“That’s not why I’m the most upset,” she cuts in. “It’s… what I found in your briefcase. I’m trying to figure out if it means what I think.”
I turn slowly to face her. “In my briefcase?Well. Be my guest,” I say acidly. “What’s mine is yours, apparently.”
She turns to me with a hard look. “Nothingthat’s yours has ever been mine, Klaus. And I don’t think it ever will be. I’m exhausted, trying to climb the walls of your fortress.”
“I’ve only held back when I had no choice.”
“Oh, bullshit.”
I look at her seriously. “It’s true. Iloveyou, Talia.”
She covers her eyes. “Stop.You’re making it so much worse…”
I sink my face into my hands. The thin sound of post-midnight traffic drifts up from below.
“Tonight,” Natalia begins, her voice shaky. “Earlier, with the locked door… you were talking to Aristide Bridoux at PlatiNumeric, right?”
“I’m not happy you eavesdropped.” The words come out feebly—it’s a poor defense.
Her jaw is hard, the line of her mouth pitiless. “Answer me.”
“You know I was speaking with him, clearly. The things I’ve concealed… it’s so politically volatile, I’ve had to be careful while the matter is investigated. Intel reached Emerald over a year ago about human rights abuses in the new GP’s host country. We went to the FIA with evidence of slave labor, torture. A massive government cover-up ensued. We heard rumors that one journalist went missing while chasing the story. Then recently, the reporter falling off the balcony. No one really believes it was an accident—don’t be disingenuous and claimyoudo.” I point toward my phone. “And now? Possibly another death. I cannot stress enough how dangerous this is.”
“Dangerous to Emerald’s reputation?” Natalia counters, cynical. “To the sport? To the all-important bottom line?”
I rise from the chair and cross to her, but when I try to touch her shoulders, she steps back. My hands drop uselessly. “Toyou, Talia. My God. And potentially to every citizen in that country.”
Silence follows, and Natalia’s head drops. My arms ache to hold her, but I don’t dare try. “What is this about my briefcase?” I ask quietly. “What did you find?”
A gray spot blooms on the sleeve of her dressing gown, and I realize it’s a tear. With a helpless sound, I move closer, but shesidesteps me. She reaches into the pocket of her dressing gown, then extends and opens it to reveal a handful of USB thumb drives.
“A whole bag of these. Exactly the same as the one I gave to you in Barcelona,” she tells me, her voice a rasp. “Something Irisked my jobto do.”
I shake my head, mouth opening but freezing on the shape of a denial I know is useless.Why didn’t I confess months ago, that evening in Barcelona?
“You sent me the ‘stolen engineering blueprints’ evidence, didn’t you?” she continues with a chilling calm. “All fake. A snipe hunt, like Nefeli suspected—a stupid trick to distract me, like a mother giving her phone to her toddler so they won’t climb out of the grocery cart.” Her fists clench. “You made a fool of me.”
There’s a musicaltink!as a moth hits the chimney of the hurricane lantern on the table, clumsily trying to find its way inside, then a faintly audible hiss as it succeeds in the goal and drops, scorched, beside the candle.
“Yes, I sent it.”
Natalia stares at me, absorbing my grim confession. She focuses on the lantern with tired eyes, her shoulders lowering as if she’s deflating. Her gaze roams across the remains of our meal, then rakes over me in detail before tilting upward to focus on the moon.
A cramp of panic seizes my chest as I realize what she’s doing: saying goodbye to it all, studying the scene as if painting a picture that will have to last a lifetime.
“Wait,” I breathe. “I did it, but you must let me explain.”
She pushes herself into motion, veering around me and dropping the handful of USB sticks on the table before going inside. Ifollow, trailing her like a stray dog with the hope of offered scraps. She hauls out her suitcase and flops it open at the foot of the bed, immediately returning to the closet and yanking clothes off the wooden hangers.
I pull on some cotton pajama bottoms and sag to the side of the bed. “Please,” I ask gently. “I know you’re angry. And it’s justified. But will you talk with me?”
She folds a blouse in her efficient way and rolls up a skirt, placing them into the suitcase with right-angle accuracy, then marching back to the closet.
“My phone call with the woman from Amnesty International, that night in Montréal,” she throws over her shoulder. “Did you do something to kill it? Because I’ll bet it wouldn’t have been hard. You got your hands onmyphone number in like five minutes when we ran into each other in Melbourne last year. Such a big shot. Everyone falls all over themselves to do your bidding. No one else’s will matters, I guess, when Klaus Franke decides what’s best, right?”
The ache in my chest is horrible. I force myself to speak through the maelstrom of awareness that I may have irreparably fucked up.
“I… I wanted… to protect you,” I stammer, opening my hands, then dropping them to my lap. “After we made love during your visit to Santorini, you spoke so passionately about your lifelong desire to write and publish earthshaking work—something that would earn awards and change lives. I knew if you dug deeper into the rumors of what was occurring with the new grand prix location, you wouldn’t let go. Danger be damned.”
