The Fury(11)

Agathi in particular resented the way Jason spoke to her. He used such a condescending tone with her, as if addressing a servant, when it was clear she was so much more than that. She would glare at him: I was here before you, her eyes screamed, and I’ll be here after you.

But Agathi never spoke out of turn. She never criticized Jason to Lana—who remained blind to all of his faults. Lana had a stubborn habit of always seeing the best in everyone—even the worst of people.

“Okay,” Kate said. “I’m going to unpack. See you lot at dinner.”

She downed the rest of her champagne. Then she slung her bag over her shoulder. She left the kitchen.



* * *



Weighed down by her bags, Kate descended the narrow flight of stone steps to the lower level.

The summerhouse was at the end of the swimming pool. The pool was made of green marble, surrounded by cypress trees. Otto had it designed to blend in with the original architecture of the main house.

Kate liked staying down here—away from the main house, it offered her privacy, somewhere removed, where she could retreat.

She let herself into the summerhouse and dropped her bags on the floor. She considered unpacking but it was too much effort. She caught her breath.

Kate felt like crying, suddenly. She’d been feeling emotional all day; and just now, the sight of Lana and Leo together—so happy in each other’s company, such easy, intimate affection—made her feel a pang of sorrow, mingled with envy—and strangely tearful.

Why was that? Why, when Leo took his mother’s hand, or touched her shoulder, or sweetly kissed her cheek, did Kate want to cry? Because she felt so desperately lonely, herself?

No, that was bullshit. It was more than that, and she knew it.

It was being here, on the island—that’s what bothered her. Being here, knowing what she had come to do. Was it a mistake? A wrong idea? Possibly … Probably.

Too late now, she thought. Come on, Katie, get it together.

Something was needed to steady her nerves. What did she bring with her? Klonopin? Xanax? Suddenly, she remembered the little present she’d left herself, last time she was on the island. Could it still be here?

Kate hurried over to the bookcase, running her fingers along the spines. She found the battered yellow book she was looking for:

The Doors of Perception, by Aldous Huxley.

She took it from the shelf. It fell open at the right page—revealing a little flattened bag of cocaine. Her eyes lit up. Bingo.

Smiling to herself, Kate emptied the cocaine onto the bedside table. Then she pulled out her credit card and started chopping it up.





8





In the kitchen, Agathi was using a small, sharp knife to deftly gut a sea bream. She pulled out the murky gray entrails in the sink. Dark red blood mingled with running water as she washed out the cavity.

She could practically feel her grandmother’s hands working through hers; her spirit guiding her fingers as she performed this familiar motion. Her yiayia had been in her thoughts all afternoon—in her mind, the old woman was inseparable from this part of the world. Both of them had a slight wildness, a touch of magic. Her grandmother had been rumored to be a witch. And Agathi could feel her presence here. She could sense her in the sunlight, and in the sound of the sea—and in the gutting of a fish.

She turned off the tap, dried the sea bream with kitchen paper, and placed the fish on a plate.

Agathi was forty-five years old. She had a strong face, black eyes, sharp cheekbones—very Hellenic looking, to my mind. A handsome woman, who rarely bothered with makeup. Her hair was always pulled back and pinned up. A severe look, perhaps—but Agathi had precious little vanity, and even less free time, which she didn’t waste on her appearance. She left that to others.

She considered the fish. They were on the large side. Three should be enough, she thought. But she’d check with Lana, just in case.

Lana seems happier, she thought. Good.

Lana had been in an odd mood recently. Distant, unreachable. Something was obviously bothering her. Agathi knew better than to ask. She was the soul of discretion and never gave her opinion unless asked—even then, only under duress.

Agathi was the only member of the household observant enough to notice this recent change in Lana. The others—the two men in the house—they spent little time contemplating Lana’s mood. Leo’s selfishness Agathi excused on account of his youth. Jason, she found harder to forgive.

Agathi felt determined that Lana should have a restful and enjoyable few days on the island. No reason to think she wouldn’t.

So far, they were lucky with the weather. No sign of any disturbing wind. The sea couldn’t have been flatter on their crossing. There was barely a ripple on the surface.

Their arrival had been bumpier—in a logistical sense. Agathi was a formidable housekeeper and made everything run like clockwork. But today, things were running late. They had arrived to find Babis in the kitchen, the groceries yet to be unpacked; the cleaners still at work in the house, mopping floors and making beds. Babis was visibly embarrassed, and apologetic. Lana was gracious, of course, insisting it was her fault for giving them such short notice. She thanked all the cleaners individually, and the old ladies beamed at her, adoring, starstruck. Lana and Leo went for a swim and Jason retired moodily to his study, armed with his laptop and phone.