Page 69 of The Expat Affair

“Sem.Sem!If you’re listening, baby, say something. Say—”

“Willow.” Fleur’s voice cuts through mine, a harsh bark that kills the words in my throat. “You’re the one who needs to listen. Watch for the text. Meet me at the address I send you. And don’t mention this to Thomas. What I want to talk to you about has to do with him.”

I haul a breath—to ask her what’s going on, to scream another time for Sem—but it’s too late. The line is already dead.

Rayna

I wake up in my beige bedroom, and for the first second or two, I don’t remember that anything is wrong. Rain patters against the tiny window above my head, little rivers of water rolling down the glass with just beyond, ominous clouds hanging low enough to touch. Winter in Holland all looks the same, impossible to tell if the sun’s just risen or is about to set. It could be morning or evening or anywhere in between.

“About time you woke up.”

The voice is low and oily, coming from the chair in the corner. Iroll my pounding head on the pillow, and there he is. Lars.

He smiles, and last night comes back in horrible flashes.

The terrace on the Leidseplein. Beanie man and his friend getting carted away and the sparkling water that somewhere between the glass and my stomach, picked up a colorless, odorless, tasteless pill that dissolves quickly and easily in liquid.

I feel my body under the covers, and at least I’m still dressed. Still wearing the same jeans I had on last night, the same sweater over a tank top, now twisted around my middle. Even my coat and shoes are still on, though I kicked off one sneaker during the night, but at least Lars didn’t rape me. That’s about the best thing I can say about the situation.

I stay quiet, trying to decide how to play this. Do I act surprised to find him here? Pretend I don’t know about the drugs? Neitherseems like the best way to get out of this alive, so instead I opt for honesty.

“Thanks for bringing me home, I guess.” My tongue is thick in my mouth, coated with something sour that makes me long for a toothbrush. The words come out mushy and hoarse. “Though you could have gone lighter on the roofie. How much of that shit did you give me?”

It didn’t take me until now to figure out, though, that the first night in the basement club, me bumping into him, him feeding me shawarmas at his cousin’s place around the corner... I might have made it easy for him, but nothing about that night was an accident.

“I need to know who was here, Rayna.” He gestures to the room, the drawers and closets I emptied out, the clothes and shoes and bags I hurled everywhere. “Who tossed your stuff.”

“Me. I tossed it, after I—” I roll onto my side and the movement pitches my stomach, firing a ball of bile up my throat. I hold still and breathe through the rolling nausea until it somewhat subsides. “Are you even an artist?” Lars rolls his eyes. No, not an artist, but a damn good liar. “Good job on the trackers, by the way. How many were there?”

“Trackers.” Not a question, exactly, and yet somehow it is.

“Yes, trackers. I found six, and that’s not including the one I left on the tram.” I look to the nightstand for my phone, but it’s not there. Of course it’s not. “Good work, by the way. Picking just the right spot at the bar to make it seem like I came up to you and not the other way around. That couldn’t have been easy, but you played it well. Though just happening to be on the same side of town as me last night was a bit obvious, don’t you think? Where was the one that I missed?”

“The one what?”

“The tracker. Because I checked every piece of clothing I hadon last night. I looked inside every compartment in my bag. I was certain I’d found them all.”

“I wasn’t tracking you. I’ve beenwatchingyou. I’ve had eyes on you this whole time.”

The downstairs neighbor’s face flashes before my eyes, her wrinkly smile as she gestured for me to come inside. “But I didn’t go out the front door.”

“I’ve lived in this city my entire life. You think I don’t know every street and alleyway? I had eyes on both exits.”

“Lemme guess. Beanie man and his friend in the orange coat.”

Lars leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “Good guess. Let’s hope for your sake that I’m not too late.”

“I feel like this would go a lot faster if you’d stop talking in code. Too late for what?”

He waves a hand around the room, the mess. “The diamonds, Rayna. The necklace. Tell me where they are.”

On the one hand, I suppose I should be relieved that whatever this is, it’s only about diamonds. If Lars was a killer with a penchant for zip ties, if he thought I was witness to his crime, then he wouldn’t have bothered with the roofie. He would have killed me and dumped me off that bridge instead of pouring me in a cab.

“I don’t have any idea where the necklace went. I was so drunk that night, I barely remember putting it on. I don’t remember anything past midnight.” I pause, looking around my sad, beige bedroom. “Also, if I had that necklace, do you really think I’d be living here?”

Lars shifts his body on the creaky chair, reaching down for something small and dark and shiny on the floor. A single-shot, nine millimeter Staccato CS, compact enough to fit in his hand. He aims it at my head, and I think of Willow’s words, echoes of ones she wrote in that note.

At least with diamonds in your back pocket you’d have some leverage. Something to barter for your life.

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