feeling its heft. How much money? If the bills were hundreds, maybe twenty or thirty thousand in all. She had to assume they were. Otherwise why go to such lengths to hide them? And where had he come up with them? They had a joint bank account. No way could he have taken out that much money without her knowing.
Even more important, why so much? He couldn’t need it to pay for the trip. The resort preferred credit cards, and paying in advance. They’d talked about going to the casinos on St. Martin. But if he planned to pay thousand-dollar-a-hand blackjack, or whatever, he’d have to do it when she wasn’t watching.
Yet thirty thousand dollars wasn’t thirty million. It wasn’t like Brian could buy a new life with it. Maybe… an insurance policy? A way to make unexpected problems disappear? And give him a head start if he had to run.
Whatever the money was for, it wasn’t reassuring.
She tossed the bundle in the bag, stuffed the bag in the closet, went to his dresser. Underwear and socks in the top drawer, the hipster T-shirts and raggedy shorts he preferred in the second. He took care folding his clothes. A subtle rebuke to her; her suits and skirts were expensive and she had to admit she didn’t always take the best care of them, didn’t always hang them when she came home. Then again he hadn’t been the one working twelve-hour days, was he?
She sorted through the undies and socks. Nothing. She ran her hands through his T-shirts, his shorts.
Felt plastic.
She pulled it out. A tiny orange bottle, no label. When she unscrewed the cap and flipped its contents into her palm, she saw the pills weren’t pills at all. They were tiny white bars, sectioned in halves. Xanax bars. Xanax was a prescription benzodiazepine, a cousin of Valium.
She counted the bars in her hand, six… seven… eight.
Benzodiazepines were powerful drugs. Two two-milligram Xanax bars would get an average adult seriously high. In combination with an opioid or alcohol, benzos could kill. By themselves, they didn’t depress breathing enough to be lethal except with a massive overdose. Rebecca didn’t think eight bars would be enough to kill her. But they would knock her out for sure.
Thirty K in cash and sixteen milligrams of Xanax. Curiouser and curiouser.
How long could she wait? How clear would the signals have to be? For now she was still paralyzed. She was operating under strict rules of engagement. Until she knew he planned to hurt her, she couldn’t do anything except watch and wait.
She wondered if her rules would get her killed.
So be it. She had never thought of herself as a martyr, but she couldn’t make herself move first.
She heard steps on the path that led to the villa, Brian whistling tunelessly. She tilted the bars from her palm back into the bottle. One slipped onto the floor, visible against the polished wood. She nudged it under the dresser, stuffed the bottle back in the drawer. Hoping she hadn’t ruffled dear hubby’s T-shirts too much, hoping he hadn’t counted his benzos.
She popped open the privacy lock just as he reached it, realizing how stupid she’d been to lock it in place. The door swung open and there he stood. His eyebrows rose when he saw her.
“I thought maybe I’d get a massage.” She kissed him. “Since I’m so sore.”
“I got us a boat. For tomorrow.”
“I can’t wait.”
39
Caribbean Sea, east of St. Barts
The islands of the Caribbean take a hard right turn just east of Saint Barthélemy. Puerto Rico, Cuba, and Jamaica lay to the west, nearer Florida. To the south, a chain of smaller islands runs to Trinidad, just off the coast of South America.
So as Brian steered the Chris-Craft east, he was moving them toward the hinge of the turn, away from the calmer waters of the Caribbean and toward the Atlantic Ocean. The change was gradual. Even in early spring the Atlantic was fairly calm. They were still a couple of months from hurricane season.
Still, mile by mile, the waters were slowly becoming choppier, less blue. Cooler. Less friendly.
Brian wondered if Becks had noticed.
Then again, the boat they were on was distracting. Brian had splurged to rent a Chris-Craft Launch 36, four years old but still a beautiful ride, teak and leather and chrome, all the creature comforts four hundred thousand dollars could buy. Plus a super-modern navigation system. The Chris-Craft had been built more for comfort than hard-core open-water cruising. Its sun