Page 93 of Fake Dark Vows

Or did the younger generation of Russos have a bigger part to play in Ron’s downfall? With Carlos out of the picture, perhaps they were doing things their way and fuck the consequences. I don’t know Carlos Russo well, but he’s up there on a pedestal with my father: old school business mentality, a gentleman, ruthless only when it comes to getting the most out of a business transaction.

I go back to my computer and compile a list of other companies in the same league as Russo and Weiss. There are the big, untouchable names like Chevron and BP, but if I take them out of the equation, we’re the most obvious competitors.

I wish Carlos had reached out to me. I would never have personally attacked him—it isn’t my style—and we could’ve reached another truce, rejigged a few minor agreements, and made it work for all concerned.

I’m going around in circles, and I still feel like there’s something missing.

Why did my father not mention the house by the lake to my mother until today? Was he planning on renovating before announcing that was where he wanted to live? Or was he waiting for Carlos Russo to come back?

Mental images of the house make me shudder, penetrating the fug produced by a half-bottle of Remy Martin. I still can’t shake the feeling that someone was watching me from inside the house. Was it Carlos Russo? Does my father know where he is? It would make sense that he hasn’t begun renovating if the house is still being lived in.

Rose asking me to pull out of the deal with Ron sneaks back inside my head.

It wasn’t the first time she’d mentioned it, but it was the first time I’d sensed that it meant something to her. It felt as though she were pleading with me.

I need to speak to her. It’s a long shot, and I have no idea how—maybe Rose overheard something during my father’s birthday celebrations—but I need to speak to her.

I locate her number on my phone and sit back, raising my glass to my lips. Last glass. Then I’ll send the car to collect her from her father’s house, shower, and take her out for a late supper. There’s an all-night Lebanese restaurant on Fifth Avenue that Jennifer always raves about.

Start afresh. Forget about the name Russo, and fake engagements, and keeping up appearances for the press. It could be exactly what we both need.

Only, Rose’s phone doesn’t ring. There isn’t even a beat during which the call tries to connect, it’s simply dead.

I try again.

I shouldn’t have swallowed the last shot. I need to understand the cold sense of dread slithering around my veins and forming beads of sweat on my forehead. I call the driver to find out where he dropped Rose off and get the same result. Silence.

Scrolling through my list of contacts, my finger hovers over Jennifer’s number. I touch the call button without thinking it through, and stumble to my feet when this connection too is dead. I swallow, a dry clicking sound emitting from the back of my throat.

I grab a jacket out of my closet, slide my feet into the shoes I traveled back from Vegas in, and ride the elevator down to the lobby.

“Did you see my wife leave earlier?” I ask the concierge.

“Yes, Mr. Weiss. Your car was waiting outside for her as requested.”

“Did she say where she was going?”

“She didn’t, I’m sorry, sir. Is everything?—”

I don’t wait around for him to finish.

I’m outside the building, the cool night air snapping around my ankles, my footsteps pounding along the sidewalk. I run. A guy with sparse tufts of white hair on his shiny pink scalp dodges me by darting into an alleyway, the carrier bag in his hand clinking with the weight of bottles.

A cab comes towards me, traveling in the opposite direction. I sprint across the road without checking for traffic—it’s late, and the roads are relatively quiet. He stops, and I climb into the backseat, giving him Rose’s address.

I call Rose’s number again, willing it to ring. If it rings, I can tell myself that I’m panicking over nothing. Too much brandy; lack of sleep; the ghost stories of American Falls getting inside my head.

The number is still dead, as if it never existed at all, as if Rose Carter is nothing more than a figment of my imagination.

I ask the cab driver to wait for me. The houses in the street where Rose lives with her dad are sleeping. Curtains are drawn. TVs are switched off for the night. I sprint along the path leading to the front door and press the bell.

I allow extra time for Rose and her dad to wake up and realize there’s someone at the front door, but even so, they’re taking too long. I push the bell again. Nothing.

“Come on, Rose. Come on.”

This time, I leave my finger on the button, and sigh with relief when I hear footsteps approaching the door and a man’s voice: “All right, all right, I’m coming.”

A key turns. The door opens a crack, a thick metal chain preventing it from opening any further. Rose’s dad peers out, his face pale with sleep.