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“You have no proof,” she snarled, looking up the stairs for her maid, who seemed to be missing.
“Actually, I do,” Daisy said, scrolling through her pictures. “I have this picture of a pair of earrings that were purchased from a jeweler in Lyon. The jeweler told me there was another set, sold to Franklin Tate, the day he was in Lyon. The ones you’re wearing.”
Portia reached up and touched her ear, in shock.
“And I also have this,” she said, showing her the photograph of the flight attendant, in profile, reaching up to an overhead cabinet. “This was taken by the pilot. That, and Franklin Tate’s will? I think there’s enough evidence for the police to see my side.”
The woman stood there, looking at her in horror. “You don’t know . . .” She closed the door. “I didn’t do this. This is all a misunderstanding. Come with me. I’ll prove it to you.”
Daisy followed her through the house, her hand wrapped around her phone, ready to make the call if things got weird. Every room in the place was bigger and grander than the next—definitely not something one could afford on a flight attendant’s salary. This woman must’ve gotten a good chunk of Tate’s money from the divorce.
When she reached the back of the house, she opened a door to a greenhouse. Warm, humid and suffocating air flooded in. It was dark back here, because of the late hour, but there were a few lights glowing on the stone steps, and the sound of trickling water.
Daisy walked down the steps, noticing the stone barriers, blocking off various pools full of dark water and lily pads. A narrow path cut through a veritable jungle, from where all kinds of exotic plants sprouted. “Isn’t this lovely?” Portia said.
“Yeah . . .” Daisy said warily as she led her deeper into what looked like an actual jungle, taking path after path. When Daisy ventured a look over her shoulder, all she saw was darkness.
Would she be able to find her way out?
At the end of the path was a small clearing. Portia stopped at a small white workbench, scattered with vials and pots, half-swallowed by the vegetation.
“What is this place?” Daisy asked.
“It’s my little playground. You see, my father was a world-famous scientist, so I moved around a lot,” she said, surveying the place with a bit of pride. “We moved to Brazil when I was a child. I had some of my best years there. But then we had to move away. How I missed those jungles. Those sounds . . .”
As Daisy stepped further in, she heard something else.
The sound of frogs, their low vibrato thrumming in the night.
When Portia turned around, she was holding a syringe of white-tinged liquid. “This will only hurt for a second.”
CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR
“Hell, no,” Daisy said, starting to back away.
Portia leapt forward, syringe in hand, ready to plunge into Daisy’s body. “Don’t you dare!” she shouted.
Daisy spun to rush off, but the first thing she did was collide with one of the large jungle trees. She hadn’t remembered passing it, but then again, she wasn’t familiar with any of this. It was absolutely black, except for a bit of glowing light coming from the entrance, and from the workbench behind her. Blinking to get her vision back, she pushed away a giant leaf and threw herself forward.
Something grabbed ahold of her ponytail, yanking it back.
She tore it from the claws of a branch of a tree, only succeeding to free part of it as she rushed forward, feeling the pop of hair being pulled from her scalp.
Daisy rushed into absolute darkness, knowing she wasn’t on the path anymore, wherever that was. She felt soft earth, some mud, under her shoes, as the leaves and fronds of trees slapped her cheeks. Pushing forward blindly, she struck out wildly, hoping to see the lights of the exit.
When she did, when she finally burst out onto the path, she let out a sigh of relief and reached for the door.
At that moment, Portia pounced, jumping on her like a wild animal, throwing her to the floor.
She scrabbled to grab onto anything she could, and found the woman’s hair, and her arm.
In her peripheral vision, Daisy caught sight of the syringe, its tip glistening wet in the minimal light. As Daisy struggled to get a hold of her assailant’s wrist, the syringe was brought between them, bearing down on Daisy, ready to be plunged into her heart.
She sucked in a breath as the weight of the woman bore down upon her. Locked in a struggle, she gazed up at the woman, her face twisted in hate. No longer beautiful, she looked half-insane.
“Let . . . go . . .” Portia ground out, trying to lower the syringe into Daisy’s chest.
It was so close. Daisy could almost feel it, the scrape against her skin, the pinch, the cold flood of liquid. If Portia succeeded, the poison would have a direct line to her heart. She’d read enough about the poison to know that when ingested, it needed time to make its way to the heart in the bloodstream. But an injection? This wouldn’t be slow paralysis and death—death would be instant, and assured.
