Return to the Lion's Den

The sun was bleeding over the horizon by the time the iron gates of Domaine St. Clair came into view. They were still twisted from where she had rammed them with the Rover yesterday, a jagged metal wound in the estate's perfect façade. Elena didn't slow down. She drove through the gap, the undercarriage scraping against the debris, and killed the engine near the service entrance.

The silence of the vineyard was absolute. No birds. No wind. Just the ticking of the cooling engine and the sound of her own blood rushing in her ears.

She grabbed the duffel bag. The gun was heavy in her waistband, the cold steel biting into her hip bone. She checked the pocket of the canvas jacket for the piece of paper Sebastian had given her. It was still there. *19-96-01.*

She slipped out of the car. The morning air smelled of grapes and damp earth, a scent that used to mean home. Now it smelled like a crime scene.

She moved toward the back door, the one the catering staff used. It was usually unlocked for the early shift. She pressed her hand against the latch. It gave.

She stepped into the mudroom. Rows of Wellington boots stood at attention, silent sentinels of a life she no longer recognized. She moved past them, into the kitchen.

It was pristine. The stainless steel surfaces gleamed. A bowl of lemons sat on the island, perfectly arranged. It was as if the chaos of the last twenty-four hours—the fire, the kidnapping, the gunshots—had happened in a different universe.

Elena kept her hand on the gun. She moved through the house, her boots making no sound on the runner rugs. She needed to get to the library. The entrance to the wine cellar was behind the bookshelf on the north wall.

She reached the hallway. The door to the library was ajar.

She pushed it open.

The room was empty. The morning light filtered through the heavy velvet drapes, illuminating dust motes dancing in the air.

She went to the bookshelf. She found the false book—*The History of Viticulture in the Rhone Valley*—and pulled.

The mechanism clicked. The shelf swung outward, revealing the heavy oak door of the cellar.

It was locked.

Elena cursed softly. She tried the handle again, throwing her weight against it. Solid.

"I wouldn't do that," a voice said.

Elena spun around, the gun clearing her waistband in a blur of motion. She leveled it at the figure standing in the doorway of the library.

It was Julian.

He was wearing a silk dressing gown over pajamas, a crystal tumbler of amber liquid in his hand. He looked impeccably groomed, his hair combed, his face shaved. He didn't look like a man whose wife was a fugitive. He didn't look like a man whose secret brother was currently burning in a fire he might have helped set.

He looked bored.

"Put the gun down, Elena," he said, taking a sip of his drink. "You're going to scratch the wainscoting."

"Where are the children?" Elena demanded, her finger tightening on the trigger. "Where did she take them?"

Julian walked into the room. He didn't seem to notice the weapon pointed at his chest. He walked to the fireplace and leaned against the mantle, swirling the ice in his glass.

"The children are on a holiday," he said. "Lake Como, I believe. Or maybe it was Gstaad. Mother changes her mind so often."

"You let her take them."

"I didn't have much choice," Julian said. "She has full custody now. Arthur filed the emergency order yesterday. While you were busy burning down the guest cottage."

"I didn't burn it."

"The police report says you did," Julian said. "It says you suffered a psychotic break. That you were delusional. Violent."

He looked at her then, his green eyes sharp and clear. There was no trace of the guilt she had seen at the park. No trace of the man who had given her the car keys.

"They found the body, Elena," he said softly. "In the ashes. They're saying it's Sebastian."

Elena felt the room tilt. "Sebastian is alive."

"Not according to the coroner," Julian said. "According to the official record, Sebastian St. Clair died thirty years ago. And the man in the cottage... well, that was just a squatter. A vagrant you killed in a fit of rage."

He took another sip of scotch.

"It's a very tidy story. Arthur is quite proud of it."

"I know about Thomas," Elena said. "I know he's your father."

Julian’s hand froze. The ice clinked against the glass.

"I know about the affair," she pressed, stepping closer. "I know that you and Sebastian aren't St. Clairs. You're bastards. You're the help."

Julian set the glass down on the mantle. He did it carefully, precisely.

"You shouldn't use that word," he said.

"Why? Does it hurt?"

"No," he said. "Because it makes you sound like her."

He turned to face her. His expression wasn't angry. It was disappointed.

"I gave you a chance, Elena. I gave you the car. I told you to run. Why did you come back?"

"I came for the truth," she said. "I came for the safe."

She nodded toward the cellar door.

"Open it."

Julian sighed. He adjusted the lapel of his robe.

"I can't," he said. "Mother changed the codes this morning."

He looked at the grandfather clock in the corner.

"She's expecting you, you know. She knew you wouldn't leave without the ledger."

"I have the ledger," Elena lied.

"No," Julian said. "You have a drawing. A map made by a madman."

He stepped toward her.

"Where have you been?" he asked, his voice dropping to a whisper. "Mother is furious."