“Then you should have told me this morning, when we were alone.”
“This morning, you hadn’t gone to Birgu.”
“How do you know I was in Birgu?”
Andre’s nostrils flared. “Everyone knows you went to Birgu.”
“Who is everyone?”
“You have no idea who you are dealing with.”
“Then enlighten me.”
“You’ve endangered everyone.”
“Again, Cousin Andre. Who. Is. Everyone?”
His words were a low whisper. “They’ll kill me. You should have told me about the letters.”
“What makes you think I owe you anything?” Why did everyone seem to think this trip of hers was their business?
“We’re family.”
“Are we really?”
All at once, Andre lunged at her. Before she knew what was happening, he grasped at her neck. She expected to feel the grip of his hand around her throat, but instead, she felt the scrape of fingers and the bite of a breaking chain on the skin at her nape, and then Andre was running toward the exit with her mother’s pendant in his grasp.
Rand was after Andre like a bullet as Kira watched in stunned dismay.
The man never stood a chance against the SEAL, who tackled him and pinned him to the ground. “Who are you?” Rand asked.
Her cousin stared up at Rand in shock and fear. “An-an-andre Stoltz. Kira’s cousin.”
“Bullshit. No one has seen the real Andre Stoltz since January.” Rand’s voice turned soft and menacing. Kira had to strain to hear him. “Eenie meenie, miny, moe, catch a liar by the throat.” His hands tightened on Andre’s neck. “You. Are. Not. Stoltz.”
The scene was surreal, watching the fake author but very real SEAL torment the one person who had been her lifeline in the months after her father’s death.
And yet, the man’s behavior since he’d arrived in Malta backed Rand’s words. She touched her neck. He’d taken her mother’s locket.
A crowd was forming around them—albeit at a distance—and a different kind of fear sank into Kira’s churning belly. She tapped Rand on the shoulder. “We need to go. Now.”
Rand hesitated a moment, then released Andre’s neck. He remained on the ground, straddling the gasping man.
“Who are you?” Rand asked again.
“Andre Stoltz.” He twisted his head to cast a frantic glance at Kira. “She’ll tell you. She knows.”
Anger surged. The liar thought she was so fooled she hadn’t noticed the inconsistencies in his stories. “I know what, Andre? Tell me one thing about my father that only you and I could know.”
“He loved your mother beyond all else.”
“That’s true, but hardly a secret. Try again.”
“Your mother…she could have been a master. Her paintings were magnificent.”
That gave Kira pause. Only she and her father knew of her mother’s skills with a paintbrush. But her mother had had a whole life she knew nothing about. Maybe she’d been a known artist before she escaped to the US.
She reached down and grabbed the locket from Andre’s grasp. “Why did you take this?”
“Proof. To buy time.” He grabbed Kira’s hand. “You don’t know who you’re dealing with.”
She jerked her hand away. “Then tell me.”
He shook his head. “Your father had more enemies than friends, and the friends he had were both. Especially after what he did.” He pressed his lips together as if he were a petulant teenager.
Rand rose to his feet and stepped back just as security arrived. Kira held up the pendant to the guard. “He stole my necklace, but we got it back.”
“Do you want to make a report?” The man addressed all three of them.
Kira shook her head. “It was a family dispute. We’re sorry to have caused a disturbance.”
Andre was certain to have bruises on his neck and elsewhere, but she didn’t see him putting up a fuss. Rand draped an arm around her, thanked the guard, and steered her toward the exit.
Once they were away from Andre and the security guard, she ducked out from under Rand’s arm and took the path toward the Les Gavroches replica. As an art historian, she’d looked forward to seeing this piece by Maltese artist Antonio Sciortino, considered Malta’s foremost sculptor. But now, as she faced the work, she found herself unable to take in the emotion of it, which was a depiction of three Parisian street children inspired by Victor Hugo’s Les Misérables.
She didn’t see art. She didn’t even see the garden and strolling tourists. Instead, her brain was focused on Rand’s words as he squeezed Andre’s neck.
No one has seen the real Andre Stoltz since January.
