Page 18 of Sunburned

“Do you?”

“No.”

“But would he send you this article, specifically?” I asked, tapping the letter. “It doesn’t seem likely. Have you talked to him about it?”

“No.”

“We should—”

“No,” he said firmly. “If it’s him, I don’t want to give him the satisfaction.”

“Okay,” I said, furrowing my brow. “Anyone else you think it could be?”

“It could be his girlfriend, or my wife, or her best friend.”

I was beginning to see a pattern. “They hate you as well?” I asked.

“Samira gets nothing from me unless we’re married three years. I made my expectations clear before we married and she was fine with it in the beginning, but lately she’s started…acting out.”

I didn’t blame her. “How long have you been married?”

“Fourteen months.”

I evaluated him. “If they all hate you so much—and I’m gonna go out on a limb here and say you hate them too—why are you all on vacation together?”

“We’re not on vacation, we’re here to open a De-Sal center. St.Barth’s is a territory of France, and we’ve had a hard time breaking into the E.U. with all their environmental regulations. If this works, we’ll be in France by next year, and the rest of the E.U. will follow suit. If itdoesn’t work, we’ll have to revisit taking the company public or bringing on investors, which, like I said, I don’t want to do.”

“But Allison does.”

He nodded.

“Again, why are all these people you hate staying in your house?” I pressed.

“Security reasons.”

Frustration prickled beneath my skin. “Is there a security threat?”

He pointed his eyes at the letter.

“So, you gathered everyone you suspect might be out to get you here, in your home?” I pressed.

“The house is gated and free of outside listening or viewing devices, my staff is vetted, my Wi-Fi is secure, and I can keep an eye on everyone with the cameras hidden in all public areas of the house. So yes. It is best that they, and you, stay here.”

“I’ll need access to those cameras.”

“I’ll arrange it. Anything else you need, ask Laurent.”

“Does he know about the clipping?” I asked, tapping the envelope.

“No. And I trust you won’t tell him, or anyone else.”

I nodded. “What does he know?”

“That you’re a former friend, here to help me solve a personal problem.”

“You trust him?” I asked. As paranoid as Tyson obviously was, his apparent faith in Laurent seemed inconsistent.

He smiled faintly. “I know enough of his secrets that I feel confident he won’t risk crossing me.”

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