THE TAXI driver—a tired-looking man of around forty with bags under his eyes and lines around his mouth—had seemed put out when Scott banged on his window and demanded to be taken almost two hours down the coast, even when he was shown a thick wad of cash. Perhaps he was at the end of his shift, thought Scott. Perhaps he needed to get home to his wife and kids. He pictured the cabbie pushing open his front door after a long day of driving, kicking off his shoes, and sinking into a sofa, wrapping his arms around his sweet, dumpy wife. He might crack open a beer and watch an episode of his favorite detective show before climbing the creaking stairs on his way to bed, peeping in through cracked doorways to check on his sleeping children.

Scott’s eyes burned a hole in the back of the man’s balding head.

The memory came to him as it always did, stealthy and unexpected, like a snake. It slithered over his skin, coiled itself around his heart, and squeezed.

He is driving through the gates of Querencia, his heart swelling with a hope he thought was dead. The houses emerge from the trees, rippling like mirages. They are blinding white, and the air around them smells of summer. He enters the family house and calls out. He is desperate to see his wife. His trip to London has been hampered by worry, but Nina’s texts have been positive. Happy, even. Her road trip went well; the basilica was beautiful. He feels triumphant, like he has conquered a mountain.

“Nina?” He climbs the stairs, grinning like an idiot at the floorboards, the beams, the shutters. Querencia is everything he’d dreamed it would be, and more. Here, they will rebuild their lives.

“In here.” There is an echo, as if Nina is speaking from within a great cavern.

He reaches the landing. A door at the far end swings open, and there she is in a bright, sun-filled room, looking like an angel.

But she is not alone.

A child sits next to her. A small, copper-haired toddler with angry red cheeks and frightened eyes. A child he has never seen before, surrounded by dolls and toys and books.

He stands frozen in the doorway. Nina and the child both turn to look at him. “It’s Daddy!” Nina cries, her joy so infectious that the child beams, too: two shiny white grins. Two matching eager faces.

“Aurelia,” she says, “go give your daddy a hug.”

Scott tore his eyes away from the cabbie and stared out the window. It was getting dark. He checked his watch. Nearly 8:30 P.M. He sighed and drummed his fingers on the seat, wishing he was wearing sneakers instead of his stiff leather Oxfords. He would be walking a long time.

* * *

An hour later, he was squinting through the car’s windshield, searching the empty stretch of road for the markers. He wasn’t used to spotting the turning; he’d only ever driven this journey by himself once, three years ago. Every other time since then, Yves had collected him from the airport and dropped him at the door.

An enormous oak tree flashed by, its V-shaped fork black with decay. Then another, the same as the first, but with two huge circular cankers set above a deep trunk crack: two eyes and a nose. In the early days, Scott had thought of this tree as a sentry, watching over his buried treasure. He used to greet it with a silent nod, as if it were a faithful servant. Now, though, it seemed more like the angel of death.

“Stop here,” Scott said.

The cabbie jumped, startled. He slowed down and peered into the gloom. “Mais il n’y a rien ici,” he said. There is nothing here.

“I said stop.”

The man indicated right and slowly pulled over to the side of the road. True enough, it appeared as though there was nothing there at all, just the flat black ribbon of road and a wall of trees on either side. But the cabbie was wrong. Everything was here.

Scott threw a bundle of cash onto the front passenger seat and opened his door, gagging immediately on the fug of damp air and the sickeningly familiar scent of pine cones and sea salt.

CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

EMILY

THE AIR outside was warm, almost greasy with humidity, but the sand on the driveway felt cold under Emily’s bare feet. Her handbag bumped against her hip as she walked, the long strap slung across her body like a sash. Her sandals dangled loosely from the fingers of one hand.

After she’d finished crying, she’d become angry again. She would not be imprisoned against her will. Nina may have taken her phone and passport, but that wouldn’t stop her. One way or another, she would find her way home.

Initially, she’d planned to creep around the very edges of the property like a jewel thief, quietly, stealthily, until she reached the gates. But it hadn’t rained for weeks, and the ground beneath the trees was littered with crunchy leaves and clumps of dry grass; Nina would hear her. Plus, it was possible that Nina hadn’t gone to bed like her darkened windows seemed to suggest. She might be sitting down there in that secret room, her fingers steepled like a Bond villain’s.

No, it was better to walk casually over the driveway and wait for something to happen. The ring of an alarm, perhaps, or the sting of a trip wire at her ankles. If nothing did, great. She would head off toward the gates—which, she realized, might have to be scaled if the system was “down” again. Hopefully it would be morning before Nina noticed that she was gone.

But if she was discovered and Nina tried to stop her … well, Emily didn’t actually know what she’d do then. Run, probably. Get through the gates and into the woods. Hide, then creep toward the road. After that, she could hitchhike to the nearest police station, or to the British embassy.

Hitchhike? You’ll be killed.

Well, then maybe she would walk, taking shelter in bushes when she got tired.

Take shelter in a bush? Who do you think you are, Bear fucking Grylls?

She slowed down as her confidence waned. Out in the open, without the protection of her soft white bedroom, her idea was looking less brave and more stupid. She should probably just go back inside and shut the door, climb under the bedsheets, and deal with all of this in the morning.

Nope. Can’t stay here. Got to get out.

As she neared the place where the playhouse once stood, something rustled in the dark. She stopped and scanned the lawn, her lungs shuddering with the effort of keeping quiet, her heart ready to burst. Stepping into the shadow of a nearby tree, she waited. Two minutes … three … five.

Nothing. Probably just a bird.

Emily looked back at the Land Cruiser, parked in its usual spot by the guesthouse, its metal bulk outlined against a down-lit tree trunk. It looked so solid, so snug. She could be out of here in seconds if she had the keys. She could be anywhere at all in a matter of hours. Nina wouldn’t have a hope of catching up to her, not even if she jumped out of bed and gave chase on a quad bike.

Quad bike.

Two fat-wheeled bikes sat in the shed just opposite the animal enclosures. Emily had ridden them a total of twice. She was far from adept, but the bikes had wheels and engines. One of them would easily get her as far as the nearest town, and she wouldn’t even have to start the engine straightaway. Providing she could get the gates open, she could walk it a certain distance first.

Emily had no doubt that Nina would have hidden the car keys along with her phone and passport, but the bike keys were kept in a small wooden box in the family house, along with those for the toolsheds and the mechanized pool cover. The box was mounted on the wall just inside the patio doors; she’d seen Nina using it. The gate key was probably in there, too.

Emily glanced up at the windows. It would only take a couple of seconds to sneak in—if the doors were unlocked.

Creeping around the side of the house, she felt a surge of adrenaline. She could do this. She would take a quad bike and ride out of there like a goddamn Son of Anarchy. Or maybe she wouldn’t have to; maybe she’d get lucky and the car keys would also be hanging in the wooden box. Either way, she’d be out of there soon.

Flattening her back against the wall like a special-ops agent, she peered around the corner. The back patio was quiet, reminding her, for some reason, of a movie she’d accidentally watched as a kid, the first one that ever gave her nightmares. Some reboot of a Japanese horror; she couldn’t think of the name, but it had scared the shit out of her.

Awesome. Japanese horror movies. Just the calming thoughts I need right now.

She moved slowly across the flagstones, taking care to tread lightly, just like they’d taught her at drama school. Heel first, then roll down to the toe. Never stamp on a stage, her movement teacher used to tell her. For heaven’s sake, Emily, do the stage directions say “Enter the Elephant”? Emily mentally gave her teacher the finger. Tonight, she was the very definition of stealth.

She reached the patio doors and, taking a breath, laid her fingers on the handle. She pushed down.

Locked.