“Stop—wait,” I say to Boon.
He catches the gleam in my eyes and grins broadly. Our little game is afoot. Our private joke against the world of money and false narratives, because things are never what they seem.
Without speaking, we move in unison toward the blue Tesla. We go into improv mode, falling naturally into our poses as we lean against the Roadster. Boon drapes his arm around my shoulders. I look adoringly up into his face as I hold out my phone and click. You can do so much with body posture, facial expressions. You can exude confidence, appear as though you own this world. It’s our mockery of those who think they do, and who exploit others.
We adjust our poses, click again. I blow him a kiss—he throws back his head and laughs.
We shoot one more.
Boon gets into his old Honda and drives off to his movie set in Burnaby （which is posing for Boston）。 I climb into my Subaru with my mops and Dyson in the back and the Holly’s Help logo on the doors. As the engine warms and mist clears from my windshield, I select one of the photos. I open my @foxandcrow Instagram account （tricksters both, the fox and crow—and I have a fondness for corvids）。 I upload the image. I type the hashtags #meandmyhoney #earlymorninghikesbeforebreakfast #lovelife #westcoastliving #teslalove #planningnexttrip. I post the image.
I engage my gears and drive to my new job.
Little do I know as I enter the stream of traffic on the highway that, after this moment, everything will change.
I told you, Dear Diary—two events. Same day. Coalescing. Letting go of my mom’s ashes. And . . . the new clients in a house called Rose Cottage.
JON
October 17, 2019. Thursday.
Two weeks before the murder.
Jon Rittenberg is in the Hunter and Hound with Henry. It’s a men’s kind of pub. Heavy wood paneling, dark leather upholstery, low lighting, antique-green shades. It’s here that silver-haired TerraWest board member Henry J. Clay has invited Jon for drinks and an early dinner. Which by Henry’s definition means top-shelf whisky and Wagyu beef.
Henry hunkers like a toad in the booth opposite Jon, aggressively carving his steak with a wooden-handled knife. The old man’s meat is so rare it’s almost blue. Henry lifts a chunk to his mouth but pauses his fork midair. He nods at Jon’s untouched meat. “Not hungry, son?”
Jon regards the blood leaking into the potato mash on Henry’s plate. He’s lost his appetite. He’s still struggling to digest what Henry has just told him.
“Go on, it’s the best meat around.” Henry reaches for his glass of fourteen-year-old Balvenie and washes his meat down.
“So there are definitely two of us in the running? Are you sure?” Jon asks. Because it doesn’t make sense.
Henry laughs, takes another swig of Balvenie, and motions to the pretty young server in a low-cut top to bring another round. He dabs the corners of his mouth with his linen napkin and says, “Look, if Labden hadn’t gone and retired so suddenly, your promotion would be in the bag. You know that.”
“But?”
“But things have changed, Jonno. Labden no longer holds the cards. He’s handed the reins to fresher blood. I’m the only old fart still hanging in there.”
A cauldron of acid begins to bubble in Jon’s gut.
This was supposed to be mine. Labden guaranteed me the COO position for the new resort when it comes online. I’ve put my heart and sweat into this company for years. TerraWest has traded on my name, my Olympic fame, my gold medals, for God’s sake. I’m married to the founder’s daughter.
“And frankly, son, even Labden could see it was time to switch things up. Perception is everything, Jonno. TerraWest needs to be seen as making changes that keep us in pace with sentiment around the world.”
“Who is he? My competition?”
“Have you considered it might be a she, not a he?”
“Is it a she?”
Henry laughs again. “It’s a he.” His eyes narrow. “You met him. At the presentation last week. Fresh off the plane from Zermatt. The new guy in the office.”
“Ahmed Waheed? The guy from North Africa?” Jon is stunned. His mind reels back to meeting the new arrival last week. “What in the hell does Waheed know about running a ski resort?”
“A lot. He might have been born in Africa, but as a kid, he moved all over Europe with his family. His father was a diplomat. Waheed learned to ski in Italy. Speaks five languages, including Arabic. Graduated from Grenoble Ecole de Management, which, as you know, is renowned for teaching innovation in management. He’s worked his way up the ski industry chain—hands on—from Kitzbühel, Val d’Isère, to Chamonix. He’s also an ace snowboarder.”
“Snowboarder?” Fuck. “Is that why he was brought into the head office? He’s already been pegged for my job? Did this happen on Labden’s watch, because the timing . . . It did, didn’t it? My own father-in-law, who promised me this job, who lured me and Daisy back out here—he brought in someone else.”
Henry sits back and swirls his drink. Coppery light dances in the liquid.
“It’s goddamn deception, not perception,” Jon snaps as he grabs his glass. He throws back his entire shot of whisky, wincing as it burns down his throat. “It’s about political correctness. Give the brown boy the top job because he’s brown. We all know it. It has nothing to do with experience and suitability for the position.”
The waitress arrives with fresh drinks and a fresh smile. Fresh, dewy complexion. She reaches across the table for the empties, and Jon catches the soapy scent on her skin. He notices a tiny tattoo on the inside of her wrist. And briefly he feels incredibly old. Not old like Henry, but washed up and angry about the cards he’s been dealt. The instant the waitress leaves, Jon reaches for his new drink. As he tilts back his head to take a swig, he becomes aware of a woman at the far end of the bar. Watching him.
She’s a brunette. Pale skin. Long, thick, wavy hair. Her eyes meet his across the pub. Electricity crackles over his skin. She holds his gaze, and for a brief moment, they’re connected by an intangible current across the busy establishment. The live music fades into a blur, and so does Henry. She’s beautiful. She’s interested in him. It’s like old times. When he was an Olympic ski god. A golden stud. She breaks the connection and turns her head away. Jon is dropped back into reality. But his heart beats faster now. He feels a lingering zing. Then he realizes Henry is watching him.
Jon clears his throat, sips his drink, and meets Henry’s eyes. And all Jon wants in this moment is to bust out of the confines of his own skin, to release this pent-up fire he tries so hard to hold inside. He craves the exhilaration, the explosion out of the start gates at the top of a mountain, the roar of the wind past his face, the clanging of cowbells as he plunges down the course. He wants that old feeling of standing on the podium, his fists held high. Number one. Golden Boy. BergBomber. The crowd chanting, JonJon JonJon JonJon JonJon. Girls clamoring to get close to him in the clubs at night. He’s in a prison. Trapped. In an increasingly dull marriage. Living in a place called “Rose Cottage.” A baby on the way. The shattering responsibility of somehow becoming a father. How is he supposed to do that? His own dad never figured it out. His dad busted free of his marriage shackles and abandoned Jon with his mom. Sure, his dad sent money from Europe, where he was shacking up with one young model after another, but it cost his mother. Dearly. She sought solace in the bottle, which tumbled her into a complex set of affairs that killed her in the end. My dad killed my mom. The only time his father called was when Jon did something amazing, like winning Olympic gold. That’s when his dad wanted to say to the world, Look, that’s my boy.