Page 42 of The Expat Affair

“That’s it? Only ten?”

Xander grins. “And that’s not even the best part. The best part is there’s no limit to how many I can grow. One or ten or ten thousand. I can grow as many as I want. As many as I can sell.”

All these months I’ve spent wondering why a man with Xander’s résumé would take this job. Why when he could work for anyone—Cartier or Van Cleef & Arpels or Chopard—he’d choose to work for the shaky House of Prins. Or launch his own firm. He’s got enough names in his Rolodex to support it, models and A-list actresses and royalty who already serve as walking advertisements for his designs.Xander could work for anyone. He could live anywhere. Why choose a struggling diamond house in Amsterdam?

He stretches an arm across the desk. “May I?”

The answer is: for this. The Cullinan on my wrist. Its lab-grown twin sitting on the desk. The dozens of diamonds locked in a hidden safe on the wall, all copies of Prins-mined stones, I’m guessing.

I flick the safety latch with a fingernail, but I don’t slide the cuff from my arm. Not yet.

“On one condition.”

Part Two

“I never hated a man enough to give him diamonds back.”

—Zsa Zsa Gabor

Rayna

On Friday, Xander’s funeral is already in full swing by the time I arrive, a packed room of mourners sitting shoulder-to-shoulder while a man in a navy suit drones on at the podium. I slide into an open spot at the far end of the back row. A strategic spot close to the door, in case I need to make a speedy exit.

Yes, I am well aware that attending Xander’s funeral falls under the category of Things That Make Me Look Guiltier, but the reasons I should pay my respects were too many to ignore. I actuallylikedXander. I spent the night leading up to his death in his bed. I let him kiss me and give me multiple orgasms. Xander and I were connected in the most intimate of ways, even if for only a few hours. I couldn’tnotcome.

It’s what the killer would do, I happen to know from my many hours spent watching true-crime TV—sneak into their own victim’s funeral for one last, blood-soaked finale. One final look at loved ones sniffling into their hankies, to revel in the damage he’s done. To thinkI did that. I put those tears there. My gaze scans the crowd, thinner than I expected it to be after all the press surrounding Xander’s death, and I wonder if the killer is one of the people in this modern and bright room, if he’s thinking all those things.

I don’t understand a lick of what any of the speakers are saying, a rolling parade of people at the podium while above their heads, pictures flash by on a giant screen. A skinny Xander chasing a balldown a scraggly field. Lounging on a Dutch beach packed with people. Sitting on the hood of a dusty Opel sedan in jeans and sunglasses, his shirt sleeves rolled up to reveal tanned forearms. Holding a pile of uncut gems in a palm, or peering at them through a loupe, and my heart twists for this man I barely knew. He was so handsome, and that cocky grin, he’s apparently had it all his life.

My phone buzzes against my hip, and I dig it out of a pocket. A text from Lars, the second today. The first came this morning when I woke up alone—Good morning, Rayna, sign of life please.Now, another:Any beanie sightings?

I smile and tick out a reply:So far so good, thx for checking in.

It feels good to know someone is watching out for me, I think as I slide the phone back into my pocket. Even better still to know the man with the beanie didn’t follow me here. I’m pretty sure he’s not one of the people sitting in the rows before me, and he’s not outside, either, lingering in the lot or huddled on the corner with the press. By the time I arrived, twenty minutes past the starting time, everyone but three reporters was already inside.

A tall man in a tasteful black suit and glasses steps to the podium. I take in his thick thatch of dark hair, the black, horn-rimmed glasses, and the air in my lungs turns light and tingly. This is the guy from those articles I read, Xander’s partner in the lab-grown line. Thomas Prins.

He spouts off a jumble of guttural sounds I recognize as Dutch, and I can tell by the way he makes himself comfortable that it’s going to be a long one. My mind and my gaze wander, to the hunched shoulders and slumped heads of the people in front of me, the slices of pale, drawn faces whenever they look to the side. I picture Xander on the shower floor, the zip tie squeezing his neck, and I shudder. These people will need therapy for the rest of their lives, and probably, so will I.

A titter goes through the crowd, and I return my attention tothe podium, to the man in the dark suit. He smiles at someone in one of the front rows, then tucks a sheet of paper into the inside pocket of his jacket and makes his way back to his seat. I sit up a little straighter, following him with my gaze. The place isn’t all that big, but I’m way in the back, and I don’t have a good angle on the others in his row. An elderly couple, stiff-backed and regal, another well-dressed couple, two teenage girls. The Prins family, and they certainly look the part.

I’m staring at the backs of their heads, all close-clipped cuts and salon highlights, when suddenly, a ripple of motion goes down the row like a football stadium wave. One by one, backs straighten. Bodies lean over or hike up on a hip, digging cellphones out of pockets and bags. They turn to each other and exchange alarmed looks, whispering about whatever is on their screens. Some kind of news, and it doesn’t look good.

My gaze sticks to one of them, the brunette seated at the far end. I see her pretty profile as she whispers to the elderly woman next to her, the delicate bones in her neck, the glittering diamonds dangling from her earlobes. I know virtually no one in this country, and yet I know her.

It’s the woman from the park. The one with the cute kid and ugly dog.

And she’s seated in the Prins row at Xander’s funeral.

What are the odds?

Never mind. I already know.

The answer is none.

Zero.

The funeral is still going strong when I slip out the back row and into the lobby, almost colliding with a woman with watery eyes and a severe bun. She hands me a pen and gestures to the guestbook, where I scribble something illegible, then pluck my coat from the rack. Sometime while I was inside, the early afternoon clouds have melted into a bright blue sky, offering a perfect view of the press gathered at the corner. A good dozen bodies bouncing on their toes to keep warm.

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