I circled that question multiple times. Two hundred and fifty thousand dollars was a lot. And while I now had an idea of how Lily might’ve financed the purchase of the café, I didn’t have confirmation. There was also Adrian, with his sudden acquisition of a gym. Where did a personal trainer of bored rich women get that kind of money? I hadn’t forgotten the Henare family’s miraculous reversal in fortunes, either.

There might be no paper trail that proved financial problems, but there wouldn’t be, would there? Not if they’d fortuitously come into a quarter of a million dollars.

Paul and Margaret didn’t need money, but hadn’t I heard whispers of some kind of problem with Isaac’s property? It had been because of his second divorce—that wife, I was fairly sure, had taken him to the cleaners.

 Check Isaac’s financial situation at the time.

I flipped back to the previous day’s notes.

 Ask Mia and Beau if they saw anything that night.

The note was in my handwriting. The thing was, I couldn’t remember writing it.

My temple throbbed.

Putting the notebook aside, I just sat there and tried to breathe. What medication had I taken yesterday? Anything that might screw with my head? Yeah, probably. I had to be more careful there. But for now, I had to take the migraine stuff. I could feel the black waves of pain hovering in the distance, just out of sight.

I got up, grabbed the notebook, and managed to get to my room and onto my bed.

After finding the migraine pills, I let them melt on my tongue, allowing my brain to wander at the same time. I didn’t remember closing my eyes and surrendering to the darkness. I dreamed of a motorcycle skidding on a wet road, of rain hitting the visor of a helmet, of cold hands gripping tight to the handlebars as the roar of the engine was swallowed up by the storm.

My throat was raw from shouting and my entire body so wet it was as if my bones were swimming. The light from the motorcycle reflected off a parked car, and I saw the round headlights of an oncoming one through the thick sheets of rain. The motorcycle threatened to skid . . . and then it was skidding, right into the path of the oncoming car.

32

My eyes snapped open, my heart pounding as hard as the rain on tarmac.

Sweat pasted my shirt to my back.

Sitting up, I grabbed the bottle of water on my bedside table and chugged it down.

Fucking pills.

I almost dropped the water bottle as I went to put it back down, my hand was shaking so hard. Managing the act at last, I sat there and stared at the painting on the opposite wall. It was one of those abstract pieces with lots of angles and lines. My mother had given it to me as a birthday present.

“You can’t carry wealth in diamonds, so I’ll give it to you in art. This is worth ten thousand dollars.”

I hadn’t been impressed by the present, not when what I’d actually wanted was a top-of-the-line computer system, but I’d put up the painting among the posters that had then adorned my walls. Later, I’d spent hours staring at it, trying to figure out why it was worth ten grand.

Grabbing my phone with the intention of calling Constable Neri, I saw the call I’d missed had been from my agent. Gigi was based in New York, a consummate Manhattanite, complete with the all-black wardrobe and fast talk.

I checked what time it was in her home city. Far too late to call most people, but Gigi was a night owl.

“Aarav, how’re you doing?” Gigi asked in her throaty chain-smoker’s voice—except that she was a health freak and the voice was genetic. “The news just hit—it’s all over not only the publishing-related media, but general entertainment sites, too.”

“I figured.” Vivienne wouldn’t have held off on her exclusive. “How bad taste is it?” With Blood Sacrifice my marquee title—my only title—I could guess at some of the headlines blazing across the gossip sites.

“You don’t want to know, kiddo. Look, we need to talk about your next book.”

“Thanks for the sympathy, Gigi.”

A pause. “You want some?”

The tension snapped, a laugh breaking out of me. “No, it wouldn’t seem right coming from you.” Gigi was a shark; she dug in her heels and negotiated the hell out of contracts for her clients. But she wasn’t exactly a people person. We got along great.

“Where are you with the book?” she demanded. “Finch is calling me saying you’ve gone AWOL. Have you even checked your emails?”

“I had a car accident, Gigi. My fucking leg is in a moon boot.”

“Why the hell do you Kiwis call it a goddamn moon boot? Anyway, your brain still works, right? Your hands still work. And the remains weren’t found until a few days ago? What’ve you been doing since you got out of the hospital?”

Right. Gigi didn’t do sympathy. “I’ll email Finch the first few chapters.”

“When?” Gigi didn’t back down. “I know you got a shitty advance for that initial two-book contract, but right now, you’re a golden pretty boy with talent who doesn’t mind publicity—you couldn’t get any better. Just satisfy the terms of the contract by turning in another book that isn’t total bull crap and I’ll get you an eight-figure deal for your next book.”

I shoved a hand through my hair. “I’ll do it right now.”

“Cc me.” Gigi was no rookie. “Here’s the deal, Aarav—you’re the big new thing for about five more seconds. You can either ride that wave into a massive career, or you can crash and burn and be that has-been one-hit wonder. Don’t think the latter looks good on you.” Then she hung up.

Gigi knew me. I was too arrogant to accept being labeled a one-hit wonder.