Page 129 of Boardroom Sins

What I’mnotexpecting is the lamp in my living room to already be on.

Or for someone to be sitting on my couch.

The sound that comes out of my mouth is not dignified. It’s more like the primal shriek in a slasher film, right before the final girl gets stabbed through the chest.

“Jesus Christ, Rae!” Jillian leaps off the couch. “It’s me! It’s just me!”

I’m clutching the doorframe because it’s the only thing keeping me upright. My heart is hammering so hard I can feel it in my eyeballs.

“What thefuck, Jill?” I wheeze. “You almost gave me a heart attack!”

“Ialmost gaveyoua heart attack?” Jillian plants her hands on her hips. Now that I’ve somewhat calmed down, I see her face: She’sfurious.Her red hair is pulled back in a sloppy bun and there are dark circles under her eyes like she hasn’t slept in days. “Are you kidding me right now? You disappear off the face of the earth for three days—no text, no call, nada, zilch—andI’mthe one who needs to explain herself?!”

I blink at her, still trying to get my pulse under control. “I… what?”

“Three days, Rae.” She holds up three fingers, jabbing them in my direction. “One, two, three. Seventy-two hours. I called you, like, ninety-five times. I texted you so much I’m pretty sure I developed carpal tunnel. And what did I get in return? Nothing. Radio silence. I thought you weredead.”

Guilt overwhelms me. In all the chaos of France, I completely forgot that my phone had been useless overseas. I sure as hell can’t afford an international plan, so all weekend long, it’s been nothing but a very expensive rectangular paperweight.

“Bean, I’m so sorry. I didn’t have service. I was in France.” I pause and frown. “But how did you know I was back…?”

“Because I’ve been obsessively refreshing your location, you ding-dong. Thesecondyour cell came back online and pinged a tower, I came to find you. That’s the only reason I knew you were even alive.”

I gawk at her in disbelief, but she rolls her eyes like I’m overreacting. “I’m a reporter, Rae. It’s literally my job to find people who don’t want to be found.” She crosses her arms. “Also, you’re my best friend, and I was concerned that LukasLazarev had murdered you and dumped your body in the French Riviera.”

The mention of Lukas’s name makes me squeamish in a way I’m not ready to examine. “Well, he didn’t murder me,” I say weakly. “Obviously.”

“Ob-vi-ous-ly,” Jillian back-sasses. “But he did take you to France. What the hell is that about?!”

Excellent question. Where do I evenstart?

“It’s… complicated,” I say.

Jillian’s eyebrow arches so high it disappears into her hairline. “You vanished to another continent with a man who may or may not have killed his wife, and ‘complicated’ is the best you can do?”

“Can I at least take a shower first?” I sweep a hand over the swamp-creature aesthetic I’m currently rocking. “I smell like booty.”

Jillian’s scowl softens, but only marginally. “Fine. But I’m timing you. You have fifteen minutes, and then you’re telling me everything. Every. Single. Thing.” She spins me around and gives me a gentle push toward the bathroom. “Go. Tick-tock.”

I shuffle down the hall, my sandals squelching against the hardwood. The bathroom door pulls shut behind me, and I catch my reflection in the mirror.

I look even worse than I thought. My mascara runs in two black rivers down my cheeks, my T-zone is a dermatological disaster, and my hair is—well, the less said about it, the better. As for this dress, it hangs off me in wrinkled defeat, one strap dangling bya thread, the hem crusted with what I really hope is just mud. I peel it off and let it puddle on the floor.

The shower is scalding. I stand under the spray and let the water try to sluice away the grime of travel, the salt of the grotto, the lingering phantom sensation of Lukas’s hands on my body.

It doesn’t work, obviously. You can’t scrub offdesire.

But I do give it my best shot. I wash my hair twice, condition it once, and spend an embarrassing amount of time just standing there with my forehead pressed against the tile, replaying every moment of the last seventy-two hours. The water is running cold before I finally turn it off.

I wrap myself in my rattiest towel and pad back to my bedroom. Jillian has decided to make herself useful in my absence, because there’s a glass of wine waiting on my nightstand and my comfiest sweats laid out on the bed. I don’t deserve her.

I pull on the sweats and an oversized t-shirt, then twist my wet hair into a messy knot on top of my head. The wine goes down smooth and easy. Too easy, probably, given that I haven’t eaten anything substantial since yesterday.

When I finally make my debut into the living room, Jillian is perched on the edge of my couch. “Talk,” she commands without preamble.

So I do.

I tell her about the vineyard, the dinner, the wine cellar where Lukas almost kissed me and then roared at me to leave. I tell her about the midnight kitchen encounter, the three chimes of the grandfather clock, and how he fled afterward like a bat out of hell.