Page 23

Lorna

Hours before Lorna’s disappearance: 6

It only takes minutes to go from the dock of the Marina Piccola to Il Fallimento, Stan’s yacht. And I recognize it all—the dark gray paint of the tender, the teak swim platform, the white uniforms. At least the tender driver is new. A stewardess passes us hot towels and glasses of champagne as we board. It’s a stark contrast to my previous experiences on tenders, where the goal was always only transportation—dock to deck—in as little time as possible. No hot towels. No champagne. Just white knuckles braced against juddering waves.

Il Fallimento is anchored close to the Faraglioni, part of the constellation of bigger yachts that ring the outer stretch of the Marina Piccola. Closer to shore are the smaller yachts, the charter boats, the sailboats—visitors with less money, or who feel less compelled to show it off.

Stan has always been compelled to show it off, and he’s in fine form tonight. The lights are on, illuminating the water; the music flows through the speakers. An army of people greet us and shepherd us up two flights. Every face impassive.

Don’t worry, the crew is discreet. That’s what Stan used to say to us. Discreet was never the right word. Negligent was my preferred term.

I’ve spent the better part of our walk to the Marina Piccola, the better part of the ride out here, trying to convince myself that my situation is different now. I have Marcus. I have Helen. I have the Lingates and all their money. Most important, I have something Stan wants. But it’s still there, the muscle memory of those nights. The impulse to down the flute of champagne, to knock back a pill, to have a good time despite the darkness oozing out of everyone on board. Especially me.

Before Stan can greet us, Naomi reaches for another glass of champagne from a passing tray.

“I’m so thrilled you’re here,” Stan says. He claps Marcus on the back. “I thought I was going to have to strong-arm you into coming.”

“Of course not,” Marcus says. “All you had to do was promise to not talk business.”

Stan holds his finger in front of his lips as if he’s promising silence. But his eyes flick to mine briefly, and I can feel the pressure of his voicemail in the background— Stop avoiding me.

“I’m done with all that,” he says. “This is purely social.”

We’re on a spacious lido deck, and he leads us into the main salon.

I built to the same dimensions as Jeff’s. Then added two feet. I remember him telling me that, almost sadly, as if he wished it had been four. Despite the warm night air, my skin prickles. They’re sitting there, three of them, clustered around the corner couches of the salon, looking bored. The girls.

Fucking Stan.

I try to catch Helen’s eye, but Helen and Freddy have stayed out on the lido, listening to a live performance coming from a neighboring boat. Richard and Marcus are talking to Stan near the doors, Stan telling them he has to show them what’s on the roof. They’ll never believe it.

A helicopter.

“If it’s a helicopter,” Marcus says, “I’m not interested. Show me something original, Stan.”

It’s the primary reason Marcus has always been annoyed by Stan—a lack of originality.

Tech guys never know how to spend it , Marcus said to me in between meetings once. It’s so depressing. Zero elegance. And yet, these days, they’ve ended up with all of it.

It was a distinction the Lingates liked to belabor. Old money gave back. Old money supported the arts. Old money had class. But new money has more of it. It makes Marcus crazy. I know it does. Even if he never mentions it, it’s the reason he’s always searching for the right investment, the right opportunity to take that respectable, storied, vast old money and turn it into something truly embarrassing.

You can’t sit on your hands, he liked to say. If you sit on your hands, you’re not being a good steward .

I doubted Stan ever thought about the stewardship of his wealth; he thought about spending it.

“Okay,” Stan says, “I’ve got something original to show you.”

I know where they’re going, and I don’t want to be part of the tour. Luckily, Freddy and Helen stay behind and join me in the salon.

Helen whispers: “Who are they?”

She means the girls.

“I don’t know,” I say.

I know.

“Stan’s divorced, right?” Freddy asks.

It was news several years ago, the divorce—no prenup, deeply acrimonious. I don’t know if the girls predated the divorce or precipitated it, but it doesn’t really matter.

“Yeah,” I say.

I cross the room and perch on one of the couches I’ve already spent hours on.

“I’m Lorna,” I say, reaching out a hand to the girl closest to me. It’s a gesture no other guest on Il Fallimento ever extended to me.

Her face is hard at first, and she takes in the three of us, top to bottom, a thorough assessment. The kind you have to make if you’re going to survive.

“Sasha,” she says.

She’s painfully thin, and blond. I’ve already seen girls like her all over Capri—here for the ride, the lifestyle, the boat. I’m sure there are other Sashas on the boats anchored around us, more, even, along the coasts of Spain and France.

In quick succession, the other two say “Martina” and “Giulia.”

Martina could be me—long dark hair, folded legs, arms crossed protectively across her stomach, passing on the champagne in a way that reminds me of the pregnancy test I still haven’t opened. I want to take her aside later. To tell her how to get out. But there’s no way out. And I would do anything to never be her again. Which is why I’m here, why I work for the Lingates.

It’s hard to admit that I’ve switched teams.

“Are you joining us for dinner?” Helen asks. She’s settled next to me and is smiling. And I can see it then—I know the girls can, too—the difference. The way her skin and teeth and hair blister with health. The kind of health that says, I’ve never been desperate, I’ve never been hungry. Even after I nearly drowned her earlier, she still glows.

“No,” Sasha says. “Just a drink. Then we go to shore. There’s a party later tonight. At Taverna Anema e Core.”

“I’ve never been to Taverna Anema e Core,” Freddy says, and I’m surprised, even impressed, that he’s the one bridging the gap, “but I’ve heard great things. A big party spot, right?”

“Huge,” says Giulia. “That’s where we met Stan.”

The way she says it, she hisses the S at the beginning of his name, and it feels like a release, like the air being let out of our group. I can’t help it, my shoulders drop.

“You should go.” The voice comes from behind us, and we all turn to see Naomi. Her eyes are glassy, and she unsteadily sets a hand down on the back of the couch before slipping onto one of the seats. It’s possible she’s been there all along, lingering in the shadows that seem to proliferate on boats like this.

“Yes,” Sasha says. “Stan is coming after dinner. You should come with him.”

No.

“We’d love to,” Helen says.

It should warm me, the way Helen eagerly accepts Sasha’s invite, makes her human. But I don’t want to spend more time with Stan, give him more opportunities to corner me. And even though Helen doesn’t know it, she doesn’t want that either. It won’t help us.

“Where did they go?” Naomi asks. She means Marcus and Richard, who are no doubt on their way down to visit Stan’s replica of his original office, the one where he pioneered his first company. Stan, who paid to have a shrine to himself built on a boat that was already precisely that. Even the girls are looking at Naomi now, their eyes sliding from her to one another. It’s recognizable—her intoxication.

“I’m sure they’ll be right back,” Helen assures her.

“It’s just the champagne,” Naomi says to the girls.

Somehow, she knows they can see it.

It’s so much more than the champagne, but I’m surprised she can tell they’ve noticed. I have, perhaps, missed how observant Naomi is.

“Are we going to go to the bow?” Stan asks, returning with Richard and Marcus in tow, and he gives the girls the look that says: I hope you behaved. “I thought it would be nice to watch the lights of Amalfi during dinner.”

Before we came aboard, I considered anything that might get me out of this situation. But that’s the thing about men like Stan: they push hardest when they sense an opening. And what is fear if not an opening? I want to get this over with, so I stand. No one mentions Sasha, Martina, or Giulia. Before we leave the salon, I turn to them and say:

“Hopefully we’ll see you later.”

Ahead of me, I can hear Stan say, “The reason I wanted to show you the helicopter was to set up the big surprise tonight.”

“You’ve flown in a chef,” Marcus says, his voice deadpan.

“Well, yes. But”—and it’s clear he needs us to know this, that the food won’t be as good if we don’t—“not just any chef. When I heard that Cracco was vacationing in Positano, it seemed like a small favor to ask. Dinner for some good friends?”

Only they aren’t good friends. But Stan continues.

“Naturally, he said yes.” As we reach the bow, he adds, casually but cutting: “I’m surprised you haven’t booked anyone for while you’re here.”

“We make do,” Marcus says.

“Of course you do.”

The table is set with thick white linens and place cards. Stan sits directly across from me, and I can feel my neck beginning to hurt from turning at an angle just to avoid his gaze. A constant physical strain to keep the peace. The first course comes out only minutes after we’ve placed napkins in our laps—delicate radishes and tomatoes, dotted with green foam and torn burrata. I take two bites, and Stan says:

“So how long have you two been together?”

“About two years now,” Helen says.

“Almost three,” Freddy adds.

“Oh, not you.” Stan twirls his fork before jabbing it across the table at Marcus and me. “You two.”

My breath feels sour. “We’re not,” I say. “I’m Marcus’s assistant.”

Fuck you, Stan.

“But surely,” he says, “you don’t bring assistants on vacations like this?” He laughs. “I assumed you had some kind of open arrangement.”

“Lorna is one of the family,” Marcus says.

“Just like old times, then.”

“If I remember”—Marcus lifts his wineglass and checks the color—“you were the one always hanging around our family. Crashing our vacations. Chasing after Richard’s wife.”

I choke on a mouthful of sparkling water. I understand now why Stan has been singularly focused on what happened on the cliffs. The photograph of the six of them comes back, Stan’s hunched shoulders, his lips thin and tipped down. Sarah. The girl he couldn’t have. The girl that made him buy all the others.

“Is that what you thought I was doing during those years?” Stan says. He barks out a laugh, and the wine he swallows goes down in a lump. “Trying my luck with Sarah?”

“We couldn’t get rid of you, Stan,” Marcus says.

“At least this one is single,” Stan says, pointing at me.

“Like that’s ever mattered to you,” Marcus says.

Stan smiles. “I know it never mattered to you. ”

Naomi shakes out her napkin and folds it over—once, twice—and slaps it to the table.

“Please excuse me,” she says, standing.

I try to catch Marcus’s eye, but he’s already up, following his wife back down the stairs to the lido deck. I nearly go after them to explain Stan to Naomi. To assure her he’s simply a creep, a joke, an ass. But somehow, I think that might look worse.

“Didn’t mean to upset anyone,” Stan says as the plates are cleared. “Just a joke, right?”

But of course he did. He always does.

“You didn’t,” Richard says next to me, his voice a tone I’ve never heard before—cold. “My brother doesn’t date women he pays.”

“That’s too bad,” Stan says. “But of course, it wouldn’t have been appropriate back then. What with all the scrutiny. Now it’s easier.”

“What scrutiny?” Richard asks.

I study Richard’s profile, but there’s nothing there to see, no emotion, no anger. Just studied ambivalence. It’s scary.

“Well,” Stan says, leaning back to make space for a beautifully turned plate of pasta in front of him, “the scrutiny around the fact that everyone thought you killed your wife. I see her necklace has made another appearance.”

Stan looks pointedly at the gold collar resting on Helen’s clavicles.

“Stop it,” Helen says, her voice thick, her face flushed.

We eat in silence, none of us waiting for Naomi, who rejoins with Marcus when we’re halfway through. She eats without enthusiasm. We all do. Once we’ve finished and Stan has introduced us to Cracco, we head back down to the lido, where a table of candies and cookies has been laid out for us. The three girls are still there, standing like baby gazelles with thin, trembly legs and dark almond eyes next to the display, picking delicately at the gummy candies shaped like lemons.

Two levels below us, the captain is readying the tender. I watch Stan walk over to him, lay a hand on his back, and say something in his ear. And for the first time I think— it doesn’t matter, it doesn’t matter who killed Sarah, they’re all villains.