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‘Yeah,’ Mark confirms, smiling at me. ‘He’s invited us out with you. Some posh gala thing at a countryside mansion. You know, he’s actually a nice bloke.’
Some posh gala thing? At a countryside mansion? ‘I’m sorry, what?’ He must have his wires crossed. Andelesea?
Mark looks down at Lucy, who’s gazing up at him dreamily. ‘But he said you have to be good.’
‘I’ll be on my best behaviour,’ Lucy vows, giving me an enthusiastic smile. ‘We’ll celebrate!’
‘Celebrate what?’ Mark asks, looking down at his excitable girlfriend.
‘Becker proposed to Eleanor, and she said yes.’
‘No shit?’ Mark swings a stunned look to me. ‘Congratulations.’ He comes over and hugs me. I’m a little shocked, but I embrace him nevertheless, pleased he seems genuinely happy for me.
‘Thanks.’
‘A double date,’ Lucy sings. ‘Yay!’
I laugh as Mark frees me, trying to morph my face into excitement rather than confusion. I’m struggling. I slip my key in the lock and let myself into my apartment. Then I call Becker. It rings and rings, and eventually goes to voicemail. ‘Call me,’ I demand, before hanging up and looking around. That reminiscent feeling has gone. Cold chills spring onto my skin as I zoom around my apartment, gathering as much as I can into my arms and making a hasty exit.
Negotiating the mountain of things in my grip, I rest my chin on the top of the pile and raise my knee to semi-free a hand. It takes some serious manoeuvring, but I eventually manage to unlatch the door and use my foot to hook it open. I pass through and let it slam behind me, shuddering and shaking off the creeps. Then I make my way down the stairs, peeking to the side and taking the steps carefully.
When I reach the lobby door, I have to wedge my belongings against the wall, pushing myself into it in order to free a hand. The cold air from outside eventually hits me. And so does a voice. ‘Here, let me help you.’ The familiar tone sucks all of the strength out of my arms, and my mountain of belongings crashes to the floor.
I stare like a dumbstruck fool at Becker’s arch-enemy. ‘Brent.’ I blink repeatedly, hoping he’s a hallucination that will disappear if I moisten my dry eyes. He doesn’t. He’s standing before me, larger than life. ‘What are you doing here?’ I ask, dipping to collect my things from the floor. Anger. It’s bubbling deep in my tummy, and I hate the fact that there are nerves mixing up with it. This is the son of the man who Becker thinks is responsible for his parents’ deaths. My nerves are warranted. He’s also on my list of suspects who could have broken into my apartment. Plus he’s still playing games with Becker, goading him, making it impossible for us to move on. And he’s here now. What is he doing here now?
‘I happened to be in the area,’ Brent answers, bending and helping me.
My teeth grind. Sure he was. Did he happen to be in the area the night my apartment was broken into? And I know he was in the area when the O’Keeffe was stolen. I stand when my arms are full and push past him, hurrying to the Audi.
As I reach the car, I realise the keys are in my bag and I haven’t a hope of getting them out without freeing my hands. ‘Shit,’ I curse under my breath, releasing the pile of clothes and letting them scatter at my feet. I find the keys and press the unlock button, but the boot doesn’t shift when I try to lift it. I growl to myself, ignoring the dent surrounded by scuff marks on the shiny silver paintwork of Becker’s Audi. ‘Open,’ I mumble, feeling my panic run away with me. I need to be cool. Not show him he unnerves me.
‘Are you moving out?’ he asks from behind me, his interest clear.
I blank him and proceed to stab at every button on the key fob, pleading with every Greek god for help. The boot finally pops open, and I waste no time scooping my things from the ground and shoving them in messily. I want to physically itch myself.
My clumsy string of movements halts when a hand appears by my side, a familiar pair of knickers hanging from a finger. ‘You missed these.’
I snatch them from him, too worried to be embarrassed, and throw them in with the rest of my clothes. ‘Why aren’t you at the auction house?’ The question slips, my nerves getting the better of me. Think, Eleanor! What’s wrong with me? I handled the copper perfectly, but this man here shoots down my stability with one look. I’ve just volunteered the fact that I know Brent’s bidding on the 1965 Ferrari that Becker wants, and since Becker sourced that information on the sly from Simon Timms’s secretary, I’m guessing Brent was purposely keeping his intention to buy it under wraps. Or will he steal the car once Becker has bought it?
