Page 81 of Reaper's Desire

The first and most important thing is to get us away from Stanislav. Within ten minutes, I have us out of the hotel and in a back alley, where I take Isabelle down a number of side and back streets until we reach a part of the city where it will be easier to disappear. I get us a room, lock the door, slide the dresser in front of it, and then sit down at the small rickety table on one side of it and pull my laptop out of my bag. "Tell me about your stepmother. Everything you know."

Isabelle shakes her head, a bitter smile crossing her face. "This is ridiculous. Vivienne is cold and distant, but that doesn'tmake her a criminal. She's just—she's just a bitch who married my father for his money and barely tolerates my existence."

"What's her full name?"

"Vivienne Montague. She took my father's name when they married."

"Maiden name?"

"Beaumont. Vivienne Beaumont." Isabelle's eyes narrow slightly. "I don't know her middle name. Why does this matter?"

"Because someone ordered a hit on you," I say flatly. "Someone with access to significant resources and connections to organized crime. Someone who benefits from your death. Your stepmother is the only person you've mentioned who has any negative feelings toward you."

"Negative feelings don't equal murder," Isabelle says, but there's less certainty in her voice now.

"No. But they're a starting point." I turn to my laptop, fingers already moving across the keyboard. "How long have they been married?"

"They got married when I was twelve, so—ten years?"

"And your relationship with her?"

Isabelle's jaw tightens. "There is no relationship. She tolerates me because she has to. She's never been warm or maternal. She looks at me like I'm an inconvenience she wishes would disappear. She's irritated or annoyed with me most of the time, and she thinks I'm spoiled and ungrateful."

My mouth twitches. "Does she have access to family accounts?"

"I—I assume so. She's my father's wife. She lives with him, obviously, she has credit cards, she attends charity events and galas. She spends money." Isabelle pauses, something shifting in her expression. "She spends a lot of money, actually. My father complains about it sometimes, but he never does anything to stop her."

Now we're getting somewhere. I pull up the first database, entering Vivienne Beaumont Montague's name and running a preliminary search. The results start populating immediately—social media accounts, charity board memberships, society page mentions. All surface-level information, but it gives me a framework to build on. "Does she work?" I ask, still typing.

"No. She's a socialite. Lunch with friends, shopping, spa appointments, charity galas. That's her entire life."

"So her income comes entirely from your father."

"Yes."

I make another note, then reach for my phone. I have contacts who owe me favors—people who can access financial records that should be private and pull banking information and transaction histories without leaving a trace. Isabelle watches me work, her expression shifting skeptically. "You really think she could be behind this?"

"I think it's worth investigating." I don't look up from the laptop. "Tell me about your trust fund."

"What about it?"

"How much is it worth? Who controls it? What happens to it if you die?"

Isabelle is quiet for a moment, and when I glance up, I see her face has gone pale. "It's substantial," she says slowly. "My grandfather established it when I was born. It's worth about fifty million dollars."

I keep my expression neutral, but internally, my first thought is that fifty million is more than enough motive for murder. "Who controls it?" I ask again.

"I get controlled deposits—regular payments that go into my personal account. Sometimes I ask my father for extra if I want it for something. It's more than enough to live comfortably, but I don't have access to the full amount until I'm twenty-five." She pauses. "Or if certain conditions are met."

"What conditions?"

"Marriage. Children. My grandfather wanted to make sure the money stayed in the family, that it was used responsibly." She chews on her lower lip. "If I die before I'm twenty-five, the trust reverts to the family estate."

"And who controls the family estate?"

Isabelle's eyes widen. "My father. But… Vivienne has access to those accounts, I think…"

I see the pieces click into place in her mind. She shakes her head, still disbelieving, but I feel more and more certain with each passing moment. There's a motive where one eluded me before.