Chapter Seventeen Rory

I’m on my way out of the train when I stop and decide on a quick detour. Caro’s room—214, according to the itinerary.

I walk rapidly over there, then rap on the door. No answer. I rap again. Nothing.

As I hoped. I’d wager anything Caro’s gone off to town to shop.

Am I really going to do this? I shuffle in front of her room, as a woman with majestic hip-length gray hair and a floor-length beige silk duster coat passes by, staring at me quizzically. I smile, then study my watch, hoping she doesn’t find me suspect. I mean, I haven’t done anything wrong. Not yet.

After she’s gone, I hasten down the hall, through the connection corridor back toward my carriage, and find Marco right where I left him, in his usual vigilant perch outside my room.

“Marco!”

His face lights up at the prospect of doing something to serve me. “Sì, signorina? I thought you were going out for a passeggiare. Did you forget something? Need a glass of water?”

If any more water is foisted upon me, I’m liable to float away. “No, I didn’t forget anything. I realized… well, my friend, Caroline. Do you know her? She’s with our group.”

“Yes, of course. Signorina Caroline is”—Marco consults his iPad—“room 214.”

“Yes. Caroline’s not in her room at the moment, and she has something of mine.”

“Something?” Marco’s kind, dark eyes flicker uncertainly.

“My mascara.” That banal claim shoots out of me.

“Mascara? Mascara… for your eyelashes?”

“Well… yes. I lent it to Caroline, and so it’s in her room, and I forgot to get it back.…”

I hope he is like 99.9 percent of men and doesn’t notice that I’m already wearing it.

“And you need this… mascara?”

“Yes! I want to go into town, but first, I really want to put mascara on. Can you let me into Caroline’s cabin real quick?”

Marco opens his mouth, then closes it again. Mascara, so freaking dumb, I berate myself inside. Couldn’t I have thought of anything—literally anything—more urgent? He’s probably going to say he has to check with his higher-ups, or that actually, he knows where Caro is, and he’ll guide me there right away. But then to my relief, he says, “I really shouldn’t, but you are an important guest. I trust you that you need this… mascara. And that Signorina Caroline would not mind.”

“I do,” I assure him. “And she wouldn’t.” I flush at the abject lie.

Marco nods. He fiddles in his pocket with uncharacteristic clumsiness—clearly he’d far rather be fetching me a platter of exotic fruits. But he leads me down the hall, as it occurs to me that Caro could at any moment stroll by. She’ll see instantly through my lie. Obviously, I own mascara. I mean, I’m wearing it.

But thankfully, no Caro lurking around corners. We reach 214, Marco brandishes a key, and within a few moments, the door clicks open. I slip inside the cabin, expressing profuse thanks. I shut the door, then on instinct, I peer through the keyhole to spot Marco still out there, standing guard.

I pry open the door and peek my head out. “You don’t need to wait. I’ll be done shortly. I know my way out.”

“Oh. Ehrm…” He looks disconcerted, but what with the customer is always right being advocated on steroids on this train, he eventually starts down the hall, gazing doubtfully back.

When Marco disappears from sight, I duck back inside, shut the door, and replenish my breath. Then I take stock of Caro’s room. Tidy and far smaller than mine—a navy banquette by the window, which converts to a twin bed in the evening. Despite the postage-stamp size, there are no sunglasses littering the countertop, not a remote out of place. No surprise; Caro has a militant attention to details and order that always pleased Papa, caused him to jokingly label her the most Soviet of his children. Her cream hard-shell luggage is on a folding stand, zipped shut. I jigger the zipper open with a guilty gnaw, then flip open the top to find a lavender lace bra and panty set, carefully folded. I smile. No one loves luxurious, matching lingerie like Caro.

Okay, go time. I rifle through her suitcase, come across several gorgeous pieces: a crossbody Celine bag, spangly lavender heels, and a blue knit cutout dress. I peep the label—Staud. Aka four hundred bucks for a few yards of fabric. I suppose Caro can afford all this stuff on her Hippoheal salary; after all, she’s never been much of a saver. But I can’t help thinking that all her new designer everything could also be courtesy of her embezzling from the company, like Ginevra alleged.

In quick order I finish sifting through Caro’s suitcase. Verdict: no books. I peer under the banquette. Nothing, not even a stray piece of lint. Then I glance around again, wondering where I’ve forsaken the search. There’s no bathroom to search in, at least not one attached. She shares one down the hall, allocated to passengers without suites. Aha. I spot a handle on the wall by the window, half-eclipsed by gauzy drapes. I cross the room eagerly and open what turns out to be a tiny cupboard that could be called a closet, in the most generous sense of the word. Three shallow shelves hold nothing but a robe, several towels, and a few neatly folded scarves and belts perfectly curled. There’s not even a hanging rail.

I shut the closet, cross the room in two steps, and slump down on the banquette. I really thought it was Caro who stole the books. The embezzlement allegations—that must be what struck me as odd in the book. It’s the only thing that makes sense. Caro must have read something that would implicate herself. She must have been freaked out Max would decode it. Besides, Caro’s been acting weird this whole trip. Like offering me her Cartier ring—she’s generous, but was that overboard, a gesture out of guilt? Except, if Caro took the books, where are they? She must have tossed them. Unless I’m wrong about this… unless I’m sniffing the wrong scent… There’s something else disturbing me about what I read, something I can’t quite remember.…

I’m flying through other possibilities and discarding them when suddenly I hear a click and watch in horror as the doorknob turns.

Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit.

“Ror!” In as much time as it takes me to draw my next breath, Caro’s through the doorway.

“What in the—Rory!” She glances behind her, as if she’s being punked, then returns her gaze to me, confused, cheeks abnormally pink. “What—what are you—”

“I wanted a dress! To borrow a dress.” I paste a smile on my face, hoping it flies as genuine. “I’m going into town, and, yeah, I thought I could borrow a dress.”

“You’re wearing a dress,” she says flatly.

I look down, realize that yes, I did change out of my hiking outfit into a dress. When I glance back at Caro, expecting her to call me out on my blatant lie, instead her eyes are bobbing around the room, like she can suss out invisible traces of what I’ve been up to.

“I’ve gotten so sick of my dresses since I’ve been living out of a suitcase for months. Yours are amazing,” I babble. “Like that new blue knit one.” I realize too late that I’ve just copped to looking in her suitcase.

“You opened my suitcase?”

“I needed to—to find a dress!”

“Right.” She cocks her head at me thoughtfully, her face smileless, her hair unusually mussed.

“Yeah.” I smile again, but I’m not sure I’m selling it. “Where are you coming from?”

“Just now? Nowhere. Getting coffee. I don’t have a butler to fetch it for me.”

“Oh.” She had, like, three espressos at lunch while the rest of us were drinking. But it’s plausible, I guess. Like me, she’s a zealot for caffeination. Still, with another espresso, she should be levitating, and yet she’s decidedly not buzzy. Was she really getting coffee?

“Well, you’re welcome to borrow my butler anytime,” I finally say.

“I don’t think it works like that.” Her face softens a tad, and she sighs. She meets my eyes, almost ekes out a smile.

“Wanna come into town with me?” I ask. “I’m gonna go walk around.”

“What? Oh, no. No, thanks. I’ll stay here. I’m tired from all the walking we did today, you know?”

“Okay. Well, rest up. See you at dinner.”

This is weird. So weird. She doesn’t want to shop together? She must suspect I’ve been snooping. There’s so much subtext to our conversation. So much it feels like we’re both not saying.

“So you want a dress?” Caro finally says.

“Yes, please.”

In short order, I’m newly cloaked in Caro’s blue cutout dress that is no doubt sexy on her, but decidedly not on me. Caro’s far taller than me, so the dress pools at my ankles instead of skimming mid-calf like it should, and my boobs are molehills compared to Caro’s Everests; mine look saggy, not filling out the triangles up top. I catch a glimpse of my reflection in the half mirror above the sink; I look like a child wearing a grown-up’s outfit. But it was the best of the lot, and I couldn’t exactly refuse it.

Now I remember why I never borrow clothes from Caro, only accessories—because our proportions are completely different. Before we both acknowledge I looked way better in my dress, and there’s no way I legitimately came here for hers, I make toward the door.

“See you at dinner,” I say. “And thanks for the dress. I’ll leave mine here and grab it later, ’kay?”

She opens the door, cracks a small smile. “Sure. We’re meeting to get the boat at seven, yeah?”

“Yep.”

Then I step into the hall and turn, my eyes grazing upon Caro’s crossbody bag—and onto the unmistakable object wedged at the top. The door clicks shut, but not before I saw it. Not before my eyes registered that cover with just the title, and the declaration that it’s a bound manuscript.

Caro took the books. No question. The Cabin on the Lake.

“Caro!” I bang the door with my fist.

“One second,” comes her trill. But the door remains shut.

I bang again. “Open back up! We need to talk!”

The pom-pom man—still in his jaunty beret—saunters past. I move aside to let him by, his tense face and murmured epithets as ever communicating his distaste for me and my newfound propensity toward public spectacles.

Caro cracks open the door and peers out. “Did you forget something?”

“The Cabin on the Lake! I just saw it in your bag. I know you took the copies, C. Why did you take them?”

“Take what?” She looks genuinely confused.

“The books. The ones that went missing at the beach. The only four copies in—I don’t know—on this train, at least.”

Her face is a study in apathy. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I didn’t take the books.”

“I just saw one,” I say evenly. “In your bag.”

“In my bag? This one?” She slides the Gucci bag through the door, turning it sideways to fit in the small window she’s allowed. “Where? Show me what you saw.”

I riffle through quickly, but it’s clearly not there, already gone. I try to edge the door open with my hip, slip back inside, but her grip is firm and unwavering.

“You’ve obviously hid it.”

“Ror, I’m tired.” Her voice is kind but firm. “I don’t know what you think you saw, but you didn’t. You want the book back—I get that. I’m sure the author, or Gabriele, will get you another copy in two days, when we’re off the train. But you’re inventing things that aren’t real. I don’t have the books.”

“Yes, you do.” I’m trembling, astounded at her casual lie. “I know you do.”

“I don’t.” And then, to my shock, Caro pries my fingers from the door and shuts it in my face.