I look at Grant in shock. “What?!”He ignores me and focuses on Duplass. “Full confession – on two conditions.”“What?” the FBI agent asks. I can see the greed in his eyes. He’s practically licking his lips.“One, you let Eve and my friends walk. No charges, no nothing. That’s non-negotiable.”“Impossible.”Grant leans back in his chair. “Okay. Never mind.”Duplass squints. “Say that I can get them off the hook. What’s the second condition?”“I’m going to give you a list of everybody I stole those paintings from. At least one of the people on the list has to admit that something was stolen, or I walk free. After all, if nothing went missing, then I didn’t commit any crimes.”Duplass grins nastily. He can’t believe his good fortune. “That’s it?”“That’s it.”Duplass mulls it over for a second. Then he slaps a pen and a piece of paper in front of Grant. “It’s a deal. Except I have a condition of my own.”“What?”Duplass points at me. “If I agree to your terms, then she stops the documen
JP, Dominique, Grant, and I are all free.The first thing we do as soon as we step out of FBI headquarters is to look at each other and cheer. Hugs, kisses, and joyous shouts all around.Second is Grant calls his company. They’re a little freaked out to hear from their on-the-lam boss, but after they check with the FBI, they send us a limo – with a laptop.Third thing on the list is I stop the document dump. And backup all the files to a half-dozen other servers… just in case.Fourth is we book the penthouse at the Fairmont Hotel on Nob Hill. Actually, Grant’s company books it; we just get smuggled in through the back door. Once we’re up there, Grant orders the entire menu from the nearest pricey restaurant, plus six bottles of Dom Perignon from room service.“To a job well done,” Grant toasts us.“To ten million dollars,” JP adds cheekily.We tell and retell our versions of the rescue over dinner. After all, Grant has no idea what happened on our end after he jumped out of the boat a
The next morning is lazy. All four of us sleep late, then have breakfast together in the penthouse. The Frenchies nurse their hangovers with Bloody Marys as we watch the FBI’s press conference on CNN. “ – a raid on a Marin County estate yesterday, whose owner was suspected of funding terrorism abroad – ”“What?!” Grant shouts at the TV.“I guess we’re not the only ones who can tell whoppers,” I remark.The FBI spokesperson never mentions serial murders, the house in Bel Air, the name ‘Dieter Lassenbach,’ or anything remotely approaching reality. And it takes a full five minutes before they state that the ‘suspected terrorist’ hired a group of mercenaries to pose as FBI agents.“It was those mercenaries who raided the Manhattan home of billionaire architect Grant Carlson almost a week ago. It also appears that the stolen works of art found in Carlson’s penthouse were planted there by the suspect, in some sort of bizarre feud between the two parties.”“About time they got around to tha
Things are mostly wonderful. But I’m starting to miss home.And every so often, I wake up screaming, afraid that someone is breaking into our bedroom, trying to kidnap and kill us.Grant holds me trembling in his arms, whispering soothing words into my ear, until I finally fall asleep again.It happens at first every night, then every other night, then every third and fourth.Part of me wonders if I will ever be rid of the memories.But as long as I can go back to sleep in Grant’s arms, I know I’ll be okay.After three weeks in Majorca, we call Mailin at the FBI.“Can we come home yet?” Grant asks over the speakerphone.“Uh… no, not yet.”“Why not?!”“We’re breaking the news that Dieter Lassenbach was a serial killer.”Grant and I stare at each other.All the fear and anxiety I had started to leave behind comes rushing up out of nowhere and threatens to overpower me again.“Why now?”“Because we’ve identified most of the victims, and we’re notifying the families. We figured they deser
Make-up sex is wonderful. ‘Reunion sex after a near-death experience’ is mind-blowing. But I think the best of all is ‘let’s spend the rest of our lives together’ sex.We couldn’t get back to the palace fast enough.As we lie there afterwards, I admire the ring on my finger. The stone catches the sun again and lights up the bed with reflected sparks of color.“You like it?” he asks.“I love it.”“Good.”“It’s just…”He frowns. “It’s just what?”“It’s almost too much.” Afraid of giving offense, I rush on: “I absolutely love it, but you didn’t have to spend the GDP of a small country on it.”“Don’t worry, I can afford it,” he jokes.“I know… it’s just…”“Well, if it makes you feel any better, I practically stole it.”The word ‘stole’ rips through me like an electric jolt, and I bolt upright on one arm.He sees my face and rolls his eyes. “I didn’t really steal it – calm down. It was my grandmother’s.”“Oh.” That piece of information should make me even happier – a treasured family heirl
The reception is lovely. We have it in the most luxurious hotel on Majorca, where we feast like kings, dance all night, and drink tons of champagne. By the time I kiss my parents and in-laws goodnight, I’m drunk as hell.Maybe that explains what happens next.We’ve rented the penthouse for the night in order to be closer to our families. We laugh and kiss as he carries me over the threshold, then he kicks the door closed behind us. He throws me on the bed in an alley-ooop! motion. I bounce and giggle amongst the folds of white lace rustling all around me.“Here – let me get this off,” I say drunkenly, and start trying to find the clasps to undo the back.“No,” he says as he locks the door. “I want to make love to you with it on.”“Oh…” I say, surprised.He starts by softly kissing my ankles as he pulls off my heels and massages my aching feet.“Ohhhh…”His kisses travel slowly up my right calf to my knee. He parts my legs, then continues kissing softly up my right thigh until he reach
I’m writing this because I’m heartbroken.I’m writing this because I’m in love.I’m writing this because more amazing, astounding, mind-blowing things have happened to me in the last two months than in my whole life before I met him, combined.I’m writing this because I’ve lost more than I ever thought I would be able to bear.And even though I hate myself for doing it, I pray to God I can hold him… …kiss him……make love to him……just one last time.• • •Okay, enough of mopey beginnings. I’m really not that kind of girl, I swear.I guess I should say ‘woman,’ not ‘girl.’ I am 24, after all, and, well, you know – ‘yay feminism,’ right? It’s just that I never really felt like I was an adult. In a lot of ancient societies, they had some sort of ritual that women go through where you know you’re a woman afterwards. ‘You passed the ritual? Congratulations, you’re a woman by definition!’In the 21st Century United States of America, getting married or having a baby probably qualifies. Al
It was 5:55 PM on Friday when Anh stopped by my desk and put on her sad, hesitant face. Anh (pronounced ‘On’) is this adorable little Vietnamese American girl whom I’ve known since I was a sophomore in college and she was a freshman. At barely five feet in heels and a year younger than me, I feel okay calling her a ‘girl.’ She wouldn’t mind.I envy how thin she is; I like that she’s one of the few people who makes me feel tall; and I love her for getting my sense of humor, for having been my therapist/mom through a couple of wretched breakups, and for generally putting up with me.Plus, she lets me pay less in rent even though our bedrooms are the same size. I think she does that because, even though she got me the job, she feels bad that I wound up working for Herr Klaus.I refer to him as ‘Herr Klaus’ because ‘the Exec Comp Nazi’ might get me fired. Yes, I know, I know, I shouldn’t go around comparing my jerk boss to actual, real-life monsters who destroyed millions upon millions o