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He said he was going to drive me to school the next morning because Betsy would be working late.
I pretended like I was all good with this. But I wasn’t.
The only furniture he had in that guest room was a bed—just like his own bedroom—so there wasn’t anything I could push in front of the door. But you can bet your ass I locked the door. And, just in case, I took one of his crazy expensive carving knives from the kitchen with me upstairs to bed.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Crissy
Tuesday morning, on a local news site, I saw the pictures of Betsy—as me—at that appalling meet and greet that had been held the night before at Fort Knocks. I was scrolling on my tablet and there they were. There she was. She was in a costume reminiscent of the floor-length midnight-blue gown Diana had worn to the White House when she had danced with John Travolta. Betsy even had a necklace with a similar black rock the size of a baby’s fist against her collarbone. She was, I could tell, the belle of the ball at that travesty.
I sent her an oblique but civilized text. My rage was volcanic, but I had to keep my cards masked if I had any chance of learning what in holy hell she and Futurium were doing. Still, I wanted her to know that I was on to her, and I’d seen the photos. When she didn’t respond, I figured that the police had grilled her and she was as angry with me as I was with her, and so she was going to ignore me.
Nigel stopped by my cabana a little before noon. He had with him a wicker beach bag, which made him look like a father on holiday. It was the sort of tote in which one expected to find plastic beach toys, such as little shovels and sieves and buckets.
“I saw the pictures from last night,” he began. “I’m sorry, Crissy, that’s the last straw. You know that, right?”
“I don’t know that.”
“Has Terrance sent you the name of a lawyer?”
“Not yet.”
He sat down in the other chaise. “Well, I’m glad to see you haven’t been arrested,” he said.
I didn’t smile at this feeble attempt at humor, but I did recall the story of how Diana and Sarah Ferguson had been nicked after Sarah’s bachelorette party in 1986. The pair had been dressed as police officers and busted for impersonating actual bobbies. Diana had thought it all a scream and eaten bacon-flavored crisps in the van until she was recognized. “I didn’t kill anyone, and I wasn’t at Red Rocks. So, that’s never going to happen,” I toldhim.
“I hope so,” he said, but I wanted him to say more. I wouldn’t have minded a little extra reassurance or even a redemptive squeeze of my hand. “Do you miss him?” he asked.
He didn’t have to say who, and his solicitousness touched me. “Yes. But it’s not like Yevgeny was an important part of my life or I’d known him forever. You know that. We spent three nights together, and one of those nights was mere hours because he had a plane to catch the next morning. In some ways, he’s rather like a ghost: sometimes, I have to struggle to see his face. I don’t even have a picture of him or us on my phone.”
“That’s sad.”
I sighed. “That’s my life.”
“I know, love. I know.”
I was wearing sunglasses, and so I was able to admit, “I’ve blubbered. In private, yes. But still a right proper cry.”
“Ah, but only in private. That’s a good royal.”
“Thank you,” I said. He was, I realized, the stoic one, enduring daily the likes of me.
“I want you to see something,” he said. He handed me his phone and showed me another photo from last night, this one from a local gossip blog. There was Betsy dressed as Diana, but this time she wasn’t with other tribute entertainers: she was standing with two men in business suits. The caption said it was me, which I expected. What I didn’t expect was what followed:
With the Princess are Oliver Davies (l) and Neri Lombardo (r). Although the businessmen are known for their work in banking, cryptocurrency, and resorts—one in Cambodia, one in Grand Cayman, and (fingers crossed!) one here in Las Vegas—they are also philanthropists, building schools and churches around the world. The pair are staying at the Versailles and seemed to be having a wonderful time with some of the strip’s most iconic performers at Fort Knocks.
“Those are not the strip’s most iconic performers,” I said.
“Really? That’s your take? Your lover is dead, people think it’s you hanging around at Fort Knocks with fintech robber barons, and all you can focus on is the idea that the entertainers who were at that event last night weren’t of your stature?”
“Your point?”
“I want to be sure you see the gravity of this.”
“How do you know they’re fintech robber barons?”
“Code words: banking, cryptocurrency, resorts. Maybe philanthropy. And, I confess, I googled them. There are allegations out there that they’re both part of something called the Mastaba: a group of organized crime wankers.”
