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Prologue
“What value is life if we are not together?” –Jane Austen
Five years, seven months after Under the Lights.
Lara
The sunrise paints the early morning clouds in gold, salmon, orange, and yellow, burning stripes above the emerald green and deep blue waters of the Mediterranean Sea.
I walk on sugar-white sands down a grassy hill from Freddie’s villa in Nice, the one he allows us to live in since Molly stopped being able to sleep.
Since she became obsessed with revenge.
My chest is heavy, and my mind is filled with images of our last errand…
A cold white night.
A beautiful man with beautiful eyes and a beautiful soul.
An urgent knock on the door blasting it all to hell.
The salty breeze whips around me, twisting my dark hair into a rope where it’s tied at my neck. Catching the sides of my oversized white shirt, I pull it closer around my body, covering the thin tank underneath.
“Lara!” The high voice catches my attention, and I look up to the top of the hill.
Molly waves and starts down the weathered wooden staircase leading from the top of the berm to the shore where I stand. Every morning I’m here. I’m easy to find… for anyone who’s looking.
The salt water washes over my feet, cold and shocking. I watch as the watery sand surrounds them and they slowly disappear.
Tiny splashes, and a Yorkshire terrier joins me in the surf. I bend down to pat his little head. “Hi, Pierre.”
“Hey!” Molly bends down to scoop up her little dog. “It’s time to talk about what’s next.”
My lips press into a sad smile, and I stand, placing my arm around her waist. She allows me this small token of affection as we resume my stroll down the shoreline.
“We have at least four months before we can do anything,” I say, hoping to placate her.
Her body stiffens, but the fight has left me. I understood before. She needed to finish a job no one else could be trusted to do, but now I’m tired. I’m sad, and I’m ready to be done with it. No matter how much we’ve accomplished, how much justice is served, I can’t help feeling like it cost me everything.
Almost everything.
My mind skips across the miles to that night seven months ago…
I stood in the doorway, and our eyes locked over the evidence of what she’d done.
Only minutes before, I’d been surrounded by Mark’s strong arms, secure and happy, in a cocoon of love and protection. I’d looked ahead, into a future of all the beautiful things that might be mine.
The faintest knock on the door changed it.
“It’s over,” I said looking down at the dead body.
Molly stood looking at her handiwork, lips tight and body stiff.
No tremors.
No fear.
No regrets.
“They’re all gone,” I said.
Reaching out, I tried to touch her, to comfort her, but she pulled away, anger lining her young face.
“There’s still one more.”
My brow furrowed as I recalled her list of names. “That was the last one.”
“There’s one more. The biggest one of all.”
My reticence makes her angry, and my arm is awkward around her stiff body. Vigilante justice is the path she chose, but my wounds have lost their power. They’re not worth the fresh ones I’ve acquired.
“Four months, tops,” she argues, blue eyes slicing into mine.
Barely contained rage bubbles behind those eyes. She’s got the taste for blood, and whether it’s to avenge her or me, she wants more. She wants it all. She hasn’t lost anything. For her it’s been only gain, and she won’t stop until they’re all dead.
“You understand in four months, I’ll barely be out of recovery?”
“I understand no one would ever suspect the three of us in four months.”
Exhaling a deep breath, I try. If I’ve already lost everything, what does it matter? Anyway, she’s probably right. In four months, we’ll be even less suspicious.
We stop walking and turn to face the emerald waters. The briny air pushes her hair back and around her shoulders. Tendrils spin around my face, and the inescapable sorrow filters through my chest.
“I can’t do this anymore.”
“Yes, you can.” Her voice is flat, and she bends to put Pierre on the dry sand. “I’m going up. How much longer will you be out here? Celeste is making Quiche Lorraine for breakfast.”
Another sigh. “I’ll be up in a bit. I’m finishing my exercise.”
“Don’t stay out too long or I’ll eat all the food! Come, Pierre!”
I watch
her run up the tall staircase, her little dog at her heels, thinking of the reasons she has to run. I remember her as a small girl on the street, in the dark alley behind the theater. She was thin and starving and hunched in the corner waiting to die.
