Annabel was in Geneva for what she hoped was the last time. At Heathrow, she’d fought the urge to run. To board a plane bound for another destination and simply disappear. She could dye her hair. Change her name. Start over. A part of her thought that if she returned to Geneva, she’d never leave it alive. But she also knew that if she ran, whoever had killed Matthew would find her. Running made her look guilty.
Annabel found herself standing at her front door, key in hand. She remembered the first time she saw the apartment. It never occurred to her that she’d live somewhere so elegant, so spacious, so grand. The foyer itself was nearly the size of their entire apartment back home in New York. The views—of the cobblestone streets, the elegant Old Town buildings, the crystalline sky that turned slate gray in the snow—were better than any painting. After everything they had been through—the miscarriage, the death of Matthew’s father—she’d felt like they deserved this. A new start. A beautiful life.
Before Annabel could turn the knob, the door creaked open on the hinge. Her heart seized up. The front door was unlocked. She had not left it that way.
She pushed the door with one palm, and it banged open against the foyer wall. Annabel didn’t need to enter to know the place had been ransacked. Whoever had done it wanted her to know they had been there.
“Hello?” Annabel called out. Her voice trembled. “Is anyone here?”
She heard only the rumble of the cable car on the street below and the rustling of the curtains. The windows, she realized, were open.
She shivered and drew her coat close. The room was freezing. Crisp November air streamed in though the open windows. She thought, perhaps, she ought to turn around and run. But in her gut she knew the apartment was empty. Whoever had done this must have come in the night. They were long gone now. Or maybe they were close by, lying in wait. Maybe they were watching her from across the street, observing her every move through long telephoto lenses.
Annabel walked through the apartment in silence, observing the damage. The cabinets had been emptied, their contents scattered on the floor. Her drawers, tossed. The safe in the closet—where she kept her good jewelry, their passports, their marriage certificate—gaped open. The jewelry was still inside. Nothing appeared to have been taken, except for the laptop Annabel had left in a locked drawer in the office. She had purchased the laptop right before she left for London; the same model as Matthew’s. It had no information on it. She had locked it in the drawer as a kind of a test. Now, she was glad that she had.
The couches in the living room were slit open and gutted like fish. The paintings and mirrors had been removed from the walls, presumably to check for hidden safes behind them. The one Annabel had painted herself—for Matthew as an anniversary gift—had been dissembled from its frame. It lay in tatters at her feet, the Florence skyline reduced to strips of gray and brown.
Annabel knelt beside it. As she collected the fragments of canvas, something inside her snapped. To lose this painting—worthless to everyone except for her and Matthew—was too much.
“Enough!” she screamed into the empty apartment. “You’ve taken enough.”
Annabel stood. Pure fury burned away the fog of grief that had enveloped her since Matthew’s death. For the first time in days, Annabel felt clearheaded and filled with purpose. If Jonas wanted a fight, she would give him one. She would not stop until every person responsible for Matthew’s death was dead or in jail.
But first, she would give them what they wanted. She would wave the white flag. She would let them think that they had won.
She picked up the phone and dialed.
“Julian,” she cried when he answered. “I’ve been robbed! The whole apartment—it’s been torn apart!”
“Are you all right? You aren’t hurt, are you?”
“No, thank God. I wasn’t home. I was in London, collecting Matthew’s things. But I came home just now, straight from the airport, and—” Annabel let out a hysterical sob.
“I’ll be right over. Have you telephoned the police?”
“No, no. You’re the first person I called. I should, shouldn’t I? I’m sorry. I’m just so upset.”
“Of course you are, darling. Don’t worry. I’ll call them. And I’m on my way to you now. Are you safe there?”
“I think so. The apartment is empty.”
“Was anything taken? Anything of value?”
“I don’t know. I haven’t really checked. Please hurry, Julian. I need you.”
“Of course. Don’t worry, Annabel. I’ll take care of this. I’ll take care of everything.”
No, Annabel thought to herself as she hung up the phone. You won’t. But I will.
She went to the bathroom. She splashed water on her face, causing her mascara to run down her cheeks. She tousled her hair. The show was about to begin, and she was ready for it.
Before Julian arrived, Annabel made one last call.
“Office de la Police,” a female voice answered. “Agent Du Pres.”
“Agent Bloch, please,” Annabel said. She glanced down at the card in her hand, double-checking the number that she had dialed. It was correct.
“I’m sorry,” the woman replied. “Agent Bloch is no longer with Fedpol. May I help you?”
“Agent Vogel, then.”
“Ma’am, there is no Agent Vogel.”
“Thank you,” Annabel said, as coolly as possible. “I must be mistaken.”
“Can I help—”
Annabel hung up the phone before the woman finished her question.