fund, but he worked hard and had grown his business into a real success, even though one day soon he and Victoria would inherit the entire family fortune. And he never acted like a rich jerk.
He worked out, and he spent time with his friends. He loved women, loved going to the parties Victoria got him into. He’d been deeply religious before the massacre, but he had lost his faith in the aftermath, so now, since he’d never found the woman, he played the field and they remained a platonic foursome.
Jared, of course, had no desire to be platonic where Victoria was concerned, but since he wouldn’t speak up …
Like Brad, he, too, was extremely good-looking and hardworking. There was no inheritance ahead for him, but he was brilliant with the money markets, and he womanized alongside Brad, while he pined for Victoria.
She wondered if any of them would—or could—get it right in the future.
Brad caught her staring and lifted a brow. “Why the serious look?”
“Just thinking, you two are getting kind of old for a life of nonstop partying and debauchery,” Chloe teased.
“Excuse me,” Brad said, “but what’s so wrong with appreciating beautiful women?” He smiled. “Luckily for us, there will be at least twelve of them on the calendar shoot.”
“Speaking of, you are doing the shoot with me, right?” Victoria asked Chloe. “Myra told me that she’s reserved June for you, so if you’re not interested, you need to tell her right away.” Victoria smiled. “Myra really loves your look. When you think of all the women who try to get hired by the agency, it’s really cool that she’s offered you a spot.”
Chloe laughed. “Was that a compliment, or are you wondering why she’d choose me?”
Victoria laughed. “It was a compliment. Cross my heart and hope to die. It’s just that you don’t care, and so many people do. I heard her talking to Harry Lee last night, and she was wishing you’d take a greater interest in a modeling career, and he agreed.”
“But you are going to be Miss June, right?” Brad asked.
“Yes,” Chloe said. “Yes, I’ll do it.” She’d been hoping she would be asked. She needed to be a part of things so she could get onto the island and see what was going on. And Stuckey didn’t need to be afraid for her; she would be in the company of dozens of other people the whole time.
Of course, Colleen Rodriguez had been in the company of those same people, a little voice nagged. Then again, no one had been suspicious then; there had been no need to be. This time everyone would have their guard up.
“And if anyone comes after you, you can just hit them with that jujitsu stuff you do,” Brad said, then grew suddenly pensive. “Not that even that would have helped … then.”
For a moment she had no idea what to say. Finally she managed to mumble, “Mixed martial arts. I do mixed martial arts.”
He reached across the table, touching her hand. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to bring up the past, not really,” he said huskily.
Chloe shrugged and squeezed his hand in return. “You just took me by surprise, that’s all. It doesn’t bother me to talk about it. In fact, I do talk about it now and then. I still don’t believe the finale, though.”
“Why not?” Victoria asked, frowning. “They found the guys. They were dead.”
“Two guys, dead, and a suicide note taking full blame in the name of the Church of the Real People? I’m sorry—the rest of the world may have bought it. I still don’t,” Chloe said.
Jared cleared his throat. “Chloe, the experts said it was a ritualistic murder and that it all made sense. And I did a lot of research into cults myself, after that, and I have to agree.”
“The church officials were horrified, and of course their membership really dropped,” Brad said.
Chloe looked back at Brad. They’d all grown up going to the same beautiful church in the Grove. She had found comfort in returning to that church, but Brad and Jared had gone in the opposite direction. It made her feel sad that Brad, in particular, had lost something that had once meant so much to him.
“Earth to Chloe, you’re staring at me,” Brad told her.
“Sorry,” she said. “But I still don’t buy it.”
“Chloe, you’re the one whose sketch ID’d the one guy,” Brad said.
“The dead man was one of the killers, yes. I just don’t think it stopped with the two of them.”
“Chloe,” Jared said, “if there had been someone else—a Charles Manson or whatever—the killing wouldn’t have ended when it did.”
“I know what you’re saying makes sense, but I’ve just never believed it, that’s all.” She picked up her menu to end the conversation. “I’m thinking waffles, but the eggs Benedict are really good, too.”
She could feel her friends looking at each other and knew they were worried about her.
She looked from one to the other of them. “Honestly, I’m fine. It’s just the way I feel.”
“It’s okay. We still love you. So, how about I get the waffles, you get the eggs Benedict, and we share?” Jared suggested.
Luke was surprised by how quickly and easily he had learned so much about Chloe Marin. She had started college late, after going on an extended tour abroad after high school, earning a double major in psychology and art at NYU. She had worked with patients doing art therapy at the Dade County Hospital for three years after graduation, and had been working freelance, with an office on Brickell, for the last two.
She had survived what they called the Teen Massacre during her senior year of high school. Eight of her friends had been slaughtered. Chloe had survived by being one step ahead of a pair of killers, Michael Donlevy and Abram Garcia, members of the Church of the Real People, a cult with socialist leanings and strict versions of the code of God—their God. To their way of thinking, the teenagers had been sinners, and the killers had saved them from eternal damnation, or so claimed the suicide note found carefully sealed in a Baggie next to the bodies in a wildlife park just off the Tamiami Trail in the Everglades.
Information regarding the massacre had been easy to dig up—the newspapers had carried the story until there was nothing new to carry.
The details were horrifying.
Death to defilers! written in blood, on the living-room wall. Eight dead, six wounded, two who had been passed out on the beach, unaware of the tragic events unfolding inside, and four who had miraculously escaped.
Victoria Preston, Brad Angsley, Jared Walker—and Chloe Marin. Victoria claimed that Chloe had saved her life, but Chloe hadn’t wanted to talk about any of it. She had given one interview, and that was that. He’d found a picture of her standing at a news podium, with a tall man at her side. There was a definite family resemblance. He had to be her uncle, the A.D.A., Leo Marin. Chloe had long hair then, falling nearly to her waist. Bangs, and huge eyes. Innocent eyes showing the pain of what she’d been through. She’d been so young, seventeen, and she’d been forced to grow old overnight.
The survivors had spent hours in the police station, giving their individual statements. They hadn’t been able to shed much light. The killers had worn black dive suits with hoods, working swiftly and efficiently in the dark.
Only Chloe had been able to give a description that had been any help at all. She had even drawn a picture of the man whose face she’d briefly seen. A picture that had matched one of the bodies that had been discovered later.
Death to defilers! And something else. An odd drawing … like a hand.
Everything done in blood. Obviously the work of a cult.
There were also pictures of the two “brothers” who had been