I blink heavily and get a hold of myself. “How magnanimous of you.”
“Don’t be like that. I really did try to keep you out of this.”
“Not bloody hard enough.” I purse my lips after the unhelpful utterance. Tom is only ever interested in Tom. It’s just a shame I found that out too late. He loves our boys, but mostly as an extension of himself. The man has an inflated ego, a sense of grandeur that’s very much undeserved. He’d never run into a burning house to save me—not even when we were married and he professed to love me. I know only two men in the world who would drop everything for me. One is my brother, who I’m trying to learn not to lean on. The other is Van. The man who proved he can’t be trusted with my heart. Tom would never gift me an Aston Martin. He’s never once offered me his jacket when I was cold.
“They said somewhere public. You get to choose.”
“Oh, wonderful!” I hear the words—in my voice, too. But none of this feels real as my mind spins with a million other things. What it might mean if I don’t go. And I don’t mean for Tom, who wasn’t even at the bottom of my list of people I care for before and is now at the top of my list of people who I don’t give a flying fuck for.
“Maybe they just want to sort out some sort of payment plan,” he hedges.
“For me, you mean? Some way I can pay off your debts?” I shut the thought down, though I think he must see the horror on my face.
“Not like that,” he says plaintively. He moves back from the door and slices a hand through his hair.
“You’ve forgotten your disguise,” I mutter, adjusting the straps of my purse on my shoulder. “If they hurt me, Tom, you know Sandy will—”
“No, Iz. They won’t.” He reaches for my hand. Fear allows him to take it. “I just meant they know you were the brains behind my business, and I was just the charm.”
I yank my hand back. If I wasn’t so terrified, I might roll my eyes. Or poke him in his. I used to think he was charming. And harmless. We were no great love story, and I thought that would somehow protect me. Clearly, I lack the imagination for his treachery.
“That you sorted the finances,” he adds, “and did the accounts.”
“They don’t want to meet me because I’m a whiz with a spreadsheet.”
“No, really. I think that’s why they want to talk to you.”
“You know what I think? That you’re full of shit.”
That he’s a toad. A weasel—a rat!
He’s left me no choice.
So it looks like I’ll be taking a meeting with criminals.
And I will never forgive him for that.
18
Isla
“We were about to send a search party out for you,” Holland calls as I make my way out onto the terrace.
The sun is much lower now, and the drive back from the village had been unnerving for more than just that. The hills loomed ominous and the trees places to hide behind. Even the car that had been abandoned beyond the castle gate had been a potential source of harm. It wasn’t until I’d reached the castle courtyard that I’d felt safe. And now, seeing this girly pair huddled under fleece blankets, can I force myself to breathe again.
“Who were you thinking to send?” I force a little brightness into my words.
“Gertie, of course,” she says, watching as my faithful Labrador shuffles out behind me. Where I go, she follows. Unless there’s someone in the kitchen, because then she turns into a fair-weather friend. “Hey, Gertie girl.” With an eager wag of her tail, my (in)constant companion ignores me in favor of following the whiff of the charcuterie board and a pat from Holland.
“Sorry, work stuff.” I offer the vague explanation, dropping onto the opposite end of the Lutyens bench that Holland’s sitting on. Kennedy has the hood of her light jacket pulled up, and Holland has on a pair of striped socks, her sparkly designer sneakers abandoned to the flagstones. The women may look similar, but stylistically, they’re worlds apart. Kennedy is more retro styling while Holland prefers all things girly. “I got a call when I was coming out of the corner store, so I took my laptop to the café to sort it out.” My innards suddenly cramp, though not from my lies. Don’t think about it. Not now. Shove it in the cupboard of anxieties to deal with later.
“I don’t blame you,” Holland predictably complains. “The Wi-Fi out here is literally the worst.”
Worse than being forced into a meeting with potential criminals? No. But I’d picked my excuse well—my sister-in-law is regularly driven daft by the phone and internet service at the castle. I’d been gone longer than candle buying and my conversation with Tom. “I also decided to take you up on your invitation, so I drove home to get the boys’ school uniforms.” I’d also pulled together an outfit for tomorrow for my meeting with a couple of members of the criminal fraternity. God help me, I need that drink.