And Poppy—Poppy is still dangerous to Lillith. Arrabella is certain of it.
If she removes Poppy from the equation, she can reclaim her job, ghostwrite Lillith’s memoir, and work her way back into the woman’s orbit. Who knows what might still grow from there?
Patrick’s words replay through her mind:
Prove it, Arra—prove you’re not after the legacy. Stay with me despite knowing you’ll get none of it, not one penny from the Angus McGregor empire. Because I am not a McGregor. Lillith owes me nothing.
He’d left the door open. It’s up to her now.
Rejoining the cruise in Turkey had presented visa complications. So she’d booked a flight to Santorini instead.
She calls Patrick one more time.
It kicks to voicemail. Again.
Irritated, she walks to the window overlooking the moonlit caldera. Phone in hand, she watches the ship—its myriad lights dancing as it rises and falls with the waves, buffeted by the wind.
Arrabella worries Patrick is purposefully ignoring her calls. He might not be receptive to her arrival.
As she stares at theBlack Orchidout on the caldera, all her lights suddenly go out.
She blinks. Shock floods through her. It’s as though the ship has vanished. Her brain searches for an explanation. Something passed in front of it? A cloud, maybe?
But there isn’t a cloud in the sky. The heavens are clear, scattered with a Milky Way of stars.
A noise breaks the stillness in the hallway outside her room door. Footsteps—many of them—moving fast. Voices rise, urgent, animated. A door slams in the wind. A woman calls out.
And then she hears the thudding sound of a chopper.
It’s Criminal:
The Mystery of theBlack Orchid
A Trinity Scott & Gio Rossi True Crime Production
INT. Living Room
Interview—Lorenzo Cantori—Pianist
Lorenzo Cantori walks into the room and sits on an elegant cream sofa. Behind him a black baby grand piano gleams. A vase of white orchids rests on the table beside him. On the wall is a framed photograph of Lorenzo along with several otherBlack Orchidsurvivors, huddling in silver survival blankets at a tiny harbor on Santorini Island.
His hair is dark, wavy. His face is long, his complexion sallow, and his hooded eyes are a liquid coffee brown beneath heavy brows.
He makes fluid movements with his hands as he talks—long, beautiful fingers. Manicured nails. He speaks halting English with a strong Italian accent.
Lorenzo Cantori:
“One month before theBlack Orchidset sail from Piraeus, I received a call from a fellow musician. He asked if I would replace him on the cruise ship. He and his wife were having a baby and it was going to arrive early. I accepted this offer—it was like a crowning of my childhood dreams as a pianist. The ship was beautiful—incredibly glamorous. Waterfalls inside. Elevators like glass undersea columns. Entire casino, ballroom. Many restaurants and swimming pools. A giant fitness center, movie theater, lounge theaters.”
He pauses. His features tighten as his mind goes back.
“I started my shift for the Moonlight & Mentalism show in this very elegant, very intimate lounge. Atmospheric decor. Guests impeccably dressed, and all wearing those masks.”
He makes a gesture around his face, depicting the shape of a mask.
“It was haunting. A feeling of anticipation among the guests. And also nervousness because of the mounting winds, and the worry that the shore excursions would be called off for the next morning. And things were moving in the theater—chairs sliding a bit. Cutlery and glasses rattling with the vibrations of the thrusters going this way, then that way, as they were struggling to hold the ship steady.”
He sips from his glass of water.
