Chapter 15 - Grand CaymanThe air in the Cayman Islands was thick with the scent of saltwater, hibiscus, and expensive sunscreen. Seven Mile Beach stretched out in a crescent of blinding white sand against turquoise water, dotted with multi-million-dollar resort villas behind wrought-iron gates.
We didn't rent a convertible. We rented a nondescript white sedan, parked it three blocks down from a sprawling Mediterranean-style villa tucked behind a grove of palm trees, and waited.
Leo was back in Chicago, staying with Aunt Patricia in Evanston, who had finally found redemption by becoming the most fiercely protective great-aunt in the state of Illinois.
“There,” Samantha murmured, pointing through the windshield.
A tall, silver-haired man in linen trousers and a Panama hat strolled out onto the terrace of the villa, holding a crystal tumbler of whiskey. Even with the gray hair and the deep tan, there was no mistaking the sharp, aristocratic jawline of Arthur Vance.
My uncle. The dead man walking.
I opened the car door.
“Ethan,” Samantha said, catching my wrist. “Let me handle the opening argument.”
We walked up the cobblestone pathway together, our footsteps silent against the tropical heat. The security gate was unlocked—Arthur had never imagined anyone from Chicago would track him across international waters, especially someone he believed was six feet under.
He didn't look up until we stepped onto the shaded patio.
“Can I help you?” Arthur began in his familiar, booming courtroom voice, turning around with a polite smile that instantly died on his lips.
May you like
The glass of whiskey slipped from his fingers, shattering against the stone tiles, amber liquid splashing across his bare feet.
“Arthur,” I said, my voice dangerously calm. “It’s good to see you. We heard you were dead.”
