Consumed by Fire (9 page)

There was no missing the disapproving looks as she walked through the lobby of the Danieli in her jeans, T-shirt, and Asics, and it took her longer than she expected to find a dress she could afford. She finally discovered one in a tiny shop with a cheerful mongrel curled up outside to greet her. The dress was a rose color, clung to every inch of her, and made her green eyes sparkle and her cheeks flush. She’d surprise James when she got back to the hotel. She’d make him wait in the salon while she changed, and then they’d end up back in the bed again, and maybe she wouldn’t wear the dress out into the hotel for days . . .

She ate a late lunch in the bright sunshine, watching the tourists. She wasn’t far from the hotel, and she kept her eye out for James, but there was no sign of him. He’d probably already gone back to the suite, and she was suddenly in a rush to finish, happiness bubbling inside her as she practically ran back to the hotel.

The suite was still empty. She searched the place, but there was no note from him, only her own left untouched. She shook off her unease and went to change into the dress. She should have bought stiletto heels but even for James she couldn’t go that far, and her thin, strappy sandals would do. She even put on makeup, then looked for her diamond studs.

She couldn’t find them. At first she thought she’d misplaced them—after all, she hadn’t had a brain in her head these last three days, and she’d had much more important things to think about. But the more she searched, the colder she grew. She dumped her meager belongings on the neatly made bed but there was no sign of them.

Maybe James had found them lying around and put them away for safekeeping. She went for his suitcase, opening it, momentarily surprised to find it empty. No diamond earrings, no change of clothes, and yet he hadn’t unpacked.

She didn’t hurry. There was no need to rush, no need to find out the truth more quickly than she had to. His shaving supplies, his toothbrush were missing. She hadn’t even noticed that when she woke up. Everything was gone except for the empty suitcase.

She went back to it, looking for some clue. There was a thin bulge in one of the outer pockets, and she pulled out his passport and wallet, and relief poured through her. The wallet had his American driver’s license, credit cards, even a Costco card, and she wanted to laugh. She’d panicked for nothing. He’d tease her when he got back, tell her she’d promised to trust him, and then he’d kiss her . . .

She put the wallet down and picked up the passport. The picture was a good one—weren’t passport photos supposed to be terrible? His was gorgeous. Except, why was his passport here? They’d had to leave theirs with the front desk when they registered. Of course she’d been so besotted with her new wedding ring on her finger that she hadn’t been paying much attention, but surely she remembered being asked for hers.

There was something else in the pocket, wrapped in cloth and tied with a black ribbon. She ripped it open and felt her blood freeze.

More passports. Half a dozen of them, from the US, the UK, France—she didn’t know all the myriad colors, but they each represented another country. She knew what she would find when she opened them, and she went through then, staring dully. Photos of James Bishop in every one, each with a different name, a different identity. He wasn’t James Bishop at all. He was a liar and a thief.

She looked around at the elegant bedroom. Her father had had her earrings valued for insurance, and they’d been estimated to be worth thirty thousand dollars; two nights in this palatial suite would wipe out any profits. Why would he spend more money than the earrings were worth just to steal them?

She reached for the phone, then drew her hand back. She couldn’t do this. Not this way. She went into the bedroom and ripped off the fucking dress, dumping it on the floor, and pulled on her jeans and T-shirt once more. Shoving everything in her backpack, she paused by the wide row of windows overlooking the Grand Canal. Then she yanked off her wedding ring and threw it into the dark, murky waters before heading down to the lobby.

It was early evening and the vast atrium of the ancient hotel was almost empty. She straightened her shoulders and headed for the desk.

“May I help you, miss?” the starched concierge asked, barely lifting his gaze from his paperwork. He’d taken one look at her clothing and known she wasn’t worth his time.

“I wanted to ask if you’d had any messages for me from Mr. Bishop.”

One elegant eyebrow rose, and with a weary sigh he went over to a computer station and began typing into it. “Your name, miss?”

“Morrissey. Evangeline Morrissey. We’ve been staying in the suite on the second floor.”

That caught his attention, and he let his superior gaze run up and down her rumpled appearance. He was clearly not impressed, and suddenly Evangeline longed for Silvio’s cheerful presence. “The Emperor Suite. Yes, I see. You’re paid up till tomorrow. But there are no messages. And no Mr. Bishop is currently enjoying our hospitality.”

“Then who have I been sharing a room with?” she snapped, her annoyance finally trumping her desperate anxiety.

“The suite was registered to a Monsieur Pierre Boussan, but he retrieved his passport this morning and checked out. He left no messages and no forwarding address.”

She just stared at him, his words not making sense.

But they did. She’d been a complete and utter fool, prey to the oldest con in the world, and she didn’t grieve the loss of her great aunt’s famous diamonds nearly as much as she grieved the loss of her heart, her soul.

“Miss Morrissey, may I do something for you?” The man suddenly sounded concerned. She must have looked like she was about to faint on his polished marble floor, she thought grimly.

“Just give me my passport. I have to leave.”

“But you’re paid up through tomorrow.”

And who knew if the credit card was real? It almost certainly wasn’t, and she’d end up in jail until she could get through to her father to cover the bill. That was one conversation she wasn’t going to have. She summoned a calm smile. “And it’s been lovely, but I really must leave. There’s been a family emergency.”

“I am sorry to hear that, Miss Morrissey,” he murmured, all polite manners since he’d discovered which room she’d used. He was rifling through something, and belatedly Evangeline remembered how things worked in the US. He probably hadn’t even run the credit card yet, waiting for any last minute room charges, and he would call the police . . .

“Here it is,” he announced, her battered blue passport in his hand. “We hope you will return to the Danieli, Miss Morrissey, you and Monsieur Boussan.”

Monsieur, he’d said. So presumably the passport he’d handed him was a French one, and he was no more French than she was. Out of the deepest, darkest part of her she managed to produce a tired smile.

“I doubt it,” she said. “This was a once-in-a-lifetime occurrence.”

“We will always be at your service. May we call you a water taxi? Our own launch to take you to the airport?”

She shook her head. The sooner she got away from them the better. “I have things to do in the city. I’ll take the
vaporetto
.”

“As you wish, miss.”

She’d thought that she could find an empty spot in the
vaporetto
, duck her head, and cry. She didn’t. She stayed dry-eyed and calm, through the interminable wait at the airport for the next empty seat. Through the short flight to Berlin and then the overseas flight to Boston. She didn’t sleep, didn’t eat, she just sat utterly still, utterly calm. If the authorities had the ability to recognize a human time bomb, they would have isolated her.

She reached her tiny house running on coffee and fumes. It smelled musty from being closed up for so long, and she moved across the living room like a zombie, opening the window to let in the muggy air. She turned and saw the beautiful copy of the David her parents had given her for her birthday. She picked it up and hurled it across the room, smashing it into pieces.

She went through the place methodically—the living room, tiny bedroom, bathroom, and kitchen. She broke everything she could find, she threw things, ripped things, smashed things, yanked her bookcases over, ripped her clothes out of her closet, upended her bed so that the mattress lay haphazardly on the box spring. And when there was nothing left to break, nothing left to destroy, she dropped down on the lopsided mattress and wept.

PART TWO—FIVE YEARS LATER

Chapter Five

Evangeline Morrissey Williamson pulled her battered pickup off to the side of the road, carefully maneuvering the ancient Airstream trailer into a stable position before switching off the motor. Merlin, her German Shepherd, cocked an ear but otherwise stayed up on the bench seat, used to her ways. She leaned her head back and took a few deep breaths, dragging the calm around her. She didn’t want to go back. She’d spent the last three months in the Canadian wilderness, documenting the ruins of the luxurious lodges and railway hotels that had been built well over a hundred years ago, making sketches of what they once must have looked like, serving as an amateur archeologist when she came across shards of dishes, tools, abandoned detritus of a long-vanished lifestyle. It wasn’t as if she didn’t know where she was going next. The Laughing Moose Lodge near Glacier Park in Montana had stopped operating in the 1930s, and very little of it remained, much lost in the encroaching wilderness, and she’d allotted a full two weeks to study it during her sabbatical, with more time available if she needed it.

Changing areas of study had been easier than she’d thought. She’d lost her interest in ancient church architecture. When she’d told her department head and nominal boss, he’d looked at her, appalled. “You have all your research done!” he’d cried. “And you did it on your own dime, not even with a grant. You just have to write something, and we both know that writing comes easy for you. Don’t throw all this work away.”

But she’d been obdurate. She’d wanted to burn her research, but her friend, Pete Williamson, had simply taken the boxes and boxes of papers away from her. He was only five years older than she was, one of the university’s shining stars, and he’d made it his mission to guide her through her new area of study.

The guidance hadn’t been necessary, but she’d appreciated the thought. She’d thrown herself into her new work on ancient Adirondack lodges with complete abandon and eventually gave in and married Pete.

It was supposed to be the perfect marriage. Pete already had a book deal, he was handsome and charming, and half his students, male and female, were in love with him.

She’d always known he was too susceptive to flattery, to adoration, and she had no illusions about his fidelity. He needed that adoration to breathe, like air; she knew he took graduate students to bed during the time he was seeing her, while making her all sorts of promises, but having no illusions meant there were none to be shattered. As mistakes went in her life it was far from her worst one—that last summer in Italy won the prize. The following year, before she married Pete, was in its own way even worse. And after nine months of marriage, she and Pete had parted amicably enough. At the time.

The year before they’d married had been bad. She’d fucked anything in pants, trying to get James Bishop out of her system. It hadn’t worked, but at least marrying Pete had put a stop to that. Once settled into the safety of a seemingly stable relationship, she found she could let go of her past.

She found she could let go of Pete, her safety net, quickly enough as well, and her work, so different from her previous area of study, was enough to finish the rest of her healing. She got grants, a quietly respectable book deal, then a job teaching at a small school in northern Wisconsin, and by the time three years had passed, she’d made a peaceful, if slightly wary, life for herself.

She’d never planned on getting a dog. They were too much trouble and her parents had never let her have one when she was growing up, even though she’d begged. But Merlin had found
her
, and he wasn’t interested in her doubts. He’d just shown up on campus one day, was fed by everyone from the kitchen staff to the maintenance people to half the students, and wandered around with perfect manners, seemingly at random, until he happened to come across Evangeline walking to class.

He’d followed her. At first the large dog made her slightly nervous, but he simply kept at her heel, almost like a guard dog, and when she went into class he waited outside, lying down peacefully until the students left and she emerged. And he followed her to the library. To her car.

It took her three days before she began bringing dog treats, telling herself she would toss them to him to drive him away. He’d simply catch the treat midair and continue to follow her. She held out eight days before she let him in the car.

“This is a short-term thing,” she’d advised him as he sat beside her, panting cheerfully. “Just till I find you a good home.”

But there’d been no good home, and in truth, she hadn’t made much effort to find one. She called him Merlin, because he was so damned smart, and he seemed to take it as his role in life to be her protector. He must have had some training at some point in his puppyhood, but if he missed his earlier home he made no sign of it. He took care of her. He wouldn’t let her leave the house without him, or with her laptop and lunch still on the kitchen counter. He’d wormed his way into her life and her heart and she couldn’t imagine life without him.