The Mephisto Club

up.”
    “Later,” she mumbled.
    “I didn’t fly all night just to watch you sleep. We need to talk.”
    She groaned and turned over. “I don’t talk to men who won’t tell me their names.”
    “My name is Anthony Sansone.”
    “Am I supposed to know you?”
    “This is my house.”
    That made her open her eyes. She blinked away sleep and turned to see a man with silver hair gazing down at her. Even in her hungover state, she registered the fact that this was one damn good-looking guy, despite the obvious fatigue shadowing his eyes. He said he’d flown all night and she didn’t doubt it, looking at his wrinkled shirt and the dark stubble on his jaw. Sansone had not come into the room alone; the German man was there as well, standing near the door.
    She sat up in bed and clutched her throbbing temples. “You really own this villa?”
    “It’s been in my family for generations.”
    “Lucky you.” She paused. “You sound like an American.”
    “I am.”
    “And that guy over there?” She lifted her head and squinted at the German. “He works for you?”
    “No. Mr. Baum is a friend. He works for Interpol.”
    She went very still. She dropped her gaze back to the bed, so they could not see her face.
    “Ms. Saul,” he said quietly, “why do I get the feeling you’re afraid of the police?”
    “I’m not.”
    “I think you’re lying.”
    “And I think you’re not a very good host. Locking me up in your house. Barging in here without knocking.”
    “We did knock. You didn’t wake up.”
    “If you’re going to arrest me, you want to tell me why?” she asked. Because now she realized what this was all about. Somehow, they’d found out what she’d done twelve years ago, and they’d tracked her down. Of all the endings she’d imagined, this was not one of them. A cold unmarked grave, yes—but the police? She felt like laughing.
Oh right, arrest me. I’ve faced far worse terrors than the threat of prison.
    “Is there a reason why we should arrest you?” asked Mr. Baum.
    What did he expect, that she was going to blurt out a confession right here and now? They’d have to work a little harder than that.
    “Lily,” said Sansone, and he sat down on the bed, an invasion of her personal space that instantly made her wary. “Are you aware of what happened in Boston a few weeks ago?”
    “Boston? I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
    “Does the name Lori-Ann Tucker mean anything to you?”
    Lily paused, startled by the question. Did Lori-Ann talk to the police? Is that how they found out?
You promised me, Lori-Ann. You told me you’d keep it a secret.
    “She was your friend, correct?” he asked.
    “Yes,” Lily admitted.
    “And Sarah Parmley? She was also a friend?”
    Suddenly she registered the fact that he’d used the word
was.
Not
is.
Her throat went dry. This was starting to sound very bad.
    “You knew both of these women?” he pressed her.
    “We—we grew up together. The three of us. Why are you asking about them?”
    “Then you haven’t heard.”
    “I’ve been out of touch. I haven’t talked to anyone in the States for months.”
    “And no one’s called you?”
    “No.”
How could they? I’ve done my damnedest to stay out of sight.
    He looked at Baum, then back at her. “I’m so sorry to have to tell you this. But your friends—both of them—are dead.”
    She shook her head. “I don’t understand. Was it an accident? How could both of them…?”
    “Not an accident. They were murdered.”
    “Together?”
    “Separately. It happened around Christmas. Lori-Ann was killed in Boston. And Sarah was killed in Purity, New York. Sarah’s body was found in your parents’ house, the house you’ve been trying to sell. That’s why the police have been looking for you.”
    “Excuse me,” she whispered. “I think I’m going to be sick.” She scrambled off the bed and bolted into the adjoining bathroom. She slammed the door shut and dropped to her knees over the toilet bowl. The wine she’d drunk the night before came up, scorching like acid as it burned its way up her throat. She clung to the toilet, retching until her stomach was empty, until she had nothing left to throw up. She flushed the toilet and staggered to the sink, where she splashed water in her mouth, on her face. Staring at her own dripping reflection, she scarcely recognized the woman she saw there. How long had it been since she’d looked, really looked, into a mirror? When had she