He glances up. He looks terrible. Gaunt, gray, sweaty. He wears the same clothes as yesterday and reeks of ethanol oozing from his pores.
She sets her black sun hat on the bar and takes a seat on the stool beside him. “Are you okay?” She eyes his drink—it’s raki, a very strong grape spirit. She can smell the anise.
“Well, don’t you look all fresh and sexy,” he slurs, tilting his chin toward her white shorts and red halter top. It’s an outfit he adored in Italy. Now he grimaces at the sight of her in it. Hurt darts through her.
“Patrick, can we talk?”
He drains his glass, tosses euros on the counter, rises from his stool, and walks to the door.
“Patrick!”
He exits the arched doorway and vanishes into the blinding Crete sunlight.
She hurries out after him. But he’s gone. She puts on her big black sunglasses and scans up and down the alley. The old city is entirely for pedestrians—no vehicles apart from early-morning delivery trucks. And the streets are mazelike in places, and so many stairs.
She thinks she saw him turn right as he exited the pub, so she heads in that direction, moving up a steep cobbled alley and climbing countless uneven steps. Near the top, where a road bisects the old town, and where taxis wait, she finally catches up with him.
“Patrick, for God’s sakes,” she says breathlessly. “Can we please just talk?”
He spins to face her, eyes full with rage. His skin gleams with sweat. Moisture forms big damp circles under his arms.
“What’s going on?” she asks softly.
“Are you fucking kidding me?”
She blinks at his profanity, at the venom in his tone.
“You think I don’t know what you’re doing behind my back? You’re a slut, Arra.”
Her jaw drops.
He pivots away and climbs higher. She grabs his arm.
He jerks free. “Do not—do not fucking touch me again.”
Shock ripples through her veins. “Patrick, please—just listen. It’s Poppy. She—”
“Oh, for Chrissakes.” He storms up several more stairs.
Desperation erupts in her. “Patrick!” she yells after him. “Shemurderedsomeone.”
He stills. Turns.
Arrabella hurries up the few stairs, lowers her voice. “She killed her husband, Patrick. Poisoned him. Stopped his heart.”
“What?”
“I told you she’s dangerous.”
“What in the hell are you talking about?”
“Poppy is not her real name—well, she legally changed it, but only after the trial. She was Helen Doyle when she was arrested fifteen years ago, and charged for poisoning her husband, Peter ‘Paz’ Doyle. Here—” She digs into her tote, hands trembling, pulls out printouts. “I had these printed at the ship’s business center. Online proof that Poppy used to be Helen.”
He doesn’t take the articles. He just stares at her.
She lowers her hand with the papers. He’s too drunk. Not processing properly.
“Patrick,” she says carefully, gently, pointedly using his name, “this is evidence that Lillith is in jeopardy. Poppy Buchanan isn’t who she says—”
