Ah, an investor. Well, that explains the handshake and the crocodile smile. Dee clinks her glass against Jonty’s. “Now that’s what I call a welcome. Thank you, my dear. And I’m Dee. Unless I’m in trouble, of course. Now, who else do we have?” She sees Rhys Lloyd staring at her, a frown creasing his forehead in confusion. The penny hasn’t dropped yet, clearly.
“Rhys Lloyd,” he says when Dee reaches him. “Creator of The Shore.”
“Indeed.” It does not surprise her that Rhys would describe himself as the Creator. She has deduced enough about him to know he is arrogant. Most men are, in Dee’s experience—and she has plenty of experience. “How nice to see you here.” Rhys’s frown deepens.
“Lovely to meet you, Mrs. Huxley.” Rhys’s wife offers a slim, tanned hand. Dee eyes her with interest.
“Will you do the honors, Jonty?” Rhys throws a set of keys at Jonty Charlton, who catches them deftly.
“Mrs. Huxley.” Jonty proffers an arm. “Won’t you come with me?”
As they make their way toward the lodge, Jonty carrying Dee’s capacious handbag, a garish yellow sports car comes up the drive with a throaty roar. Dee catches the look on Jonty’s face. “I’m afraid you’ve been landed with the old banger, dear.”
“A classic model never goes out of style, Mrs. Huxley.”
Smooth, Dee thinks. Perhaps a littletoosmooth.
She walks through the ground floor of her new lodge, taking in the clean, Nordic-style lines and the carefully chosen furnishings. The steel outline of the vast doors frames the lake like a painting, a hot haze softening the view. She tries the handle, and the doors slide open with a satisfying swoosh.
Turning, she eyes the layout of the open-plan kitchen, dining, and sitting rooms, then looks at Jonty. “I wonder if I could borrow those muscles of yours…”
Fifteen minutes later, Jonty’s shirt is circled with sweat. “Anything else?” he asks, his earlier enthusiasm distinctly lacking.
“That’s perfect.” Dee beams. They—or rather Jonty, with Dee waving her stick to direct proceedings—have switched around the furniture so the table is on the opposite side of the room, the L-shaped sofa in the kitchen area by the glass doors.
“I never eat at a table,” Dee says. “I’d rather be on the sofa with a tray on my lap and this view, wouldn’t you?” She walks across the room and waves toward the lake, the inky blue water contrasting with the line of green along its shore. “This is what we’re all paying for, isn’t it?”
Outside, the sports car is parked in front of the middle lodge, and a bashed-up BMW has taken the final spot, by number four. A teenage boy is unloading cases from the boot, and a woman with rainbow hair is talking to Rhys Lloyd.
Dee watches him for a moment. Even as she drove here, she didn’t know if she’d confront him, but now that she’s seen him—now that she’s seen his family—she knows that it’s inevitable.
As it turns out, it’s Rhys who confronts her. He rings her doorbell an hour or two later, just as Dee’s about to settle down with a book. She has said hello to her neighbors, who seem perfectly pleasant, although Dee—more than most—knows that looks can be deceiving.
Rhys looks uneasy, his eyes darting from Dee’s face to the stick in her hand to his own feet. “I came to see if you’d settled in okay.”
“It’s all wonderful, thank you. You must be delighted with the place.”
“Yes, I’m very—” He breaks off, his face creased in confusion. “Look—have we met before?”
“I think you’d better come in.”
Dee walks back into the lodge. She doesn’t wait to see if Rhys follows her, but she hears the click of the front door closing and the rubber soles of his deck shoes squeaking on the tiled floor. She sits and extends the same invitation to Rhys. He stands for a moment, then reluctantly perches at the opposite end of the sofa.
Dee makes a final decision. What she knows about Rhys is very powerful indeed: the sort of information his wife—and indeed the police—would be very interested in. The sort of information she could use as collateral, perhaps in exchange for shares in The Shore, which she can see has the potential to be an excellent investment.
More than anything else, Dee wants Rhys to know that he hasn’t gotten away with it.
“Number 36,” she says eventually.
Rhys stares at her, his face slowly paling beneath its sheen of perspiration.
“I own it.”
“But—” Rhys looks as if he’s struggling to breathe. “But you’re—” He stops, his gaze falling on Dee’s stick, on the crepey skin on the back of the hand holding it.
“Old?”
Rhys flushes.