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“Why would you do that?” Maire asked. “You think we’re awful people. You said it yourself.”
“We all have our secrets,” Camille said. “We saw the clues.” When Maire and Samuel didn’t say anything, she threw her hands up in frustration. “How many times do I have to tell you I don’t care what you did? It doesn’t matter to me. Let’s just lay it all on the line, go through all the clues. If it has something to do with you, don’t say anything, I don’t care. But if you found a clue that relates to me, I want to know.” They wouldn’t meet her gaze. Camille shook her head. “Fine, I’ll go. The Super Clue I won after the obstacle course was a death certificate with the name and location crossed out.” When Maire’s head snapped up, Camille hesitated. How much should she share with these two, knowing they were being so closemouthed about their own clues?
“Did you get any other information from the certificate?” Samuel asked.
“Just that the deceased was male and thirty-two years old,” Camille said.
Maire and Samuel exchanged a look. Interesting, Camille thought.
“Maire, during the shooting game, Fern asked you where you went to college. That had to mean something, am I right?” Camille looked for some sort of confirmation but got none.
“So, because of the questions Fern was asking Ned, he’s a predator,” Samuel said. It wasn’t a question. They knew it was true. “When I won the lake challenge my Super Clue was a letter opener,” he finally offered. “It made no sense until Fern asked Ned about it.”
“Then there are the wine bottles with the odd labels,” Camille said, lifting Ned’s now-empty bottle from the trash can. “Ned’s says Degenerare. When we first saw it, we all thought degenerate, right? That fits. Mine says Sfasciafamiglie,” Camille said, shaking her head. “I don’t know what that means.”
Samuel walked over to the bureau next to the senator’s vacated bed. “And the senator’s says Imbroglione. He had an affair and a secret son. I don’t know, maybe adulterer? Cheater?”
“That makes sense,” Camille agreed. “And yours?”
“Traditore,” Samuel said, going to his suitcase and pulling out the bottle.
“It sounds like traitor to me,” Camille said. “Does that make any sense to you?”
“It makes zero sense,” Samuel said with finality. “How about you, Maire?”
Maire’s forehead furrowed. “Uccisore,” she said impatiently. “But who cares? They’re just wine bottles. It doesn’t prove anything.”
“Listen,” Camille said. “I don’t think people are all good or all bad. Whatever you’ve done, I don’t want to know what it is, just like you don’t want to know about me. It’s better that way. What we need to do right now is figure out how to convince Fern not to take this any further.”
“And how do you propose we do that?” Samuel asked, sitting at the edge of his bed. “She’s in too deep. Think about it—everything she’s put into this, all the money and resources. What’s she going to tell all the viewers? Sorry?”
A terrible or maybe wonderful thought came to Camille. “What if there is no show?”
“What do you mean?” Maire asked, dropping on the bed next to Samuel.
“I mean what if there really is no show? What if it was just some weird piece of her revenge plan?”
Maire and Samuel sat in stunned silence.
“But the comments on the show,” Maire said weakly. “Fern read some of them to us. She said it was a hit, that millions of people were watching.”
Samuel rubbed his eyes and shook his head. “So all this time we’ve been playing for an audience of one?”
Camille shrugged. “Maybe. I don’t know. Nothing about this makes any sense. But what I do know is if we want our personal business quiet, we need to get our hands on Fern’s computer.”
“Yeah, and how are we going to do that? Corner Fern and hold her captive until she hands it over?” Samuel asked. “I don’t particularly want to add kidnapping to my list of chargeable crimes.”
Camille caught the look Maire sent Samuel—soft, almost wistful. Yes, those two definitely had a history. “I don’t think it will have to come to that,” Camille said. “The cameras are down, right?”
“If they were actually recording, yes, they are,” Samuel said. “Fern said for about an hour. We have about—” he checked his watch “—another thirty minutes.”
Camille held up a thin, rectangular piece of plastic. It was Fern’s key card with her photo and full name printed across it. Fernanda Espa. “I think this will take us to where we need to go,” Camille said.
THIRTY-FIVE
THE ASSISTANT
Once in her bedroom, Fern locked the door behind her and looked around frantically, not sure what to do first. She needed to clean her cuts, change from her blood-splattered clothes, and send out that press release explaining that the show was continuing. That had to come first. She opened Cat’s phone and typed a cursory update: An unfortunate mishap occurred on the set of One Lucky Winner this evening. Blanks from a prop gun went off, startling everyone and causing one of the contestants to accidentally bump into a display of Bella Luce wine, sending bottles crashing to the ground. We look forward to continuing the game. Live coverage will resume shortly.
