, and my last morsel of hope that it might all be a misunderstanding dissolved into thin air. I wished it was just a nightmare from which I couldn’t wake up, but no matter how many times I pinched myself, I knew I wasn’t dreaming. No dream could be so terrible and shattering. No dream could ever evoke the kind of devastation those five names caused inside me.

I stared at them as they circled before my eyes like a record on replay:

David McMuldrow

Eric Statham

Clarence Holton

Robert Mayfield

Troy Bradley Wilson

“Have you told Kenny?” I finally said.

“No.” Sylvie shook her head, her blue eyes meeting mine. “I wanted to show you first. What’s the big deal with the names?”

“Jett thinks it’s a hit list. He believes they tried to get out.”

“That’s fucked up.” Sylvie let out a deep breath. “Actually, I Googled them.”

“You did?” I sat up, interested. “Did you find anything?”

“I know Clarence Holton. Not personally, but he’s friends with my father. They used to go golfing together. Owns half the gossip magazines in Europe.”

“Right.” I tapped my fingers on the book. I didn’t like the fact that Clarence Holton was acquainted with Sylvie’s family. “What about the others?”

She leaned forward conspiratorially and began to whisper, “There’s a semi-famous Troy Bradley Wilson in Canada. He’s teaching physics in Montreal, has won a few awards, and is a household name in various journals. But he didn’t strike me as the guy we’re looking for, so I dug further and I found another Troy guy. He’s a successful public speaker and the co-founder of a company in San Diego called—wait!”

She disappeared down the hall and returned with a notebook, then began to read out loud. “Latrix. They specialize in, now listen, importing sex products.”

“Sex products and a club. Much of a coincidence?” I said.

“Yeah.” She raised her eyebrows meaningfully. “Moving on to the next. Googling Eric Statham brought too many hits but, assuming he’s rich, which seems to be a prerequisite, he’s either a successful entrepreneur or a famous football player from Illinois. I don’t think he’s a football player because the guy’s hot. Like, seriously hot. He probably doesn’t need that sort of club to get laid.”

“So the entrepreneur it is.” I glanced at the last two names on the list. “No need to establish who Robert Mayfield is. What about David McMuldrow? Did you dig up anything on him?”