Page 37 of Lela's Choice

“I asked him if he’d argued with Sophie, had some sort of disagreement to prompt her flight. He”—Hamish lifted a hand and let it fall—"prevaricated.” Hamish was adding to the mental ledger detailing where old man Vella and Lela differed in their stories. Testing each version for reliability, which one of them held proof of the truth.

“One of his skills.” She nodded solemnly.

“He still hasn’t admitted to meeting Peter, or corrected the record on Sophie’s access to her inheritance.” More telling, he wasn’t here. Lela had dropped everything to get here.

“Has Marty given you any more on the Debrincats?”

“This is the shipping side of the family. International business interests. This woman’s husband died a number of years ago. No children, and she’s very close to her nephew, Peter.”

“How did Marty explain you?”

“I’m a friend.”

She snorted.

“You’re still not sure if I’m running surveillance on you.”

“Are you?” She stuck her tongue firmly in her cheek.

“You know I’m not,” he said. It hit him with the joy of a fat drop of water on his tongue after a drought—she lacked guile. “Mistrust is fatal to a truce.”

“I respect our bargain, Hamish.”

“Given our current activity, that’s reassuring.” But Hamish didn’t doubt that if she gave her word, she kept it. Honesty was one of her most appealing qualities.

* * *

THE HOUSE APPEAREDshabby and untended from the outside, but Lela was learning solid, golden stonewalls hid many secrets—hanging gardens, comfortable living areas, luxurious fittings, and ageless splendour. The Debrincat house was no exception. Admitted by a man in a dark suit, he invited them to follow him. Once inside, the thickness of the walls muted the noise of the busy street where they’d parked the car. Wealth demanded silence.

Crossing a sunny, sheltered courtyard, Lela followed the man into a room—Hamish on her heels—which might be a library. Two walls were lined with books, and a leather-tooled desk sat in the centre, with an upright chair behind it. Two leather couches were angled towards an ornate fireplace.

She accepted the offer of tea, before the man excused himself. Hamish crossed to a window, while Lela sat on the edge of one of the couches.

“I’m Mariella Debrincat, sorry to have kept you waiting.”

A tiny woman, barely reaching Lela’s shoulder, entered the room. Her appearance reinforced the impression, created by the surroundings, of generations of wealth. Rigorously coiffed hair, an elegant classic dark skirt and silk blouse, and wearing what was almost certainly a Mikimoto pearl necklace. Her English was unaccented, her mahogany eyes brimming with a sharp intelligence, which put Lela on her guard, even as she rose to her feet. This woman didn’t look like any traditional Maltese aunty Lela had met.

The woman smiled, with her hand outstretched. “You must be Lela.”

“Yes, I am.”

“The resemblance to your niece is quite pronounced.”

“You’ve seen her then?” Relief flooded Lela. She’d clung to her gut feeling that Sophie was safe, but the words dissolved the small knot of fear sitting hard against her ribcage.

“They’re both safe.” The woman turned to Hamish with an appraising look. “Are you related as well?”

“Mrs. Debrincat, thank you for agreeing to see us.” He stepped forward to shake the older woman’s hand. “I apologise for any misunderstanding. I’m a friend of Lela’s. I didn’t think she should come alone. She’s been worried.”

“Not an agent of Giovanni Vella?” The woman released his hand.

“You must have checked who I am.”

The woman considered them both for a few minutes, then, as if she’d seen something, she smiled a second time and invited them both to sit. The manservant returned with a tea tray. “Thank you, Luca. We can manage from here.”

A few minutes were spent pouring tea and passing around cups.

“What do you want to know?” Peter’s aunt asked.

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