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Dammit. She’s right; she does know my weak points, and I just let her provoke me into confirming them. This is my fault. I was so angry with her that I threatened everything she had until she had no choice but to fight back.
I’m staring at the spot where the cab disappeared around the corner, enraged but also riveted. When Simon comes up to me and says something, I can’t even hear him.
I always knew Camille was the perfect match for me.
Too bad I’m going to have to fucking kill her.
CHAPTER19
Bastien
She’s gettingsmart and somehow manages to disappear for a few days. I’m hampered by Troy and Benedict, so it’s not a good idea for me to leave my rented house too often. I’m trying to track her, but she’s ditched her phone and sold her car, which gives her even more money.
She’s not staying at her house, and she hasn’t checked in to any hotels that I know of.
It drives me crazy not knowing where she is.
Is she fucking somebody else?Lying there faking an orgasm the way she does with every man who’s not me?
Thinking about that keeps me up at night. I know she’s not back with Landon because I’m still keeping an eye on him, the pathetic bastard. Poor Landon, all mopey and miserable. Watching him cry alone in his apartment cheers me up briefly, but then my black rage returns.
I call up Emilie. I need to convey that while I appreciate her loyalty, she needs to let me handle Camille. I debate using our old childhood code-talk to warn her to grab her family and run, but I am sure her phone is being monitored, and there’s no way for me to explain the situation properly before Artemis detonates the implant in my body.
I have no choice but to win the challenge.
“What did that little cunt do?” she whispers into the phone, likely too close to the kids to yell like I’m sure she wants to.
“Nice to talk to you too.” I chuckle for the first time in days.
“I know you didn’t call me to shoot the shit, so tell me what the hell’s going on and how you want me to bury Camille.”
I tsk, internally laughing at my sister’s antics, but not wanting to let her know it. “Leave Camille to me. I want you to back off.”
She harrumphs. “Why? You always loved when I pushed her around.”
“That was then. Focus on your household and leave Camille to me. Her pain is mine to cause. Mine to enjoy.”
It’s quiet on the other line for several minutes. She’s likely stewing at being told what to do. She’s never been good at taking orders.
“Fine. But if she calls me again, I can’t promise I won’t hunt her down.”
“She won’t,” I promise, knowing I have little control over that at present.
In pure Emilie fashion, she hangs up without so much as a goodbye.
Not my concern.
When I’m not searching for Camille, I keep up my training regimen by spending hours in the gym and studying the landscape in Virginia. Planning out my strategy for the challenge is time-consuming. It’s in ten days, and there’s a lot of ground to cover. I’m always in peak physical condition, and I’ve never lost a physical fight, but the Franklins are also in excellent shape. It will all come down to strategy. For once, I wish I could call my father. He’s a world-class chess player and wins every strategy game.
I’ll just have to rely on the lessons he taught me as I was growing up.
I finally track Camille down at an Airbnb. It’s in a suburban neighborhood with lots of people walking the street until late at night, and the houses on either side are occupied. I’m annoyed at how smart she’s playing things.
I wait until 3:00 a.m. when the neighborhood is dead quiet. I use my thermal imaging sensor to determine where in the house she’s sleeping. She’s alone, which is good because if someone else were with her, they wouldn’t live to see the sunrise.
Pulling out my homemade alarm disabler, I jam the signals that the door sensor sends to the alarm control panel and jimmy open the back door. I’m carrying a bag of tools designed to inflict maximum pain in the minimum amount of time—because Iwillfind out where she’s hiding those damned recordings. Unfortunately, she’s gone old school, rigging an alarm that can’t be hacked into—when I push the door open, a pan full of silverware falls off the door sill and crashes to the floor.
I barrel through the house to the bedroom and kick the door several times until it flies off the hinges. She’s frantically pushing buttons on her phone, and I slap it out of her hand.
