8:40 p.m.

Nick stood at the foot of Rachel’s bed, watching helplessly as a team of doctors and nurses hovered over her. Two days ago they had been in their suite at the Peninsula, where she had been excitedly packing for her spa weekend with one of her best friends. Don’t you have too much fun in Beijing now! No flirting with any sexy librarians, unless it’s Parker Posey, Rachel had teased, before giving him the sweetest goodbye kiss. Now her complexion had turned yellow and there were cables, cords, and tubes in her neck and abdomen. It was just so unreal. What happened to his beautiful wife? Why wasn’t she getting any better? He couldn’t even begin to imagine losing her. No, no, no, he had to wipe that thought out of his mind. She was so strong, so healthy. She was going to be okay. She had her whole life ahead of her. Their whole life together. Nick left the room and walked toward the waiting room. Passing a handicapped toilet, he let himself in and locked the door. He took a few deep breaths, splashed some water on his face, and looked at himself in the mirror. Then he noticed the mirror itself—a round, backlit mirror that looked like it came from some pricey design showroom. He glanced around and saw that the whole space had recently been redecorated. Tears started streaming down his face uncontrollably. If Rachel pulled through—no—when Rachel pulled through this, he was going to build her the most insanely beautiful bathroom the world had ever seen.

9:22 p.m.

Nick reentered the waiting room and found Peik Lin and Eddie huddled over Styrofoam bowls of wonton noodles. His aunt Alix and cousin Alistair were sitting in the chairs across from them. Alistair got up and gave his cousin a warm hug.

“Oh Nicky! This is so vexing! How is Rachel?” Alix asked anxiously.

“There’s not been much change,” Nick said wearily.

“Well, I know Dr. Jacobson very well. She’s the best, really, so Rachel is in very capable hands.”

“I’m glad to hear that.”

“And your uncle Malcolm called—the hospital has been updating him, and he’s asked his colleague who is Hong Kong’s top hepatobiliary specialist to come in and give a second opinion.”

“I can’t thank him enough.”

“He only wishes he could be here. Gum ngaam,*2 ah, the one time you have a medical emergency in Hong Kong and Malcolm is away! We brought some siew yook and wonton meen.*3 Are you hungry?”

“Sure. I think I should eat something.” Nick sat in a daze while his aunt proceeded to arrange assorted takeout containers of food and plastic utensils around him.

“Now, we haven’t called anyone yet, Nicky. I wasn’t sure what you wanted people to know, so I held off on calling your mother. Once she knows, the whole world will know.”

“Thanks, Auntie Alix. I can’t deal with my mum at the moment.”

“Have you spoken to Rachel’s mom?” Peik Lin asked.

Nick sighed. “I’ll call her in a little while. I just don’t see the need to alarm her until we know what’s going on.”

The door opened and in walked Eddie and Alistair’s sister, Cecilia, carrying an elaborate arrangement of white lilies.

“Looks like the gang’s all here,” Nick said, trying to force a smile.

“You know me—I couldn’t miss out on a party,” Cecilia said, giving Nick a peck on the cheek as she set the floral arrangement on the seat next to him.

“My God, look at that! Thanks so much, but you really didn’t need to bring anything.”

“Oh, I didn’t bring this. The receptionist outside told me to bring it in for you.”

“That’s strange. Who could it be from? No one knows we’re here aside from you all,” Nick wondered aloud as he slurped down some noodles.

Peik Lin started undoing the ribbons around the vase, and as the plastic wrappings came undone, a note card fell out. She opened the card and started reading it. “HOLY SHIT!” Peik Lin gasped, shoving the vase away from her reflexively. The vase of flowers landed on the floor with a crash, as water spilled everywhere.

Nick leaped out of his chair. “What happened?”

Peik Lin handed him the card, which read:

Rachel,

You have been poisoned with a potentially lethal dose of Tarquinomid. Your doctors will be able to reverse the side effects once they know this.

If you value your life, you will not mention this incident to anyone.

Never set foot in China again.

This is your last warning.

* * *

*1 TIPS is an acronym for transhepatic intrahepatic portosystemic shunt. Try saying that five times fast.

*2 Cantonese for “too fitting.”

*3 Barbecued roast pork and wonton noodles.

9

RIDOUT ROAD

SINGAPORE

Astrid turned on her laptop and composed an e-mail:

Dear Charlie,

Sorry to keep bothering you like this, but I need to ask another favor. Wondering if you can help me get to the bottom of something…

What do you know about Promenade Technologies? Based in Mountain View, CA? Have you ever worked with them before? They acquired Michael’s first company—Cloud Nine Solutions. I need to find out more about this company; specifically, who the people are that own it.

Thanks!

xo, Astrid

She sent the e-mail, and one minute later, Charlie popped up on Google Chat.

CW: Hey! Happy to look into this for you.

ALT: Really appreciate your help.

CW: Any special reason why?

ALT: Trying to get some answers for myself. Have you heard of them?

CW: Yes. But doesn’t Michael know everything you’d need to know?

ALT: Apparently not. Do you know if they are fully owned or partially owned by some Asian conglomerate?

CW: What’s going on, Astrid?

Astrid paused for a few minutes, not sure whether she was prepared to get into it with Charlie about everything that had happened with Michael.

ALT: I’m trying to help Michael get to the truth. It’s a bit complicated…don’t want to drag you into it.

CW: I’m already in it. But okay, I won’t press further. But if you really want my help, it would be better if I had the big picture.

She sat on the edge of her bed, thinking, What do I have to hide from Charlie? He’s the only person who will understand.

ALT: Okay, here goes. Michael’s gotten it into his head that my father—or someone at one of the companies controlled by my family—actually bought Cloud Nine Solutions, using Promenade as a cover.

CW: Why would he suddenly think that?

ALT: Long story, but basically he came across some old papers listing the buyer as Pebble Beach Holding Company, and knowing how much my dad loves golfing there, he’s made this huge assumption.

CW: Sorry to state the obvious, but did you ask your dad if he bought the company?

ALT: I did. And of course he denied it. “Why the bloody hell would I want Michael’s company? I thought it was absurdly overvalued to begin with.”

CW: Classic Harry Leong!

ALT: Indeed.

CW: I don’t think your father has anything to do with this, but would it really matter if he does?

ALT: Are you kidding? Michael’s story has always been that he made it on his own. This suspicion that my family had something to do with his success is driving him up the wall. He thinks my father is trying yet again to control him, control us, etc. We had the biggest fight ever last night.

CW: Sorry to hear that.

ALT: I ended up leaving the house. It was either that or call the police. I’m now at the Marina Bay Sands hotel.

Fifteen seconds later, Astrid’s cell phone rang. It was Charlie calling, so she picked it up and mischievously answered, “Housekeeping?”

“Er, yes, I need someone to come deal with a big problem in my room right now,” Charlie responded, not missing a beat.

“What kind of problem?”

“These cake fetishists had a party in my room, and there are about thirty crushed cakes from Lana Cake Shop all over the carpet, smeared on the walls, on the bed. It looks like people have been rolling around in the cake and frosting, trying out different Kama Sutra positions.”

Astrid giggled. “Sicko! Where do you come up with this kind of stuff?”

“I was surfing the web last night and came across this article on people who get turned on by sitting on cakes.”

“I’m not going to ask what sort of websites you’ve been surfing in Hong Kong—no doubt ones that would be blocked in Singapore.”

“And I’m not going to ask why you’re sitting in a room at Marina Bay Sands, of all places!”

Astrid sighed. “There are very few hotels where I can be sure no one will recognize me. MBS is one of those—it’s mainly tourists.”

“No locals? Really?”