Page 115 of These White Lies
Elizabeth lowers her eyes. “I’m sorry.”
I shake my head, my attention still solely on Elizabeth. I refuse to look at my sister, not wanting to say something I’ll regret. “Don’t be. This landed in your lap same as ours. You didn’t ask for it.”
Finn glances up from his screen. “You don’t need to apologize. This is what we do.”
Sera exhales through her nose. “They’re right,” she mutters. “This isn’t your fault.” Her tone’s not exactly warm, but it’s not her normal barbed tongue either.
“Here we go,” Finn says, straightening as the screen lights up with thumbnail after thumbnail of high-profile events.
A military charity ball in D.C.
A G7 after-party in St. Moritz.
An art auction in Brussels.
“Okay,” Finn says, already pointing at the screen. “There are two Americans from this list in that Brussels shot. That’s Blackwell on the left, right?”
“Yup,” Rhodes confirms. “And that’s Marani with him.”
Vincent leans forward. “The third is Henri Valas, French telecom CEO. He’s suspected of financing cyber-attacks in East Africa. He was on the list.”
More photos roll in. Some photos have captions from social media or printed publications, while others are grainy, at odd angles, as if someone snapped them from afar through a telephoto lens.
“Holy shit,” Finn mutters. “That’s the Golden Orchid gala. Rhodes, remember that one?”
“Yeah. State Department was very interested in it because half the donor list was red-flagged.”
In the photo, two men are shaking hands. Next to them is a muscular third man with a buzz cut, wearing a dark three-piece suit and a gold pinky ring.
Something cold coils in my gut.
“Wait,” Rhodes says, cocking his head. “Is that?—”
“That’s Ray ‘The Hammer’, right?” Finn cuts in. “He’s in… a lot of these.”
He types on his computer, and the screen images are replaced with multiple images of the famous boxer at several events with various Lapidarists.
I don’t move. Don’t breathe. Don’t dare look toward Sera.
Vincent’s arms uncross, and his eyes shift to me and stay there with a hard stare.
“He’s not on the necklace, though,” Rhodes reminds us. “We didn’t see his name engraved.”
“No,” Vincent says through his teeth. “We didn’t.”
Sera’s breathing is audible across the table, and Finn glances up from his keyboard to look at her with concern. “You okay over there?”
Rhodes looks over at Sera, his sharp eyes assessing, then they move to me. I know my posture is tight. I’m giving it away. Rhodes’s gaze rises to the images glowing above us.
A yacht photo is prominent in the middle of the collage. Ray is lounging near the rail, cigar in hand. Standing next to him is the bitcoin douche we’d identified earlier and a woman I recognize only because she bankrolls arms deals through shell companies and a charity for displaced youth.
Another shot of him in Vegas. I know this one. It was taken two years ago, after an exhibition fight, standing with the same woman. What’s her name?
In a social media shot of another party, he’s surrounded by at least three other names on the necklace.
Another social media post of a casino event. He’s with the same people.
Fuck. Fuck. Fuuucckkkk.
