Chapter Twelve

It only took three weeks for Keira and Ridge to become a super couple. The soap star came to the compound often, posing for pictures at the front door, aviator sunglasses on, leather bomber jacket tossed over his shoulder, his hand on my sister’s butt. They went to clubs in London and got “caught” hooking up in bathroom stalls. They even had a smash name—KeiRidge.

The result was an entire shift in media focus. Reporters had stopped asking Keira about her time in captivity, our parents, or anything related to our criminal connections. Instead, they wanted to know if Ridge would be moving in soon, if there was an engagement ring on her finger, and if he would costar in her new reality show.

Keira refused to talk about anything real. Even with me. When I asked if she was okay, she said “fine.” When I asked how things were with Ridge, she said “fine.” Sometimes, she seemed better—she was no longer walking with the hunched posture of an elderly woman, and she showered every day, wore clothes other than yoga pants. But that was likely because of the cameras constantly pointed in her direction. She still emptied too many wine bottles, and the stoic demeanor she had during our parents’ funeral had returned to an alarming degree. I didn’t like it, but I didn’t know how to stop it. She said she wanted to keep seeing Ridge, and I couldn’t tell her no.

Besides, most of my time was spent trying to help Charlotte find Regina, Sophia, or any of my parents. Charlotte found no more evidence of Urban’s Russian adoption, so we had no idea if that was true. We were taking Dawkins’s word for it. A few grainy surveillance photos did pop up of my parents supposedly in Georgia, but the image quality was so poor, even I wasn’t sure if it was really them. Then lately, there was chatter that they were in Bosnia—another country without extradition—as well as rumors of a secret meeting between my parents and Urban in Chad (the country, not the home of a preppy teenage boy). But the leads weren’t credible, at least not enough to warrant us getting on a plane. Though I did seriously consider it. Why would they be meeting? If they wanted to kill one another, there were a lot of ways to accomplish this without a face-to-face talk.

To make things worse (or better, I wasn’t sure), Regina had gone social media silent. She hadn’t posted a single video on YouTube since she left home, which had me thankful she wasn’t publicly dragging herself deeper into this lethal world, while simultaneously worrying she already had. She was still with Urban’s granddaughter, God knows where, so it was hard to imagine her getting any more involved than that. What did they want with her? Was she with them willingly? Why hadn’t we heard from them? Was she alive?

At least my paternity was still secret. Julian paid off Wyatt Burns with ten thousand dollars cash and the keys to a new Jeep. I contemplated giving him a “thank you for buying my blackmailer a car” note, but surprisingly Hallmark doesn’t make one. Besides, there weren’t enough thank yous in the world for me to give Julian. For everything.

Now if he could only find Regina. It was nearly the end of March and we still weren’t any closer to locating her than we had been before Marcus and I left for Boston. Meaning we were trapped in this compound, completely stagnant.

I dropped my terry cloth towel onto a teak lounge chair beside the massive indoor pool, which was accented by turquoise marble columns and gold-leafed frescos. If they sold this home, the Stones could probably use the funds to provide food and shelter for the population of a small country. Instead, they used the money to heat the pool to a steamy eighty-five degrees.

I dove into the water, slicing the surface like an arrow. I’d never been much of a swimmer. Actually, I’d never done anything physical other than karate before, but Julian’s home didn’t have a dojo. It had a pool, and I needed to clear my head.

I kicked my legs, my arms stroking powerfully as I came up for air. I accelerated, swimming freestyle toward the opposite end. Then I flipped at the wall and swam back, holding my breath, face underwater. The sensory deprivation was addictive. I could see why swimmers enjoyed it.

I pushed off the opposite wall, taking a breath before the turn. The sight of my parents flickered behind my eyelids, standing in a luxury condo in Rio. Stroke, stroke, breathe. The sound of the knife going into Cross’s chest echoed, a wet slurp, followed by a guttural groan. Stroke, stroke, breathe. I saw myself seated on Urban’s lap, a baby smiling up at him as if he were Santa Claus at the mall. Stroke, stroke, breathe. I smelled his woodsy cologne and felt his hand holding mine at the funeral. Stroke, stroke, breathe. I remembered him whispering, “I am your family.” Stroke, stroke, breathe. I melted into his hug as my parents’ coffins were covered with dirt. Stroke, stroke, breathe. I liked how it felt to be held.

Marcus was right. I hadn’t let myself think about what my DNA really meant. Urban destroyed himself and his company after learning I had been kept from him. Everyone, from the CIA to my parents to Detective Dawkins, insisted I was the key to finding him—because I was his daughter, because he wanted me that much. As twisted as it was, that felt kind of good.

I continued kicking, stroking, pushing.

Here was a man who had spent his entire career excelling in clandestine operations and amassing a fortune in the process, and he completely lost perspective and threw it all away, because of me. I hated to admit it to myself, but it was a powerful feeling. He wanted me that much. The father who raised me didn’t. My mother didn’t. She seemed irritated when I saw her in Rio, as if I was being “dramatic” because I didn’t immediately forgive her and become her co-conspirator. They let me believe they were dead for three years. Still, my mom didn’t tell me she loved me or missed me. She didn’t cry at the sight of me, or tell me how grown up I looked. She didn’t ask about Keira.

But Urban…

My hand thudded on the concrete wall and my head jerked up. I hadn’t realized I’d swam the lap that fast. I wiped at my eyes, panting, mind still lost in memories as air returned to my lungs.

“I think you could have beaten Michael Phelps with that lap,” said Keira as she watched from the doorway to the pool.

I swung my head her way. “How long have you been standing there?”

“Long enough to watch you try to swim out of your skin.” She shoved off the doorjamb and flapped toward me in her flip-flops.

I stared down at the water. If she knew what I had been thinking, about the man who held her hostage, she’d hate me forever. Shame coursed through me with such heat I was grateful my cheeks were already red from exertion.

“You okay?” Keira asked, sitting down on the hand-painted Moroccan tiles and dunking her bare feet in the water. Her toes were painted a pale pink—probably for Ridge Utley. (Charlotte found out that his real name was Ronald Horowitz. I no longer faulted him for changing it.)

“I’m fine,” I repeated her words, resting my elbows on the wall. “Where’s Ronnie?”

“Ridge just left,” she corrected.

“Did you guys make out for the cameras?”

She shot me a look.

“Doesn’t Ronnie care about all our family crap? Or wonder what Charlotte and Julian are doing in the library all day?”

“Ridge doesn’t care much about anything other than Ridge.”

“Then why are you with him?” I asked. “I know this was all supposed to be an act, a diversion. But that’s over, and he’s still spending the night. Is this real now? For you?” I didn’t want to let her dodge the conversation this time. She came into this pool, while I was here, alone. That meant a conversation.

She chewed her lip. “It’s different with him.”

“Yeah, I’d assume so. All he talks about is his calorie count and ab routine.”

“I don’t care about talking.”

“So you’re just hooking up with him?”

She glared at me like she didn’t need to explain herself. And she didn’t. But I wasn’t asking in that way.

“I’m not criticizing, and I’m not judging. We threw him into your life, so I’m just trying to understand.” A few months ago, my sister didn’t want a reporter to touch her hand, now she was letting a virtual stranger sleep in her bed. “I know after Craig and Antonio, things got messed up—”

“Messed up?” Keira cocked her head like I was comparing the Civil War to sibling rivalry. “The last two guys I dated were spies hired to screw me. Literally. And I fell for it. Now I’m all over the news, a complete freak show, which means whoever meets me knows all this shit about me. We’re constantly afraid that people are trying to use us, trying to get to Mom and Dad. And I’m the girl who fell for it. Twice. At least, I know what Ridge wants…”

“He’s a fame whore.”

“Yeah, which means I know he’s fake, but Antonio…” Her voice trailed off, her eyes revealing exactly how much she’d cared about him, and I felt the urge to find that lying Rey brother and claw his tattoos off.

Keira had already gone through so much when she met him; she’d been kidnapped, drugged, threatened on a daily basis for months, and shoved into the trunk of a car. Then the devil walked in wearing a James Dean mask with dimples, acting like he was part of the team. She believed him, right down to his feelings for her. So of course she didn’t trust herself anymore. But was being with an openly superficial poseur any better? What was this doing to the sister who raised me? Who dreamed of med school?

“If this is hurting you, we can find another way.” I lifted my dripping body out of the pool, forming a puddle as I sat beside her. The air felt shockingly cold compared to the water, and I shivered, wrapping my arms around my black one-piece suit. Keira reached into a nearby basket, pulling out a towel rolled like a fluffy burrito.

“He’s not hurting me.” She handed it to me. “It’s the exact opposite. When I’m around him, it’s like I can turn off my brain and become someone else. I can forget all of this. I can forget Mom and Dad. It’s like an alter ego. I get to be simple. It’s… refreshing.”

I nodded. Okay. I could see the seduction in having a moment to forget your problems. Keira was flipping a switch, turning it off. Maybe that was good? I remembered those few precious days lying on Ipanema Beach with Marcus, basking in the Brazilian sun. Many times since, I’d wished we’d never come back to England. What if we hadn’t?

“We should have run away when we had the chance, or stayed hidden when the CIA gave us those passports. I should never have let you come forward.” I gave her a regretful look. “We can still go.”

“No.” She shook her head, her long light-brown hair swishing. It was always flat ironed now. Always perfect. A month ago she rarely washed it. Maybe that was progress. “We need to see this through. Yeah, I like being around Ridge and forgetting all the bullshit, but I know I can’t go on if I don’t see Mom and Dad. I’ll go crazy. The way you described them, I need to see it. Even if they don’t care about seeing me.” I tried to interrupt, to argue that of course our parents wanted to see her again, but she waved me off. Probably because we honestly weren’t sure what or who our parents cared about other than themselves. Keira looked me in the eye. “And you… I know you won’t be able to deal if someone else gets hurt.”

That included her. What if she was the one getting hurt again?

We sat silent, considering our options. Keira was right, that door to an anonymous life in France was now sealed and overgrown with ivy. It shut the moment she went public. You couldn’t take back a nationally televised interview. We had to live with the consequences. All we could do now was hope to minimize them.

And find some moments to make us smile.

I turned to my sister.

“Okay, but let me ask you this”—I paused for dramatic effect—“does Ridge spray tan his muscles?”

Keira choked with a startled laugh. “Oh, yeah, and they’re still amazing! Seriously, you could play the xylophone.”

We giggled, bumping shoulders. Ridge’s conversation skills might be lacking, but the guy had a talent for being shirtless anytime someone was holding a camera. I once saw a picture of him bowling, in an actual bowling alley, wearing nothing above the waist. Honestly, it was giving Julian a complex. I recently saw our British friend try to do a push-up in the library when he thought no one was near.

“And his lashes are so fake. Is it eyeliner?” I kept laughing.

“I’m not sure. It might be eyelash grower, but I found bronzer in the bathroom that isn’t mine.” She wiped at tears.

Ah, my sister. I hadn’t heard her laugh like this in a long time. It made me feel lighter, sit straighter.

Keira calmed her breath. “Anyway.” She reached into her pocket, and I could tell she was changing the topic. I wished she wouldn’t. “I’m here for a reason.” She pulled out her phone.

“What’s going on?”

She swiped her finger across the screen. “We got this a few minutes ago, or more specifically, Julian got it.” She turned her phone my way. “Seems like they want to meet us now.”

Displayed was a digital photo of Regina. A selfie to be exact. She was smiling, teeth flashing brilliantly, her cheek pressed against the face of Sophia Urban, who looked so smug I wanted to smack her through the airwaves. Behind them was a city scene that looked European. There was a large building off to the right with columns on the first floor connected by ornate arches. It sat below a decorative picture window topped by a number of spindled points, like a castle. The sky was full of chunky clouds ready to burst at any second.

“Julian’s tracking the IP address, but Charlotte already figured out the scene behind them is Poland,” Keira explained. “They’re in Krakow.”

Poland. That was not one of the countries on the list without extradition, but it wasn’t far away. And I remembered my parents doing business there once. Years ago.

“When do we leave?”

…

It was like old times. And by old times, I meant the days when Charlotte, Marcus, Julian, and I traveled around Europe trying to save a loved one from the clutches of Randolph Urban. Ah, memories…

This time, instead of rescuing Keira, we were trying to save Regina, and my sister was being used as a diversion—off on a weekend getaway on the party island of Ibiza, Spain. A month ago, she refused to travel to New York City for an interview, and now she was traveling with a guy she didn’t know beyond the muscles that rippled down his chest. She said she was fine with it. In fact, she liked that she had a role to play, but I still worried she was dangerously burying her anxiety to help us. However, it was the only way we could think of to get out of the country unnoticed.

Julian took every precaution. He chartered a private plane for my sister and another for us. No flight attendant would be poisoning our sodas. For Keira, he personally selected the exotic Mediterranean island because his family owned a villa on the beach and he could arrange security. Ridge didn’t ask a single question other than, “When are the photographers meeting us?” Star magazine already arranged an exclusive, and they offered Keira a financial bonus if she’d sunbathe topless. Keira refused. Thank God.

The rest of us took off for Krakow on Easter Sunday. We hadn’t even realized it was a holiday until Charlotte noticed the date on her calendar. Aside from spring break, I didn’t have much experience with the Easter Bunny, so I gave the holiday little thought as we piled into our chauffeured car outside of John Paul II International Airport. 

The city was gray—at least the drive from the airport was. Billboards lined the industrial highway, along with tall, rundown apartment buildings covered in graffiti. The weather didn’t help. Not only were there no daffodils, tulips, or floral sundresses in sight, but an icy rain already had me pulling my scarf tighter and asking Julian to blast the heat.

“This is as far as I can go,” the driver said in English as he pulled alongside the curb of a cobblestone street. “Pedestrians only.” He pointed toward a soaring gate made of russet brick that looked hundreds of years old.

“We’ll have to walk from here,” Julian informed us as he opened the door.

“Do we have umbrellas?” Marcus asked.

“Unfortunately, no,” Julian grumbled, pulling up the hood of his cashmere coat.

We all grabbed our wheeling suitcases while the rain splashed our cheeks, boots, and jeans. I wasn’t the type of girl to worry about her hair getting ruined, but I did mind being drenched when the air was so cold my breath froze.

“Follow me,” Julian instructed as he pulled his Louis Vuitton carry-on over the uneven sidewalks.

If I thought the streets in Rome were bad, they had nothing on Krakow. The stones below us were set in grout that had long ago eroded, making each step on a rounded rock roll our ankles and rattle our luggage with the sound of firecrackers.

“This is Florian Gate,” Charlotte explained, pointing to the tower before us; it was connected to a stone wall that encircled the city. We rumbled through the entrance as Charlotte continued reading from her smartphone. “Apparently there used to be a moat. Now it’s all pedestrian only, like Venice.”

She looked at me, and I could see her remembering the time she found me on a bridge, bloody from a fight with Bernard, before I tore through the pedestrian walkways to find my sister. I just hoped my search for Regina wouldn’t have anything else in common with that day.

We clanked toward our hotel, which was only steps from Krakow’s Old Town Square. We were clearly in the tourist epicenter, judging by the souvenir shops that were open, despite the holiday, and selling replicas of cathedrals and “I heart Poland” T-shirts. McDonald’s was also brightly lit, which oddly had a stone exterior that made it look like a historic destination, and, of course, there was a Starbucks. But the local stores—the ones selling clothes fit for work or flowers for a dining table—were dark and locked tight for the religious occasion.

I stared at the handful of travelers meandering the quiet street with coats zipped high and umbrellas hovering above their heads.

“Too bad they didn’t get nicer weather for Easter,” Marcus said, his black hair dripping rain into his eyes. “You should see Semana Santa back home. Everything’s closed for days and there are parades in the streets.”

“Yeah, don’t people dress like the Ku Klux Klan in those parades?” Charlotte smirked, tucking a soggy curl behind her ears. (Charlotte was the type of girl to complain about her hair getting wet. Taming her ringlets required more product than could fit under our bathroom sink.)

“No.” Marcus sounded defensive.

“You sure? White pointy hats covering their faces and long, white dresses?” Charlotte went on, her hazel eyes mocking.

“Mira, it was our tradition first,” Marcus snipped, sounding more irritated than I expected, though I had no idea what they were talking about.

Charlotte nudged his shoulder. “I’m only kidding. Not about the outfits, they do look like the Klan, but I know their origins aren’t from Spain.”

“Of course, because Charlotte knows all,” I teased.

“That’s why I love her.” Julian smiled.

My eyes stretched wide. I’d never heard him say that before, but from the look on my friend’s face, she had. Charlotte and Julian were in love. Officially.

My heart swelled.

Charlotte and Julian met in Venice while my sister was being held by kidnappers. They bonded as they helped me save Keira’s life. They had been fighting by my side every step of this miserable journey. What if they went on to get married and have babies? We could one day say something good came out of all this horror. I didn’t really believe in happily ever afters, but I wanted this one. I really wanted this one.

I grinned as Julian finally came to a halt and wiped the rain from his eyes. “We’re here.” He pointed to a glass door.

It looked modern and luxurious, and it was so close to the town square, I could see the Catholics piling into the cathedral for Easter mass. Somewhere in this city was my former best friend.

And it wouldn’t take long to hear from her.