“It’s all beginning to make sense now,” Nick said in a hushed tone, thinking back to what his mother had told him about the accident.
Colette continued. “Carlton hasn’t been the same since the crash. He’s never been able to get over it—he blames himself and he blames Richie. I think he feels like he can somehow redeem himself by winning this race. But we can’t let him get into any car tonight. He’s in no condition—not physically and especially not mentally. Rachel, can you please talk some sense into him? I’ve been calling him nonstop, and of course he isn’t picking up my calls. But I think he’ll listen to you.”
With the full gravity of the situation finally sinking in, Rachel picked up her phone and dialed Carlton’s number. “It’s gone straight to voice mail.”
“I was hoping he’d pick up if he saw your number.” Colette sighed.
“We’ll just have to go to him. Where’s this race taking place?” Nick asked.
“That’s the thing—I have no idea. Everyone’s just disappeared. Roxanne’s off with my security team trying to track them down, but she hasn’t had any luck so far.”
Astrid suddenly spoke up. “What’s Carlton’s phone number?”
“It’s 86 135 8580 9999.”
Taking out her phone, Astrid began dialing Charlie Wu’s private line. “Hey you! No, no, everything’s fine, thank you. Um, hope you don’t mind, but I have a big favor to ask. Does that security whiz still work for you?” She paused, lowering her voice. “The one who tracked youknowwho down with just a mobile-phone number a couple of years ago? Great. Could you help me track down the location of this phone? No, really, I’m absolutely fine. I’m just trying to help some friends out—I’ll tell you the whole story later.”
A few minutes later, Astrid’s phone buzzed back with a text message. “Found him,” she said with a grin. “Right now, it looks like Carlton’s at a commercial garage on avenue de Malakoff, right next to Porte Maillot.”
PARIS—2:45 A.M.
Rachel, Nick, and Colette huddled in the backseat of the Range Rover as it sped toward Carlton’s location. Sitting in silence, Rachel gazed out at the mostly empty boulevards of the Sixteenth Arrondissement, the streetlamps illuminating the elegant façades with that particular golden hue only to be found in Paris. She thought about how best to handle Carlton in his current state and wondered whether they would even get to him in time.
Suddenly they had arrived at avenue de Malakoff, and the chauffeur gestured toward the lone garage that seemed to be a hive of activity. Rachel stared in astonishment as the full extent of the race operation that had been months in the planning finally became clear to her. Through the partially raised garage door, a team of mechanics bustled around a carbon blue Bugatti Veyron Super Sport*3 as if it were being prepared for the Formula One final, and several guys she recognized from the party stood outside the garage smoking. Rachel whispered to Nick, “Can you believe this? I had no idea it would be this much of a production!”
“You’ve seen how the women in this crowd spend their money; this is how the guys spend it,” Nick commented discreetly.
“Look, look! There’s Carlton standing over there with Harry Wentworth-Davies. Ugh, I should have known that wanker was part of all this!” Colette said.
Rachel took a deep breath. “I think it’s best that I try to talk to Carlton on my own. He might be more receptive if the three of us aren’t ganging up on him.”
“Yes, yes, we’ll just stay in the car,” Colette anxiously agreed.
Rachel got out of the car and approached the garage, and Carlton suddenly looked up and noticed them. Grimacing, he staggered out to the middle of the street and blocked Rachel from coming any farther. “You guys shouldn’t be here. How did you even find me in the first place?”
“Does it really matter?” Rachel said, studying her brother with concern. His left eye was blackened, he had a bruise on his jaw, a nasty cut on his bottom lip, and God knows what other injuries under his racing
overalls. “Carlton, please don’t go through with this—you know you’re not in any condition to race tonight.”
“I’ve sobered up—I know what I’m doing.”
Like hell you have, Rachel thought. Knowing it was useless arguing with someone who had clearly had too much to drink, she tried a different tactic. “Carlton, I know what happened tonight. I can totally understand your anger, I really can.”
“I don’t know how you could possibly understand at all.”
Rachel grasped his arm encouragingly. “Look, you have nothing to prove to Richie anymore! Can’t you see that he’s already lost? He’s been totally humiliated by Colette. Can’t you see how much she loves you? Be the bigger man and walk away from this race now.”
Jerking his arm away, Carlton said gruffly, “This isn’t the time to big sister me. Just get out of here, please.”
“Carlton, I know about London,” Rachel said, looking him in the eyes. “Colette told me the whole story…I know what you’re feeling.”
Carlton looked taken aback for a moment, but then his eyes narrowed in anger. “You think you know everything, don’t you? You come to China for two weeks and you think you’re the expert on all of us. Well, you don’t know a thing! You have no idea how I really feel. You have no clue how much trouble you’ve caused me, caused my family!”
“What do you mean?” Rachel looked at him in surprise.
“You don’t even know the damage you’ve done to my father just by coming to China! Can’t you get the hint that he’s been avoiding you like the plague? Haven’t you figured out why you’re staying at the Peninsula? It’s because my mother would rather die than let you set foot in her house! Do you know I’ve been spending time with you just to piss her off? Why can’t you mind your own business and leave us alone?”
His words hit her like a ton of bricks, and she took a few steps back, feeling momentarily winded. Colette sprang out of the car, stomped over to Carlton in her black-and-gold Walter Steiger Unicorn heels, and began yelling right in his face. “How dare you talk like that to your sister! Do you know how lucky you are to have someone like her looking out for you? No, you don’t. You take everyone for granted and only love feeling sorry for yourself. What happened in London was a tragedy, but it wasn’t just your fault. It was my fault, it was Richie’s fault—we were all to blame. Winning this race isn’t going to bring anyone back from the dead, and it’s not going to make you feel any better. But go ahead, get into your car. Go and race Richie. The both of you can go measure your dicks and crash your million-dollar sports cars into the Arc de Triomphe for all I care!”