Page 30 of Final Cost

He puts his drink down. Uncrosses his legs. Starts to get up?—

Oh, shit. I move away from Roman’s grasp under color of finding a seat on the sofa. An effort that is not helped by Lucien’s gleam of satisfaction as he resettles in his seat. I hastily turn away, but not before I see what he mouths at me:

Good girl.

Sexual tension swoops low and delicious inside my belly.

“Everyone ready for a good show?” Roman asks, joining me on the sofa, but thankfully at a respectable distance.

Lucien spares his brother a serrated dagger of a look before his attention reverts to me. “Always. Ms. Scott. Wasn’t sure you’d join us.”

“Neither was I,” I say. “Where’s your PR? And your lawyer? I thought for sure they’d be here.”

Lucien scowls. “I’ve got enough on my plate. I don’t want them here for this. I’ll check in with them after.”

“Who’s up for a Paloma?” calls Daniel, now pouring drinks from his pitcher with a flourish. “It’s my signature cocktail. The occasion calls for something special.”

“Gallows humor. I like it,” I say, gratefully accepting a glass when he comes over and offers it to me. “Thanks.”

“My pleasure.” Daniel turns to Roman. “Want one?”

“Why not?” Roman accepts one and raises his glass. What should we toast to?”

“To my late wife, Ravenna.” Lucien raises his glass, his face all grim lines and unforgiving angles. “May this be the very last time she has the last word. And the last time any of us see her face or hear her voice.”

“I’ll take that action,” Roman says, and we all toast.

“Uh-oh. Someone turn the sound up,” I say with a hasty wave at the TV. “It’s starting.”

Lucien hits a button on the remote as we all shush each other and focus on the show.

“Tonight onNewsline,” the announcer booms in his breaking news voice as the theme music rises. “You’ve seen the headlines. The billionaire. His missing wife. Her sudden reappearance. And now…Murder? Is this a real-lifeGone Girl? Or something far more sinister?”

“Jesus Christ.” Lucien downs his whiskey in an audible gulp and crosses to the bar to splash a hefty refill into his glass.

“Socialite Ravenna Winter’s first and only interview — her final words — is aNewslineexclusive,” the announcer concludes. “Tonight.”

“Good evening,” says the show’s star Jeannie Howard, now sitting at her desk in the studio. She’s suitably grim for the occasion wearing a black dress that perfectly complements her caramel skin. Her brown eyes are suitably grave and her natural corkscrew hair pulled back in a low bun for the occasion is a chef’s kiss of solemnity. “Little did I dream several days ago, when Ravenna Winter secretly reached out to me to tell her story, all the twists and turns her story would take in just a few short days. And she’ll share her story with you in its entirety. In her own words. From the grave. Words that, by the way,Newslinehas turned over to the police investigating her death on that lonely beach. Her private family funeral is scheduled for tomorrow. Her husband, billionaire Lucien Winter, who police claim is not a suspectat this time, has declined to comment for this story. And now? We begin with a reminder of the players involved.”

“So they’re not even going to make a stab at keeping this impartial,” says Roman beside me.

“Are you surprised?” Lucien says, heading back to his armchair.

Roman snorts. “Not even a little.”

Me? I’m riveted by the recap, which includes early pictures of Lucien and Ravenna that I hadn’t seen online. A snippet of their wedding video showing Ravenna in that spectacular dress upstairs, diamonds glittering at her ears, neck and wrist as she gazes adoringly at Lucien, who gazes adoringly back. News footage from Ravenna’s boating accident and disappearance.

I peel my attention away from the screen long enough to glance at Lucien, but he’s doing his Sphinx routine and is unblinking as the light from the images on the screen flicker across his face.

“And there’s a new player in this drama,” Jeannie continues. “A young woman who —”

“Oh, my God,” I cry, sitting up straight and splashing my drink in my own lap in my shock. “It’s me.”

“Are you surprised?” Lucien asks again.

“Yes.”They got —holy shit— a picture of me and my dad from somewhere. A picture of me smiling at my graduation ceremony at the beginning of the summer. And then there’s — “Oh, my God,” I say again, almost too breathless to even get the words out — footage of me from the other day, looking scared and panicky as I’m jostled by the paparazzi and Hank swoops in to throw me into the car. I look like some unfortunate scandal-plagued actress who’s in danger of being trampled by photographers willing to do anything for the money shot. Then they show a wider angle of the incident and I discover for the first time how many photographers were there. At least eight. And how aggressively they bumped and shouted at me. Funny how I lived it and didn’t even fully realize. But there’s something about seeing it on the big screen that —

“Fuck,”Lucien murmurs, more to himself than to any of us. He shoots me with a penetrating sidelong look, then refocuses on the screen. He doesn’t need to say a word for me to know what he’s thinking, which is the same thing that I’m thinking:

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