Max

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Carson quit doing anything resembling helping hours ago. He’s spent most of the afternoon critiquing my efforts—and taking full advantage of my guilt to raid my liquor cabinet. And now he’s eating my food, not even out of my fridge, but directly off my plate. I rap him across the knuckles with my chopsticks. “Get off.”

“You weren’t eating it.”

“I was going to.” I wasn’t, but it’s the principle of the thing.

“Where are we, anyway?”

I drop my chopsticks and bury my face in my hands. “Absolutely nowhere. Wes is...I don’t know. Either completely innocent or lying about literally everything.” I massage my temples, but this headache’s going nowhere. I’m not even supposed to be reading, with my concussion barely behind me. “I mean, his name is Westley Baird, right?”

Carson grabs the last spring roll and polishes it off in one bite. “You spelling it right? It’s Westley with a T, like The Princess Bride. Not, y’know, Wesley.”

“Yeah, Carson. I’m spelling it right.” I push my laptop away. The glare’s starting to make me sick. “But I can’t find a single record of him doing anything, working anywhere, owning anything. Even his Facebook’s aggressively content-free. I mean, listen to this: Harrods sale in full swing. Crowds unbelievable. Getting a latte.”

“So?”

“Exactly—so? Like, who cares? It’s hard to even read. Three posts, and I’m falling asleep.”

Carson yawns. There’s bok choy stuck in his teeth. “Everyone’s Facebook’s like that. That’s why I’m not on there.”

“It’s not, though. It’s called social media for a reason: most people tag each other. Comment on each other’s posts. He’s never even posted a selfie.”

“Again, me either. Bunch of bullshit, if you ask me.”

I didn’t. Besides, Wes’s Facebook’s the least of my concerns. According to Her Majesty’s Land Registry, his house belongs to a Mabel Guthrie—eighty-nine years old, divorced, fond of cats; currently enjoying her retirement on Grand Cayman. She has a real Facebook, full of cat pics, country club checkins, and book group updates. His car looks like it might be hers, too: her profile pic has her driving a red Bentley, looking like a 1950s movie star in her scarf and sunglasses.

I reach for the ibuprofen, but Carson plucks it out of my grasp. “Uh-uh. It’s only been two hours.”

“Fucking head’s killing me.”

“Yeah. Sorry about that.” He pockets the pills anyway. “You ever find that island of his?”

I shake my head. “No. And I’m starting to think he made it up. Honestly, it looks like he was in trouble before any of this started. Like he’s been faking it a while.” My head throbs, and I groan. “Not that it means much. He was always like that.”

Carson hums thoughtfully. “Yeah. Remember when he tried to unscuff his shoes with a Sharpie, and they inked all over Mrs. Abernathy’s carpet?”

“Uh-huh.” And the week he “forgot” his jacket every day so my dad would lend him one of his, and the time he claimed to be on a diet so we wouldn’t find out his lunch was just bread and an expired fruit cup, and the time he blew his entire summer job fund on a nice watch...which took Danbury all of two days to smash.... So nothing’s changed. Not a lot’s changed for any of us. I’d have disputed that at the start, but when you get right down to it, Dev was still drifting, Carson’s still angry, and I’m still in love with Kate. Par for the course.

“You should call that guy back.” Carson licks at his teeth, finally dislodging the bok choy.

“Huh?”

“The one with the job. Left you a message?”

Oh. Right. Got so caught up discrediting Wes, I forgot I was trying to get him hired. I glance at my watch: coming on eight. Early morning in Tokyo. I hunt around for my phone—fuck’d I put it?

“Think he’ll take a job in Japan?”

“I don’t know—nobody else called me back. Seen my phone?”

Carson skates it my way, brow raised. “Right here, in front of your face.”

“Thanks.” Asshole. I dial the number and listen to it ringing on the other end, once, twice, and—

“Hello? Max?—that you?”

“Yeah. Hey, Angus.” I lean back and close my eyes. My head’s ready to explode. “Listen, I realize I’m imposing—and if you don’t have anything available, I completely—”

“Hold on—going to stop you right there.” Something dings, and I hear a hydraulic hiss. Loud chatter echoes down the line. “I’m on the train. Let me just—”

I wait as he shuffles down the car, away from the doors and the noise.

“Okay. So, you want me to hire Westley Baird?”

“I was hoping you’d consider him. As a favor to me.”

He chuckles, deep and sonorous. “You know April Fools’ was last week, right?”

“What are you talking about?”

“You seriously—wait, you’re not investing with him, are you? Tell me you didn’t let that psycho loose on your savings.”

Psycho? “Uh...you’ll have to clue me in. He’s just an old friend, fallen on hard times.”

“Phew! Count yourself lucky!” The train screeches to a stop. I hold the phone away from my ear, cringing away from that metal-on-metal whine. Angus is still chattering away. “Hell, if I could let that guy in my wallet, or a pack of ravenous silverfish, I’d pick the silverfish every time.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Let’s put it this way: invest with Westley Baird, you’ll either make a billion or your grandkids’ll be paying your debts. No concept of caution, that one. He’s like a non-criminal Bernie Madoff: he won’t steal your money, but you’ll still lose a bundle.” Angus laughs again. “Trust me—he’s a joke in London. People toss him their scraps, like, hey, maybe he’ll pull a miracle out of his ass, but hire him? Really? I’d sooner hire Bernie.”

“Oh.” I’m not sure what else to say. “Uh, I—wow. Sorry. I honestly had no idea.”

“Yeah. I figured. That’s why I called, to make sure you weren’t doing anything stupid. Listen—let’s get drinks, next time you’re in town. It’s been too long.”

“Mm. Sure. And again—my apologies.”

“De nada. Anyway, this is my stop, so if there’s nothing else—?”

“Nah, we’re good.”

“All right! Have a good, uh...night, or whatever.” He hangs up. I set down my phone, head spinning.

“What’d he say?” Carson’s leaning forward, eyes sharp with interest.

“Nothing good. Basically, Wes sucks at his job.”

Carson bangs his hand on the table, sending a red-hot poker through my skull. “So, what? It’s him?”

“How should I know? He’s a liar—so are you. So’s Kate; so was Kyle. Which of us isn’t?” Still, Kate’s alone with him. If there’s the slightest chance he’s guilty.... “I’m calling Kate.”

Carson toys with his own phone while I make the call. If he thinks I can’t hear him playing Candy Crush, he can think again. And...shit. Straight to voicemail. I hiss, frustrated. Fire off a text: no reply. “What’s her assistant’s name?”

“You’re asking me?”

“You didn’t get hit in the head.” I grimace. It’s on the tip of my tongue—one of those S. names, Samantha, Sarah—

“Sonia, I think. Wes’s ex, right?”

Oh, yeah—how that slipped my mind, after the strap-on story, I don’t know. I scroll down my contacts till I find Kate’s office number.

“Kate Miller’s office—please hold.”

“No! Wait!” Too late. I find myself tapping my toe to The Devil Went Down to Georgia.

“Now you know how I felt.”

“Huh?”

“Last night. 911 put me on hold.”

“Seriously?” I don’t remember that. “How was their music?”

“Don’t remember. Don’t think they had any.”

“What—no Stayin’ Alive?”

Carson groans. I fidget my way through When the Swallows Come Back to Capistrano and the better part of Twilight Time. I’m about to hang up when a clipped British voice cuts in. “Max Westbrook?”

“Yeah—who am I speaking to?”

“This is Sonia Burnley. Kate’s not available, but if you’d like to leave a message—”

“No—no. I already texted. You don’t have some other way to get through to her? A pager?—an emergency number?”

“Just the one you have. Is this an emergency?”

I’m not sure how to answer that. “Maybe—uh...could I ask you a personal question? I swear it’s relevant.”

“Ah...I suppose so?”

I’ll have to tread lightly. “It’s about—you know Westley Baird, right?”

“Oh, God.” I can practically hear her rolling her eyes.

“I know he’s your ex, and this is all kinds of creepy. It’s just—”

“Wait.” Her tone turns sharp. “You’re not saying those two are together, are you? I thought she was seeing you.”

“No. I mean, they’re not. She is. Seeing me, I mean.” I squint uncomfortably. This conversation’s hurting my brain. “Why?—would that be a problem, her and Wes?”

“Not for me.” A door thumps closed and the background chatter dies out. “What are you saying?”

“I’m more concerned with what you’re saying. Are you telling me Wes is a problem? Is there something wrong with him? Why’d you guys break up?” I realize I’m pelting her with questions and zip my lip.

“What is this, jealousy?”

“No.” This isn’t going well. “Listen, I get how inappropriate this is. Report back to Kate, whatever you need to do; just....” I take a deep breath. “I caught Wes in a fib, and it’s got me concerned. That’s all.”

“Oh, that’s all.” Sonia laughs. “In other news, water’s wet, right?”

Right.... “Could I ask, I mean....” I’m not even sure what to ask, let alone how to ask it. “You’re saying this is normal for him? Stretching the truth?”

“You’ve met him, right?”

Guess that’s a yes. “So I shouldn’t be worried?”

“About Wes? No. Or, well...I don’t think so?”

That—that hesitation. That was something. “What? What are you thinking?”

“I don’t know. It’s probably nothing.”

“Tell me anyway.”

Silence.

“Please. It’s important.”

“All right. The reason we broke up? It wasn’t the lying. I could live with that. He was so bad at it—not that he wasn’t believable, but he never bothered keeping his stories straight, covering his tracks—it was like he didn’t care. Like he’d say whatever popped into his head, whether it was true or not.”

That does sound like Wes. “What was it, then? The problem?”

She chuckles. “You haven’t noticed? He’s head over heels for Kate. Always has been. Every time I’d think he was getting over her, he’d throw it in my face. Not on purpose: it was just...obvious.”

He’s...what? Still in love with her? My stomach does a slow roll. It makes sense, but how did we miss it? How did Kate miss it? “She doesn’t know? Kate, I mean?”

“Kate? No, he’s different with her. Pushes her away a little. He’ll go on Tinder in front of her, talk about other women, treat her like a sister—but then he wears her Christmas sweater to bed.”

“He what?”

“The sweater she got him for Secret Santa. He wears it like pajamas.”

Not quite as bad as what I was picturing, but Jesus. “Wow; that’s—sorry to dig that up for you.”

“It’s fine. We’ve been over a while.” Leather creaks as she shifts in her seat. “Anyway, if that’ll be all—?”

“Yeah. Thanks. That’s...great.” I hang up. Carson’s giving me a told you so look. I meet his gaze, horror-struck. “So, if Wes is still in love with Kate, that’s really bad, right?”

He shrugs. “Maybe? Maybe not? I mean, she got hurt pretty bad at the fashion show. Wouldn’t he have knocked it off by now, if he loved her so much?”

“Kate got a blackmail note ten years ago. That’s why she ditched our wedding.”

Carson whistles. “Fuck....” He taps at his teeth with his fingernail. “But how would that work? He breaks up your wedding, follows her to London, dates someone else for six years, and then...what?”

“I don’t know. I don’t know.” I can’t think through this headache. “Matt Danbury.”

“What?”

“Matt Danbury. The video: it’s been bugging me. Whoever made it—they weren’t taping everyone running from the rats. They were taping us. Like they knew something else was going to happen.”

“You think Wes—Shrimpy—burned Matt alive? On purpose? And made a blackmail tape?”

It sounds stupid, said out loud like that. He’d have to be a complete psychopath.

Carson bolts upright. “Wait—the Tinder thing. Him and Kate catfishing each other. Did you know about that?”

“No. Why?”

“Neither did I.” He looms over the table, thrumming with excitement. “Dev and Kyle are dead. Rachel’s locked up. You know I’m not doing it, and I assume you’re not, either. That leaves Wes or Kate. They’re the only ones left who could know about that. So it’s him or it’s her. Right?”

I stare. Feels like my brain’s short-circuiting.

“I mean, I’m right, yeah?”

Unless it’s not one of us. Which it has to be. Has to.

“Unless it’s Kate?”

Ludicrous as the idea is, I can’t even muster a laugh. “Right.”

“So what now?”

“I’ll text her again.” Fat lot of good that’s going to do, if she has her phone turned off. If something’s already happened. “I’m heading down there.”

“You can’t drive for another forty-eight hours.”

“You stopping me?” Snaking my ibuprofen’s one thing. He’s not keeping me from Kate.

Carson shrugs, defeated. “I’d take you, but I’ve got an early shift.”

“Forget it. It’ll be fine.”

I text her one more time—on my way. explain when I get there—and I’m rushing for the elevator.

This time, I’ll save her.