I try to listen while they talk about marine explosives, how they’re used to sink ships, and where they need to hunt down more info. They touch on crime groups, rivals, piracy, guns, drugs, and other nefarious things.
It concerns me deeply, but I can’t focus, can’t pay attention.
It’s like I’ve reached my limit for bad news and I just don’t want any more.
God. What if I’m more like my mother than I thought? Living behind the curtains. Head in the sand.
Is that why it took so long to get my memory back?
I stand up, cross the lanai, and walk to the beach, trying to accept the grim fact that this is my life.
All the things I remember.
All the things I don’t want to.
All the things I wish I freaking had.
It makes me feel like a different person than I did yesterday, and it’s jarring.
Staring at the sunlight dancing off the ocean, at the gentle waves, I try to find the calm they usually bring.
Savanny brushes against my leg and mews softly. The sick, tipsy sensation in my head doubles.
My focus drifts down to him with a melancholy smile.
I love this cat, but why did I want him in the first place? An illegal animal?
Maybe I felt like I was above the law and the rules didn’t apply to me. Why? Because I come from a rich family? Because it was what my parents taught?
I sigh, kneeling down, and gently fold the little furball in a hug. It’s fine having money, but to think it gives you special rights, special privileges, just doesn’t seem right.
No, it can’t be the trauma that stalled my memory for so long.
It’s the person I was, especially before art school.
I was hardly Ray’s opposite, even if I can’t remember being cruel like him. My sins were indifference and entitlement.
I was the girl who stamped her feet when she didn’t get her way. Always asking our father for more.
And when I had it, when I’d gotten a contraband cheetah-cat because Dad was good enough to indulge my childhood fantasy, I was scared someone would take it all away. I wanted to protect my ill-gotten gains, no different than Ray, probably.
“Hey, you okay?”
I pinch my eyes shut at the sound of his voice. The man I’ve pulled into the mud with me, partly thanks to my own selfishness, my delay sprouting a conscience.
Flint’s shadow falls over me.
I turn around. “I’m fine.”
“You don’t look fine.”
“I don’t want to talk about it. Not right now. It’s nothing about the accident or King Heron. It’s just…personal crap. This morning sapped my energy,” I say, lowering my face.
“You deserve a break.” He studies me, then gives a slight nod. “Davis and Cash left. They’ll check on the latest intel. So far everything you said just confirms what we already feared—those men belong to a cartel. It’s a criminal outfit that’s been in the islands for at least twenty years, run by a man named Cornaro.”
The name means nothing to me, but why should it? I’ve lived most of my life with my head stuck in the sand, only lifting it out when I wanted something. “So that’s who Ray works for?”
“With,” he says pointedly. “Not for.”
“Is there a difference?” I turn, wondering at how his eyes ice over.
“Yes. Groups like his don’t just let rich guys buy membership. Not with money. They buy in with blood.”
A chill whirls up my spine. I fold my arms, still not quite sure what he’s hinting at.
Does it even matter whether or not Ray was a full-fledged member of this criminal group?
“Cornaro doesn’t partner up with anybody on even terms,” Flint says, every word breathing more tension into the air. “He fucking uses people. Always to his benefit. From what we’ve learned, it seems like there was already a loose association between the Cornaro Outfit and your old man. King Heron went through a rough patch ten or more years back. Took tons of losses, the company almost went tits up. Then Stanley Gerard found himself a new investor. Ray just took it further, deepened the bonds, thought he’d climbed in bed with somebody who’d help him shit gold since it worked so well for your dad.”
I shake my head. “I don’t get it. What does King Heron have that they’d possibly want?”
“Ships. An easy conduit to move illicit cargo. They’ve got a hand in everything, Val. Trafficking weapons, drugs, people all across the South Pacific. If it’s illegal, it’s a Cornaro job.”
Disgust fills me. “It isn’t just ships. More like…no morals.”
“Huh?”
“No morals,” I repeat. “You’re right, it started with my father. He was willing to do anything to save his company. I remember this time when I was younger, he was so stressed. There were months where he’d fly off the handle or shut himself up in his office downstairs, whispering to people on the phone long after I should’ve been asleep. Sometimes, I’d hear him through the vents, even if I didn’t understand what he was saying, or why he had all these new phones. He would’ve filed bankruptcy if he hadn’t made a deal with the devil.”