Intemperance X - The Life We Choose

INTEMPERANCE X

 

The Life We Choose

 

Alan Steiner

This book, like those before, remains dedicated to all of my patrons over at

Patreon, who supported me at a dollar a chapter (and sometimes more) as I

composed the third through now tenth book of this series. You were my beta

testers, and your encouragement, feedback, and error reporting were

invaluable to me.

Intemperance X, Copyright © 2025 by Alan G. Steiner. All Rights Reserved.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means

including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the author. The only

exception is by a reviewer, who may quote short excerpts in a review.

Cover designed by Alan Steiner

 

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination

or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Alan Steiner

Email me at alsteiner237@gmail.com

Printed in the United States of America

First Printing: January, 2026

Amazon self-publishing

Chapter 1

 

Every Breath You Take

 

Port Hills, New Zealand

December 21, 2004

 

Andrew Conners—known pretty universally as “Drew”—was the kid who had created such a ruckus back in June for trying to climb the cliff from the ocean side at Kingsley Manor to get “the shot” of the Kingsleys in their castle of solitude. He did not get “the shot”. Instead, he got a short trip dangling from a cable on a US Coast Guard helicopter after he became stuck on said cliff eighty-five feet above the crashing high tide that he had failed to take into consideration.

He had learned from that incident. No more cliffs. At least, no more cliffs that required climbing and safety gear to scale them. No more cliffs where death could easily result. He would never forget that horrifying moment he realized that he was stuck. Unable to climb up any further with only thirty feet left to go. Unable to climb down because the beach he had climbed up from had disappeared beneath violent waves pounding into the sheer rocks.

Drew could learn. It just took a near-death experience to drive some lessons home.

On this day, the first day of summer in the southern hemisphere of Planet Earth, Drew was once again risking injury, dehydration, sunburn, and aggressive German wasps. But not death. He could not enjoy the prestige of getting “the shot” if he was dead.

“The shot” was what he was after now as he hiked just below the summit of the Port Hills that separated Christchurch from the harbor town of Lyttleton.

The wind climbed the southern face of the most prominent geological feature on the Canterbury Plain of New Zealand’s South Island in dry, sunbaked gusts, carrying the smell of hot dust and old grass. Drew adjusted his backpack for the third time in five minutes, the straps digging into his shoulders, the tripod knocking against his ribs like a third lung. The trail wasn’t even a trail—just a game path winding through gorse and brittle flax, sometimes nothing more than flattened grass and guesswork.

Ahead of him, Paul Peterson moved like the goddamn wind.

Fifty-three years old, still wiry from decades of crawling through parking garages, ducking under police tape, and, more recently, hiking slopes like this one in every continent with a Nikon and a payday. He never lost his breath. Drew had been watching for it—waiting for that first wheeze—but the man was clean. Gave up coke in ’93, rehabbed for six months, and had been climbing hills and outlasting interns ever since.

Drew, on the other hand, was panting like a rookie. Which, technically, he still was.

“You’re favoring your left,” Paul called over his shoulder. “Adjust your hips.”

Drew grunted. “You didn’t say it would be this steep.”

“You didn’t ask.”

Two days ago Drew had been in almost-winter Los Angeles. Not exactly Moscow or even Chicago cold, but not balmy either. And now it was the day of the summer solstice down here, and his body hadn’t gotten the memo. The heat was dry and the wind sharp. The sun had that odd angle, too—bright but not overhead, throwing long shadows even at midday. Drew’s shirt was stuck to his back. His boots were too new. Every damn thing he brought with him was heavier than he thought it would be.

But he didn’t complain. This was the job. And it was a good one.

The National Watcher had paid an Air New Zealand booking clerk five hundred bucks for the Kingsleys’ Christmas travel itinerary. Twelve adults, three children. Destination: the family’s known home in the Port Hills, overlooking Lyttelton Harbour. They’d be arriving today. Were likely just landing at Christchurch International after the connecting flight from Auckland. Drew and Paul would be there to “document” their arrival at the home.

The Watcher had called Paul first. He did not work for them, but he subcontracted with them frequently when specific shots were needed. And Paul had called Drew, who he had been mentoring for the past year.

They flew out the day before the Kingsleys, December 18, and checked into a mid-tier hotel in Christchurch. A reporter had come with them and was technically in charge of them. Valerie Sharp—the Valerie Sharp—got a luxury suite. Drew and Paul had to share a standard room with creaky beds and a drain that smelled like sulfur.

Paul had warned him: “This is the big leagues, kid. No one’s paying us to be comfortable.”

Now, a day later, they were hiking into position—south slope, above the house, line of sight on the back deck, where the truth lived.

“You get the mission brief straight?” Paul asked, slowing just enough to talk.

“Yeah.”

“Then hit me with it.”

Drew tried not to wheeze. “We’re here to document the three principals—Jake, Laura, Celia. Aggressively, but discreetly. House perimeter only for now. Hotel shots and airport pickups are already done by the local stringers. Our job’s the private stuff. Real-life material.”

Paul gave a nod of approval. “Why?”

“Because people don’t believe the reconciliation story. Jake marrying Laura again while still living with Celia Valdez? Too neat. Too fake. The Watcher wants the real story.”

“Which is?”

Drew hesitated. “We don’t know. That’s the point.”

Paul smiled. “There you go. You’re learning.”

They hiked on. Peterson plowed straight ahead, not a care in the world. Drew kept lagging behind, going out of his way to avoid clusters of rock or dense brush. Eventually, Peterson noticed and asked what he was doing.

“I don’t want to run into any snakes,” he said. He was not a fan of snakes of any kind but venomous snakes gave him the full-on heebie-jeebies. And he just knew that terrain like this had to be loaded with them. The kind of snakes that his father—a Vietnam veteran—called “two steps” or “one smokes”, meaning that was how long you had to live after being bitten by one.

“There are no snakes in New Zealand,” Peterson said blandly. “Stop worrying about that.”

“What do you mean there are no snakes here?” he asked. “I’ve heard horror stories about how everything here is trying to kill you.”

“In Australia, sure,” Peterson said. “Not here though. There are no snakes in New Zealand. Not a single one outside of the zoos in Auckland and Christchurch.”

“Really?” he asked, wondering if his mentor was fucking with him. Sometimes he did that.

“Really,” Peterson said. “New Zealand broke away from the supercontinent and became isolated before snakes evolved. Australia was twenty or thirty million years behind so it’s crawling with snakes.”

It did not seem like he was fucking with him. “How do you know this?” he asked.

“Celebrity photojournalism 101,” he said. “Always research your environment.” He gave him a look. “You know? Like whether or not there are venomous animals, what the weather conditions will be like, when the fucking tide comes in.”

“Oh… yeah. That makes sense,” Drew said, embarrassed that his mentor brought up his failure on the cliff. “You’re sure about the snakes though?”

“I’m betting my life on this research,” he replied. “So… yeah. I’m pretty fuckin’ sure.”

They passed a line of bleached fence posts and followed a footpath that traced the edge of a ridge, the hill falling away sharply on the left. The sea glinted beyond the curve of the land— deep, brilliant blue against a sky that looked like overexposed film.

Paul stopped at a rise and crouched behind a patch of gorse.

Drew dropped beside him, grateful to be still for a second.

“Right down there,” Paul said, pointing.

And there it was.

The Kingsley house, tucked into a terraced notch in the hill, maybe seventy meters below them. Pale walls. Dark wood deck. A large circular hot tub sitting amid a collection of outdoor tables, chairs, and recliners. Even from this distance, the place oozed privacy and wealth.

“Valerie wants images by tonight,” Paul said, fishing out a bottle of water. “We’ll dump cards back at the hotel and let her sort the narrative.”

Drew didn’t answer.

He’d met Valerie Sharp twice now. First at LAX, where she barely nodded at him while arguing about the weight of her second carry-on. Then again at check-in in Christchurch, when she took the suite and gave them a tight smile like a teacher forced to share space with the janitor.

Paul called her “the best writer the Watcher’s got and a stuck-up bitch.” Both were true.

“She doesn’t want pictures,” Drew said, looking at camera angles and concealment. “She wants proof.”

Paul snorted. “She wants a story that can’t be disproven. Big difference.”

“I don’t understand,” Drew said. “What is the difference?”

Paul did not answer him. Instead, he checked his watch. “Eleven forty,” he said. “Earliest they’ll show is twelve-thirty, probably closer to one. Let’s move closer.”

They gathered their gear without a word. Paul led the descent, angling off the ridgeline into rougher terrain. The gorse thickened quickly, shoulder-high in places and full of dead twigs ready to snap. The dry air smelled sharper here—sunbaked scrub and powdered rock.

Drew followed, boots crunching against loose gravel, brushing aside flax stalks and keeping one eye on the ground and one on the underbrush. He still didn’t fully believe Peterson about the snakes. Maybe there weren’t supposed to be any. Maybe one got loose from a zoo. Maybe it mated with a lizard and evolved. He wasn’t taking any chances.

They pushed through for a quarter mile, descending slightly until they reached a broad rock outcropping jutting from the hillside like a dropped anvil. It cast a solid, crooked shadow across a flat patch of ground, partially screened by brush and sun-bleached boulders.

“Here,” Paul said, crouching to study the line of sight. “Good cover. We’re shaded, elevation’s solid, and we’ve got brush behind us to block the angle from the trail.”

Drew dropped his pack and nodded. “You think we’ll have sightlines into the windows?”

“We’ll check.” Paul was already pulling out his tripod, extending the legs silently. “Rules of stakeout in this terrain: stay in the shadows, don’t silhouette on a skyline, and don’t move more than you have to. House can’t see us. Trail can’t see us. Tourists with telephoto lenses can’t see us. Clear?”

“Clear,” Drew said, setting up beside him.

They worked efficiently. Tripods planted and stabilized. Lenses mounted. Angles adjusted.

Drew adjusted the camo sleeve over his forearm and dropped to one knee, scanning through the Nikon. The house below looked placid, still empty. But the vantage was perfect— he could see almost the entire back deck, the slope of the roof, the second-floor balcony, and at least four windows on the west-facing side.

“I’ll be able to shoot through those at night,” he said. “Assuming lights on, blinds up.”

“They’ll leave them open. Rich people always think privacy comes with square footage.” Paul was adjusting aperture settings now. “Mark your angles. Pick two you can swing between fast if anything pops off. Third can be wide.”

Drew nodded, working through his viewfinder. “Got it.”

The air was still. Hot. The only sound was the distant cry of a raptor and the soft click of plastic and metal as they checked and rechecked their gear. Their camouflage clothing—dull greens and grays—made them blend naturally into the scrub-shadowed slope. From even twenty yards away, they’d vanish into the terrain.

Drew eased back against the rock and exhaled.

“We’re good?”

“We’re ghosts,” Paul said.

And they waited.

 

*****

 

They’d been quiet for over an hour. No talking. Just the click of aperture wheels, the occasional sip of water, and the slow consumption of a protein bar each—Paul’s peanut butter, Drew’s chalky and unidentifiable. They rationed their four liters of water apiece, packed based on Paul’s calculations: two for the daytime stakeout, one for the hike out, one for emergency reserve. It would be enough.

They’d hike out half an hour before sunset, no exceptions. No after-dark stumbles. No post-sunset shots on Day One. The plan was to return at dusk tomorrow and camp in position until sunrise.

At 12:50 PM, Drew saw motion.

“Vehicle,” he said quietly.

“Where?”

“Access road. Can’t see the Summit Road from here.”

Paul looked in that direction. “That’s them.”

A white Toyota Hilux pickup led the approach, followed by two dark green Toyota Land Cruisers. The Hilux bumped along the narrow paved road first—a newer model, not the 1992 version that was registered to Kingsley. A rental then. The Land Cruisers rolled in behind it, both clearly rentals as well, both full.

The first SUV stopped. Then the second. Doors opened like clockwork.

“Start shooting,” Paul told him. “Ease into rhythm.”

Drew settled behind his camera and focused in.

He immediately spotted Jake, then Laura, then Celia. Caydee came hopping out in a bucket hat with a stuffed dolphin tucked under one arm. Cap was lifted from a car seat, still groggy, and passed to Celia.

Paul began his narration.

“All right. That’s the primary three—Jake, Laura, Celia. Caydee’s the redheaded older kid, belongs to Jake and Laura. Cap is the baby—Jake and Celia.”

“I know them.”

“Yeah, but you don’t know the rest. The one with the hair the same color as Jake’s is Pauline Kingsley—Jake’s older sister, runs their record label. Obie is the guy next to her, her long-time boyfriend. You know him as OB2, the country singer who writes songs about a woman going to get an abortion. They’re not married. They did not get an abortion because the girl with them is Tabitha, their lovechild. She’s ten.”

“Got it.”

“Older couple getting out of the second Land Cruiser—those are Jake’s parents, Tom and Mary Kingsley. Mary played violin on the first two Jake Kingsley and Celia Valdez solo albums. The other older couple with the garment bags? Celia’s parents—Roberto and Maria Valdez. They’re from Venezuela, now living in Avila Beach near Kingsley Manor.”

Drew kept snapping.

“The tall strawberry blonde in the jeans—that’s Grace Best, Laura’s oldest niece. She’s the daughter of Laura’s older brother. The one with short blonde hair and the ‘watch me seduce your boyfriend’ energy is Chase Best, Grace’s younger sister.”

“What about the last girl? Short hair, carrying the duffel?”

“That’s Gina something. We don’t know a lot about her. Valerie pulled her background— name and DOB were on the passenger list. She graduated from the University of Idaho last spring with a degree in Accounting. Unemployed currently. Lives with Grace Best in Moscow, Idaho. Could be a roommate, could be something else. No public info on the relationship.”

“So…?”

“So she’s not important unless she starts sucking Kingsley’s dick or eating out Celia or Laura.”

“Jesus.”

“Welcome to the business.”

They continued shooting—movement, luggage, body language. Jake took two bags at once and walked them through the entryway. Pauline pointed toward the back deck. Obie retrieved a stroller and collapsed it like a pro. Caydee ran after her mother, dropped her dolphin, picked it back up.

Then Drew caught it.

Jake and Celia, at the front door. A brief word exchange. Then a hug—his arms around her waist, hers around his shoulders. It lasted maybe three seconds. Drew took eleven shots of the embrace in those three seconds.

“That something?” Drew asked.

“Maybe,” Paul said. “Could be platonic. Could be the start of our payday. We’ll know more after a few days of patterns.”

“Right.”

They kept shooting. Quiet. Focused. In rhythm.

Below, the Kingsleys vanished into the house.

Above, the ghosts settled back into the shade.

 

*****

 

The city lights came up slow—streetlamps first, then the warm scatter of houses on the outskirts, then the full glow of Christchurch proper. They rolled past a shuttered hardware store, a quiet petrol station, and a couple of flickering signs advertising rooms and real estate.

Drew finally got signal. His phone chirped—five missed calls from Valerie Sharp.

“Same,” Paul said, flipping his burner open. “Jesus.”

“She doesn’t sleep?”

“Not when she thinks she smells a story.”

They pulled into the parking lot of a McDonald’s on the edge of the city center. Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead. The drive-thru was still open, but the dining room was closed for cleaning.

They ordered from the car—burgers, fries, Coke, no substitutions—and ate in the parking lot, windows down, headlights off. The food tasted like every McDonald’s Drew had ever eaten—warm, salty, perfectly dead inside.

I flew for sixteen hours to the farthest reaches of civilized man on Earth and what am I eating? Fucking McDonalds. Life is fucked up sometimes.

They were both filthy—sweat, dust, grass stains, maybe a bit of dried blood from Paul’s elbow where he’d scraped it on the outcrop. They still wore camo, the kind that didn’t just blend into terrain but absorbed it.

When they got back in the car, Paul flipped open his phone and dialed.

Drew could hear only one side of the conversation, but that was enough.

“Hey, Valerie. Yeah, we’re back in range now… Yes, I saw the calls…” A pause, a roll of the eyes. “Yeah… but there’s no cell coverage up in the Port Hills. Yeah… but this is not Los Angeles. It’s New Zealand. Yes… I know there are towers up on top of the Port Hills, but they’re not cell phone towers.”

He took the phone away from his ear for a moment. Drew could hear Valerie’s nasal tone voice chirping away but could not make out what she was saying. When the chirping quieted down, Paul put the phone back to his ear.

“Right,” he said. “In any case we got shots of Celia and Jake hugging each other.” Pause. “No, nothing like that. No tongues involved. Just a hug.”

Drew heard another round of chirping, shorter this time.

“It could mean anything,” he said. “It was a hug.” Another pause. “Well… sure, I guess. We’re gonna need to hit the showers before we come up though. I smell like roadkill and Drew smells like the irrational fear of non-existent snakes.”

Another pause.

“Well… I mean, we could come up right now, but the olfactory consequences would be permanent... Yeah? You promise not to bitch about it?”

Drew looked over. Paul gave a flat little smile, eyes still on the road.

“Okay. Fine. Straight from the car. But you’re opening a window.”

He closed the phone with a snap.

“She wants it now.”

“She doesn’t care we stink?”

“She says she doesn’t. But she’ll care.”

They passed a liquor store with steel bars and neon signs, then hit a string of quiet intersections. The streets were mostly empty. It felt like the whole country had gone to bed— except them.

They were staying at the Hotel Grand Chancellor, a nice, old, established place in central Christchurch with years of experience hosting American travelers. Not the fanciest option, but respectable—quiet carpeted halls, polished brass elevator doors, and a front desk that didn’t flinch at weird hours or weird people.

The Watcher, like any business in the business of making money, employed accountants as part of their corporate structure. Accountants, as any working man or working woman knew, were the true bane of western civilization, the biggest joykillers and cockblockers the race of homo sapiens has ever known. Which was why Valerie Sharp, the designated talent, got a suite on the ninth floor with a park view and minibar, while Paul and Drew shared a standard twin on the second floor near the service elevator.

They stopped by their room first. Paul unlocked the door. Two single beds, one desk, and a minibar locked behind a plastic panel. Drew pulled out his laptop. Paul did the same. They didn’t speak.

Then they rode the elevator up, laptops under their arms, silent and grimy.

Valerie’s suite was at the end of the hall. Paul knocked—two hard raps.

The door opened with a smooth pull and a blast of lemon-scented air-conditioning.

Valerie Sharp stood in the doorway in gray sweats and a black sports bra, her skin lightly flushed, her blonde ponytail flawless and high. Her enhanced breasts were unmistakable, high and firm and perfectly placed—not bouncing, not straining, just there, unapologetic and symmetrical. She was short—five-two, maybe—but moved like a six-foot woman used to commanding rooms full of weak men.

She took one look at them and wrinkled her nose.

“God, you stink.”

Paul shrugged. “I told you we would.”

“You smell like sweat, fear, and socks someone stripped off a homeless man.”

“You said come up.”

“I didn’t say enjoyably.” She stepped back and let them in.

The suite was cool and bright and bigger than any hotel room Drew had ever stayed in. Cream carpet, glass tables, chrome accents, floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the park. A half-eaten fruit platter sat on the minibar. A bottle of white wine, half full, rested on a side table beside a hardbound notebook and a stack of National Watcher folders. An empty bottle of what had once been red wine sat next to it.

Drew and Paul stepped in, silently shedding gear like animals dragging kill back to the den.

Valerie didn’t offer them a drink.

She had hardly spoken to Drew since they met—a brief nod at LAX, a quick “You’re the kid from the cliff thing, right?” when they checked in. Other than that: nothing. Not disdain exactly, but something colder. She looked at photographers the way other people looked at dogshit on the bottom of their shoe. Something disgusting that one was forced to deal with.

Valerie had graduated from Arizona State, journalism major, class of ‘86. She started at The Watcher writing advertorials for herbal supplements—fake science headlines that sold fat burners and memory pills to people with expired AARP cards. She climbed the ladder from bullshit health columns to celebrity gossip, breaking her first national piece on an aging soap actor’s gay affair in ‘92. She was thrice divorced—a graphic designer, a lawyer, and a major league baseball pitcher, in that order. She kept the name Sharp and the apartment in Westwood. The 28 year old personal trainer boyfriend came later, a walking muscle group named Brian who, by all accounts, would lose an intellectual debate to a common houseplant.

She was good at her job. Ruthless, calculated, impossible to fluster, and addicted to the taste of a fresh scandal. She also, Drew had heard around the campfire, drank daily more than most people did on vacation—but somehow never seemed drunk.

While they booted their laptops, she circled like a cat around the room, sipping from her glass, scanning them both with mild impatience.

“You have cards?” she asked.

Drew and Paul nodded.

“Backed up?”

“Not yet,” Paul said. “Coming off the cards now.”

“Better be good,” she said, but without heat. It was just a line—something to fill the air.

“It ain’t good,” Paul said. “I already told you that. We got the shots of Jake and Celia hugging and a couple hundred of the three principles doing normal, everyday shit as if they were normal everyday people and not celebs.”

“I’ll decide what’s good and what’s not,” she said.

“Groovy,” Paul said, doing a half eyeroll.

Drew slid his SD card into the slot and started the transfer. The files began populating. His neck was tight. His eyes were dry. He was still in the clothes he’d worn since dawn and smelled like a teenager’s sneakers left in the backseat of a hot car.

Valerie came to stand behind him, glass in hand. Very close to him despite her spoken disgust with his current odor.

She leaned forward.

Her breasts pushed against the back of his left shoulder—warm, solid, and perfectly framed by Lycra. Not heavily. Just enough for him to feel it. It felt like two grapefruits resting on him.

Drew froze.

She didn’t say anything. Just sipped her wine, her chin close to his ear, her breath smelling like chilled sauvignon Blanc and expensive toothpaste.

He didn’t dare move. Part of him wanted to lean forward, just slightly, to break contact. But a smaller, dumber part of him wanted to lean back and see what happened.

He didn’t. He sat still, heart tapping his ribs.

She never flirted. She never teased. She had not so much as made eye contact with him on the plane. And now her breasts were casually pressing into him while she reviewed thumbnails of the Kingsleys like she was scanning MRI results.

Was she doing it on purpose? He didn’t know. But he knew better than to ask.

Paul sat off to the side, stone-faced, pulling up his own files. He didn’t look over. He didn’t say anything. Paul wasn’t intimidated by Valerie. He knew she was technically in charge, but he also knew he didn’t work for her. He worked for himself. He had a reputation. A file at Watcher HQ thick enough to buy him protection. Drew had nothing. Just the pictures. Just the assignment.

The first photo loaded.

Jake Kingsley, stepping out of the Hilux. Sunglasses on, jaw tense, one hand shielding his eyes from the sun.

Valerie leaned in. “Okay,” she said softly. “Let’s see what we’ve got.”

The next few thumbnails loaded without comment—Jake stepping out of the Hilux, Laura shielding her eyes from the sun, Celia tugging Cap out of the car seat, Caydee dragging her pink suitcase up the gravel.

Then the photo appeared.

Jake and Celia, hugging.

Arms around each other at the front door. His hands on her waist. Her chin tucked over his shoulder, eyes closed just for a second. The background was blown out in sun-washed blur— just wood siding and suitcase wheels—but the body language was clear, tight, and intimate.

Valerie straightened, breaking contact with Drew’s shoulder as she moved to stand over him again.

He wasn’t sure if he was relieved or upset, but he was leaning toward relieved. His spine unlocked, slightly.

They flipped through all eleven of Drew’s shots and then all thirteen of Paul’s. They all showed pretty much the same thing. In some, Celia’s eyes were open. In some, Jake had a goofy smile of weariness.

“That’s interesting,” she said, sipping her wine.

Paul looked over. “Yeah.”

Drew studied the current image. “Looks to me like two good friends hugging after a long day of travel.”

Valerie snorted. “That’s wholesome. Nobody wants wholesome.”

“I mean, it could be nothing,” Drew said. “They’re close. The whole world knows they’re close.”

“She’s not his wife,” Valerie said.

“He just remarried Laura,” Paul added. “Why didn’t he hug her? Why Celia?”

“Exactly!” Valerie said.

“Maybe because Jake and Laura have been sitting next to each other the whole trip?” Drew suggested. “They’ve been in close contact for the past sixteen hours. Jake and Celia, however, have not been. Celia was probably sitting next to Cap.”

Valerie just looked at him. “That’s stupid,” she said. “Nobody wants to hear that’s what they’re doing.”

“But… it’s the truth,” Drew said.

Seasoned reporter and seasoned paparazzo both barked out laughter.

“The truth?” Valerie said, shaking her head. “That’s fuckin’ rich.”

“Nobody gives a shit what the truth is,” Paul told him. “They want the story.”

“The story?” Drew asked. He had sold a few shots to the Watcher and publications like them (mostly online these days) but had never been involved at this level.

“The truth is generally boring,” Valerie said. “Boring doesn’t sell papers to middle-aged housewives in Buttfuckit, Illinois.” She turned back to Paul. “Any other shots I’d give a shit about?”

Drew hesitated.

“I got a few of Celia bending over to get Cap out of the SUV. Her shirt pulled up—bit of bare belly. And there’s one of Laura, same thing. She was picking up a bag and you can see some cleavage. She’s wearing a red bra. Nothing crazy.”

Valerie didn’t even blink. “Voyeur shit.”

“Yeah.”

“We’re professionals,” Paul said, flat. “Laura’s tits and Celia’s bare belly aren’t what we’re after here. Celia’s surgery scars and Laura’s tit size have already been done to death.”

“Right.” Valerie stepped away again, crossing to the couch and topping off her glass. “Anything else?”

“No,” Paul said. “That’s the only one worth talking about. Rest is documentation. Jake and Chase left the house in the pickup truck at around 1500. They returned at 1630ish with the back of the truck full of grocery boxes. I got some shots of them bringing things in, but nothing surprising. They bought an assload of liquor and beer, but there’s an assload of people staying there.”

“Keep the shots with the liquor,” Valerie said. “They might be useful.”

“Will do,” Paul said.

She sat down on the arm of the couch. “So what’s your plan?”

Paul spoke calmly. “We’re going to camp out again tomorrow night. Same spot. We’ll go in just before sunset and stay till first light. Get the night stuff.”

“What about during the day?”

“No,” Paul said. “We won’t be doing that.”

Valerie raised an eyebrow. “Why not?”

“They feel safe right now,” he said. “No one’s watching them. We got in position before they even arrived. They don’t know we’re in the country, let alone on the hill above their house. That’s when people make mistakes. When they think no one’s looking.”

Valerie nodded slowly. “You’ve got eleven days.”

“We’ll find a story,” Paul said.

Drew leaned back in his chair. “Is what we’re doing even legal here?”

Valerie looked over. “Define legal.”

“Like—are we going to get arrested? Sued? What’s the line?”

Paul shrugged. “We’re on public land. We’re not breaking any fences, not bugging them, not tapping anything.”

“They’ve got privacy laws, yeah,” Valerie added. “Same as back home. But they’re civil, not criminal. And the burden’s on them. They’d have to prove the photos were highly offensive and private, and even then they’d only win damages in a New Zealand court.”

“And we don’t live here,” Paul said. “We’ve got no assets here. No presence. You think they’re gonna fly halfway around the world to chase a tort claim that can’t even be enforced?”

Drew was quiet.

Valerie sipped her wine again. “We’re protected. Geography, jurisdiction, and lawyers. The Watcher’s firewall is thick. No one’s getting to us.”

Paul nodded. “That’s why we don’t screw it up.”

 

*****

 

The sun rose on December 22nd, 2004, and with it came a simple truth about international travel: No matter how luxurious the accommodations, how scenic the vistas, or how elite the frequent flier status, your body still knows when it's been dragged across five time zones and kicked in the circadian rhythm.

So the Kingsley party—fifteen people, three generations, varying degrees of glamor and grump—took it slow.

The grandparents—Tom and Mary Kingsley, and Mama and Papa Valdez—wisely stayed put, content to wander the house in socks and cardigans, sipping tea and reacquainting themselves with local sunlight. The only drama came when Mary asked if the wine fridge was dual-zone and Mama and Papa Valdez thought they were fucking with them when they explained what a dual zone wine refrigerator actually was. They finally put it into the category of things that rich white people covet.

Pauline, Obie, and Tabitha took a morning drive into the city to visit the cathedral in Christchurch—just like last year. Pauline loved old buildings, Obie enjoyed indulging her, and Tabby had no vote, only a pout. She wanted to go to the beach. She begged to go to the beach. She was told the beach would still be there tomorrow. It was not the answer she sought.

Meanwhile, Grace, Chase, Gina, Laura, Celia, Caydee, and Cap made for the coast. Cap—the only sausage in the hen party—in his hat and sunglasses, Caydee in her rash guard and righteous joy. They parked just above a quiet stretch of beach and spent a few blissfully uneventful hours body surfing, snacking on grapes and salami sandwiches, drinking soda, and taking turns trying to keep Cap from eating sand. Chase worked on her tan. Grace helped Celia carry Cap when he fell asleep. Gina and Caydee caught a perfect wave together and shrieked the whole way in.

Around midday, Jake and Obie took the Hilux into town. First to the meat market—Jake in sunglasses and a ballcap, Obie in his usual plaid and cowboy boots. The butcher recognized them instantly but said nothing, only nodded and wrapped their Christmas prime rib and four roasting chickens like he did it for famous American musicians every day. Maybe he did.

Jake loved that about New Zealand. No crowding. No staring. No “I loved you in Vegas.” Just quiet respect from people who had thoughtfully added minding their own business to their culture at some point along the way.

They stopped for a beer at a tavern afterward, the kind with rugby on mute and two old guys arguing over whether John Campbell was a smug git or a national treasure. Neither Jake nor Obie had the slightest idea who John Campbell was so it was fortunate that their opinions were not solicited. Jake bought the first round. Obie insisted on the second. Neither of them rushed.

Everyone trickled home just before dinner. Grace and the girls returned windburned and damp, toweled hair and sandy shoes.

Tabby was waiting. Still in her cathedral dress, still stewing.

They hadn’t been inside thirty seconds when Caydee mentioned how good Gina was at body surfing for someone who had never been in the ocean before. Tabby’s head snapped around like it had been activated by remote.

“You went in the water?” she asked.

Chase gave a happy nod. “A lot.”

Laura tried a gentle redirection. “We’ll all go again tomorrow.”

But the damage was done. Tabby had missed the wave of the day. And someone else had earned the title of coolest cousin.

She sulked through dinner prep. No one blamed her.

Dinner went down like something scripted by a particularly nostalgic food writer: four roasting chickens, ten pounds of potatoes (peeled, chopped, boiled, mashed), Mary’s gravy made from the plentiful chicken drippings, fresh green beans sautéed in butter and garlic, and a warm torta de pan—Venezuelan bread pudding made from day old rolls, sweetened condensed milk, cinnamon, and pure grandmother magic—courtesy of Mama Valdez, who whipped it up without a recipe and with the confident disdain of someone who had been feeding large families since she was twelve.

Everyone ate too much. Everyone said they wouldn’t. Everyone did.

Cleanup was a whole-house operation, except for the cooks. Jake, Mary, and Mama Valdez were excused by rule and precedent. Papa Valdez, who had never cleaned a kitchen in his life and wasn’t about to start now, made a good show of offering. He was gently handed the garbage bag and told to hold Cap while the real work happened around him. He performed both duties with great dignity and a glass of Jake’s cognac.

By the time the dishwasher was humming and the last pot was soaking in the sink, the sun was still up, casting long, warm light through the south-facing windows and making the floors glow.

This confused everyone.

Their internal clocks, still halfway to Los Angeles, were whispering that it was late. “Nine PM,” said the wall clock. “More like four,” said everyone’s bloodstream.

Some wandered toward the back deck. Some sprawled on couches. Caydee had started yawning two hours ago but was now wide awake again, caught in that strange second wind only time zone confusion could bring.

The light outside stretched golden and slow. It fell across the harbor, catching on boats and rooftops and the quiet edge of town. The sun, not content to simply vanish, was sinking with maximum drama behind the hills of the Banks Peninsula, throwing color and shadow in all directions. It wasn’t the ocean they saw, but the curve of the volcanic harbor, calm and cradled.

It was, even the snarkiest observer would admit, a damn fine sunset.

They watched it through heavy-lidded eyes, caught somewhere between bedtime and brunch, their bodies begging for darkness while the sky insisted on one last encore.

 

*****

They had hiked in before sunset, gear on their backs, breath steady, sweat minimal. The wind had picked up—not enough to howl, but enough to push against the jacket and sting the knuckles. They reached the outcropping and re-established their spot—same location, same camo routine, same exact rhythm. Paul liked rhythms. Drew had learned not to mess with that.

They unpacked in silence: sleeping bags rolled out, tripods adjusted, batteries checked, lenses cleaned, settings dialed in for low light. There was food in one pack—granola bars, jerky, some kind of horrific peanut butter protein squeeze. Two thermal bottles of hot water, three instant coffee tubes, a single roll of toilet paper double-bagged in plastic, and a small green trowel.

“If you need to take a shit,” Paul said, “go downwind and bury it. Don’t leave it near camp, or I’ll make you sleep with it.”

Drew just nodded. He had already figured that out from context, but Paul liked to say things out loud, just in case.

“And no fuckin’ flashlights either,” he added. “We have them for emergencies only. You turn one on up here and we’re not just shadows in the shadows anymore.”

“Understood,” Drew agreed. He had already known that as well. Did Peterson think he was an amateur or something? Still, he was learning a ton on this mission.

By the time they were settled—extra layers zipped up, wool caps on, shoulders braced against the wind—the sun was gone. But the light lingered. New Zealand summer twilight was slow and rich, like it didn’t want to leave the party. The sky turned layers of blue and silver and violet before darkness finally agreed to show up.

Below them, the Kingsley house spread low and wide across its terraced lot, a single-level structure that looked like it had been poured into the hillside rather than built on top of it. The roof was shallow-pitched and nearly flat, with deep overhangs and long horizontal lines. From their vantage, the windows—wide and square, all facing south—caught the last light from inside, golden rectangles glowing against the darkening earth. It looked peaceful. Private. Like a secret tucked under the hill.

They sipped their instant coffee. It tasted like burnt pencil shavings and old granola dust, but it was hot, and that was enough.

The stars began to appear—at first, just the bold ones, then more, then more. They were unfamiliar. This was not the night sky of North America. The constellations were different. The orientation was flipped. It felt like being somewhere just a little too far from the world you knew.

The moon was out—bright, three-quarters full, rising slowly over the hills to the east. It looked wrong. It took him a few moments to realize what the problem was. It was upside down, like someone had taken the familiar and rotated it just far enough to make him doubt his bearings. He hated that. Even the fucking moon was off.

Paul pointed to a crux of stars low in the southern sky. “Southern Cross.”

Drew looked where he was pointing and saw the constellation that sailors and trekkers used to navigate in the southern hemisphere, where there is no North Star. He looked at it with interest.

“Is this your first time seeing the Southern Cross?” Paul asked.

“Yeah,” Drew said.

“Do you understand now why we came this way?”

“What?” Drew asked. He was a little too young for Crosby, Stills, and Nash tunes.

Paul chuckled a little and took a sip of his coffee. “Never mind.”

They waited.

There wasn’t much to see at first. The bedroom blinds were shut, tight and uniform across the back of the house. No silhouettes. No careless reveals. The only open view was into what looked like an entertainment room, where Celia and her mother sat on a couch, talking slowly, wineglasses in hand. Cap played on the floor with a set of plastic stacking rings, occasionally stopping to babble or shove something in his mouth. Caydee came and went, sometimes darting into view, sometimes out again—one of those kids who only stopped moving when asleep. Tabitha was not seen, nor was Pauline or the Kingsley parents.

The light inside was warm. The air outside was not.

Drew had pulled on his outer fleece, zipped to the neck. The wind had shifted but not disappeared—it came in slow gusts now, cool and ocean damp, tugging gently at their sleeves and the edges of their gear.

By ten o’clock, the world was black.

Not “city dark,” where light pollution turned the sky into orange soup. This was real dark—coastal hilltop dark, where the Kingsley house was the only nearby object still illuminated, glowing faintly like a half-buried lantern. Far below, the lights of Lyttelton traced the harbor curve in tiny fragments—more of a suggestion than a presence. Nothing up here competed with the upside-down moon, which continued to climb into the sky.

Inside the house, the kids began disappearing. One by one, Cap vanished, Caydee made a final dash, and the entertainment room went still. More lights came on, but the blinds remained shut. From above, it looked like the house had turned in on itself.

Then, movement.

The deck door slid open, and out stepped Jake, Obie, Roberto Valdez, Celia, and Chase.

They carried a bucket of ice and a dark bottle. Drew brought put his hands on the camera, twisting the zoom slowly.

The label was clear enough in the lighting on the deck. Lagavulin 16.

He didn’t know much about whisky—he was more of a Smirnoff Ice kind of guy—but he suspected any booze with the number sixteen in its name probably wasn’t cheap.

They poured. They passed out cigars—even Celia and Chase lit up, puffing slowly as they sank into chairs. Obie said something that made Jake laugh. Chase leaned her head back and exhaled a ribbon of smoke like a chimney in slow motion. It was scenic. Familiar. Boring.

They watched for nearly ten minutes. Drew took a few shots early on but stopped once he had the scene locked. Paul did the same. The novelty wore off quickly.

And then Laura appeared.

She didn’t sit. Just came outside in her sweater and bare feet, spoke a few words to the group, then leaned in and kissed Jake on the forehead.

Drew caught the shot.

Then she turned to Celia, did the same—a short, warm kiss, light on contact but intimate in tone.

Drew took two more photos. Paul did as well.

Then Laura turned and went back inside.

Nobody else moved.

They sat in silence for a while after Laura went back inside. The deck lights stayed on, throwing a golden wash over the group as they smoked and sipped and talked like they didn’t have a care in the world.

From up here, it looked like a stage—a set built for intimacy and lit for clarity. The Kingsleys and their companions were fully visible, every gesture and glass and puff of cigar illuminated against the dark hillside. Drew could see them better than he could see his own boots.

Paul adjusted his focus, then took his hands off the camera, letting it stare down on its tripod. Drew did the same.

The rest of the house was dim now. The interior lights were low, blinds still drawn. Only the deck remained alive, glowing like the set of a one-act play called Everything Is Fine.

Drew broke the silence.

“That kiss,” he said. “That was... familiar.”

Paul didn’t look up. “Forehead kiss?”

“Yeah.”

Paul shrugged. “It’s a thing people do.”

“Not like that,” Drew said. “It wasn’t casual. It was like... I don’t know. Like the kind of thing you’d do to your partner. Like she’s important. Not like she’s her current husband’s ex-wife.”

“She is important,” Paul said. “They have kids together. They run a company. They’ve known each other forever.”

“Since the nineties,” Drew said.

Paul didn’t respond.

“I’m just saying,” Drew went on, “we keep talking about who Jake’s with. Whether he’s cheating. Whether he’s gay. What Celia’s role is. Whether Laura’s back for real. But... what if it’s not one or the other? What if it’s all of them?”

Now Paul looked over.

“I mean, think about it,” Drew continued. “They never moved out. Through two divorces and two marriages, they’ve all lived in the same house. No separate addresses. No cooling-off period. Just different legal statuses and different headlines.”

Paul raised an eyebrow but said nothing.

“And the wedding rings,” Drew said. “None of them ever stopped wearing them. Go back through the archives—Watcher, Starbeat, whatever—every photo, every event. Wedding rings on. All three of them.”

Paul took a slow sip from the thermos.

“And they’re always... fine,” Drew added. “Friendly. Affectionate. No tension, not even between Laura and Celia. Look at tonight. That kiss on Celia’s forehead? That’s not just co-parenting.”

“You’re saying it’s a three-way relationship,” Paul said flatly.

“I’m saying it might be,” Drew replied. “And that would explain a lot.”

Paul gestured with his chin toward the deck. “Tell Valerie. See what she says.”

“You think she’d go for it?”

Paul smirked. “She’ll go for anything if it can’t be disproven.”

Drew hesitated, watching the scene below. “What do you think is really going on?”

Paul didn’t answer right away. He turned back to the scope, adjusted a setting that didn’t need adjusting.

“I don’t care,” he said. “I’m here to document, not theorize.”

And that was that.

The last of the cigars burned out around 11:10. Jake stretched, stood, and started gathering glasses. Obie grabbed the ice bucket. Celia and Chase disappeared through the sliding door, Roberto just behind them. It was calm, unhurried. It was clear the evening had wound down.

Lights flicked off inside. One by one, the deck lights went dark, leaving only a faint glow from the entertainment room, enough to silhouette the furniture and reflect off the floor. But the room was empty.

Drew shifted in his position. The adrenaline of the forehead-kiss theory had faded. His legs ached from being still. His right hand had gone cold from resting on the tripod grip too long. He sipped the last of his coffee. It was lukewarm, bitter, and now tasted faintly of metal.

Nothing moved for a while.

And then, around 11:30, the deck door slid open again.

Two figures emerged. Dimly lit, but visible. Drew peered through his camera eyepiece, hand gripping the tripod to keep it steady. Robes. Bare feet. Hair tied back. The light from the entertainment room offered just enough to make them out.

Grace and Gina.

They didn’t turn on the main deck lighting, which made them appear shadow-soft on the cameras, almost like ghosts. But the angles were good. The moonlight caught their outlines just enough. Paul made a quiet noise—approval, interest, maybe just breath—and focused his own lens.

Movement was the enemy now. With the lighting low and shutter speeds slow, the only usable photos would be when they were still.

They spoke softly, inaudible from this distance. Grace knelt by the hot tub. Gina lifted the cover. Together they flipped it open, folded it back. Steam rolled upward into the cold air.

They undid their robes.

Drew shot four frames—slow, careful shots timed for stillness.

Both women wore modest, one-piece swimsuits—black for Gina, dark red for Grace. Not scandalous. Not particularly revealing. Just two women in swimsuits, walking toward the heat. Grace had a very nice body. Gina, not so much. She looked like an athlete. Solid, built. Almost, but not quite masculine.

They stepped into the tub, shivering slightly, bracing themselves against the initial shock of temperature. Grace reached for the control panel and turned on the jets. Foam churned. Lights flicked on beneath the surface—a warm underwater glow that made everything a little clearer.

Drew adjusted focus. Paul was already snapping—slow, deliberate intervals. No urgency. No commentary. Just the quiet click of professionalism.

Inside, the house glowed faintly. But out here, all the light now came from the tub.

Drew continued to peer through his lens as the two girls settled in. They were facing the view of the harbor and the Southern Cross, which put them in partial side profile to the two cameras. They were sitting very close together, hips touching, shoulders touching. Much closer than normal women sat together even if they were close friends and roommates.

“Do you think maybe those two are… you know… lesbians?” he asked, hoping it was true.

“Yes,” Peterson said simply.

“Really?”

“Really,” the older man assured him. “You got your classic combo of femme and butch down there. Grace is the femme, in case you were unsure.”

“I don’t think Gina looks that butch,” Drew said.

“She don’t look very non-butch either. Trust me. Those two are sticking their tongues in each other’s business.”

“Hmmm… maybe,” Drew said doubtfully. He wanted to believe they were lesbians and they were going to fuck right there in the hot tub, but he still could not believe that anything like that could happen. And if it did, he would not be there to witness it. Nevertheless, he took a few shots of the cozy couple.

“Why are you taking shots of them?” Paul asked.

“Valerie might want to see this,” he replied, though he didn’t really give a shit if she wanted them or not. It was a hot girl and a kinda manly but hottish girl sitting in bathing suits in a hot tub.

“She doesn’t want to see anything these two do,” Peterson said. “Not even if they do a full on dyke-out there in the tub. They’re not the players were here to document. No one gives a shit about Grace Best and Gina What’s-her-fuckin-name. Trust me on this.”

Drew stopped snapping pictures but he kept peering at them through the lens. It looked like they were talking quietly. And then Gina, the more athletic and masculine one, put her arm around Grace’s shoulders and pulled her close. Grace snuggled in a little tighter to her and tilted her face up. A moment later, they were kissing each other. Gentle at first quickly developing into full-on passionate tongue kissing.

“Yeah,” Drew said, feeling a little stirring down below. “I think you might be right about them being lesbians.”

“What clued you in?” Paul asked.

Drew heard the sound of Paul’s shutter clicking.

“I thought you said Valerie doesn’t want shots of this,” he said.

“Fuck Valerie,” he said, “this is two chicks making out in a hot tub, one of them hot, the other not disgusting. This is personal. Spank pack for later.”

“Oh,” Drew said quietly.

“Start snapping away, youngster, or I might start to think you’re a stool pusher.”

Drew started snapping away. The two girls kissed each other and rubbed each other’s bodies for the better part of ten minutes before getting up to towel off and take their business inside. They left Drew with a raging erection and 38 digital images of the encounter.

Paul was right. It would make a good spank pack for later.

And that was the only thing of merit that happened that night. The house was completely dark by midnight and not a creature stirred after that. Not even a mouse.

 

*****

 

“You spent the whole fucking night up on that hill and you have nothing?” Valerie barked at them during the breakfast briefing the next morning. “A group of them smoking cigars and drinking. A kiss on the forehead. Two unimportant people making out in a hot tub.”

“They were both women,” Drew added helpfully.

“I don’t care if they were both duck billed platypuses with mondo tits,” she said. “Nobody gives a fuck about those two. Nobody even knows who they are. Unless one of them starts sucking off Jake or munching Celia’s box under the deck lights, it doesn’t matter.”

“Don’t you want to see the shots?” Paul asked, earning himself a glare but not an answer.

“Are you going back tonight or are you going to get some day shots?” she asked.

“We’ll do another night tonight,” Paul said.

Drew inwardly groaned. He had gotten maybe an hour’s worth of broken sleep. He was not accustomed to trying to slumber while on a precarious hillside with a cold ocean wind blowing and weird ass animals crying out every now and then. And sleeping on the ground! What the fuck? Paul, of course, had slept like a baby and woke up refreshed. The asshole.

Valerie snatched the last bite of a croissant from her plate, dabbed at her lip like she was in a Paris bistro, and said, “I’m going into town today.”

Drew blinked. “For what?”

She sipped her espresso—real coffee, not the freeze-dried punishment Paul and Drew had brought back with them. “Interviews.”

Paul raised an eyebrow. “You found people who actually know them?”

“I don’t want people who know them,” she said, waving her hand like that was the dumbest thing she’d heard all week. “I want people who think they know them. Locals. Older ones. The kind who resent noise, wealth, Americans, or all three.”

Drew opened his mouth. Closed it again.

“I’ll ask the right questions,” she continued. “Things like, ‘Have you heard anything strange about the Kingsley property?’ or ‘Do they have… unusual guests?’ And when they start grumbling about Jake Kingsley not mowing his roadside grass or someone seeing him shirtless in the summer of ’02, I’ll write it up as ‘a source close to the Kingsley clan.’”

“Classic,” Paul said, not without admiration.

“Exactly,” she said. “It’s not about truth, it’s about framing. People don’t trust perfect stories. They trust messy. If I can find someone to suggest Jake’s not really Caydee’s dad or Celia has an offshore cult, we’re in business.”

She downed the rest of her coffee and stood. “In the meantime, you two are going to go up earlier tonight. I want you in place before sunset, ready for golden hour, deck lights, whatever the fuck they give us.”

“We’ll be there,” Paul said.

“And I want shots I can use,” she added. “Not lakeside serenity, not lesbians who aren’t even on the roster. Give me conflict. Give me intimacy. Give me something that’s worth a caption.”

Paul stood up and stretched. “We’ll be in position.”

“Good,” she said, grabbing her bag and sunglasses. “And be ready for Christmas Eve. They’ll start prepping for the kids. Maybe that’s when they slip. Maybe we catch them being real.”

Drew hesitated as Valerie slid her sunglasses into place. “Can I run something past you?”

She paused, one eyebrow raised. “If it’s about lesbians in hot tubs, I swear to God—”

“It’s not,” Drew said quickly. “It’s about the three principals. Jake, Celia, and Laura.”

Paul leaned back slightly in his chair, interested but silent.

Drew cleared his throat. “Okay. So, we’ve got two marriages, two divorces. But no one ever moved out. They kept living together the whole time. No custody battles, no distance, no separate residences. That’s one thing.”

Valerie folded her arms.

“Then there’s the rings,” Drew continued. “They all still wear them. Every photo, every public event. Even when they weren’t technically married, the rings never came off. And they’re still affectionate—warm. Not just Jake and the women, but Celia and Laura too.”

Valerie blinked once. “Is there a point?”

“I’m saying Occam’s Razor applies here,” Drew said. “The simplest explanation that fits the evidence? They’re all together. Not in a triangle of jealousy or fake reconciliations. Just… together. Like a polyamorous trio.”

There was a long pause.

Valerie stared at him.

And then she laughed. Once. Sharp and incredulous.

“That’s the stupidest fucking thing I’ve heard in fifteen years of digging through dirty laundry and airing it out for cash,” she said. “A stable, happy polyamorous triple? Fucking impossible. A violation of the laws of relationships. That’s more of a violation than a stable wormhole in physics.”

Drew opened his mouth. Closed it again.

“Even if it were true,” she added, grabbing her bag, “nobody wants to read about that shit. No cheating, no betrayal, no emotional carnage? There’s no story. There’s no scandal. Just a bunch of weird people who figured out how not to implode.”

She stepped toward the door. “You want headlines? Give me collapse. Give me drama. Give me one of them sobbing into the rose garden with their blouse ripped open. Then we’re in business.”

She pulled open the door. “I’m going to get ready.”

The door clicked shut behind her.

Paul leaned back and grinned. “Told you.”

 

*****

 

Meanwhile, 5,000 miles away, deep beneath the Indian Ocean floor, a colossal slab of the Earth’s crust strained against another, pressing with the slow, unrelenting pressure of geological time. For centuries it had held. For decades it had groaned. And now, in late December of 2004, that pressure had reached its final, unbearable threshold.

It would only take a flick. A slip. A rupture.

The fault line—unseen, silent, unimaginable in scale—was a whisper away from letting go. A release of energy equivalent to thousands of atomic bombs would ripple through the ocean, bend the planet’s crust, and displace trillions of tons of seawater in a single convulsion.

No one on Earth knew it.

It was not something that could be forecast or tracked. There was no early warning system. No advance alert.

But it was coming. It was inevitable.

And it was almost here.

Chapter 2

 

Making Waves

 

Port Hills, New Zealand

December 25, 2004

 

It was 6:33 AM when the sound of the kids woke them up.

Jake opened one eye to find the bedroom still dim with that blue-tinted early light unique to New Zealand summers, then shut it again with a grunt. On the other side of the bed, Celia shifted under the covers. Laura groaned. No one moved fast. No one wanted to. But this was Christmas, and they were parents, which meant the day belonged to the short people in the house. The ones already awake.

And waiting.

Somewhere down the hall, the unmistakable sound of restrained chaos filtered upward— whispers that weren’t whispers, feet that weren’t quite running, a tiny voice trying to hush a smaller one.

Santa had come. And the kids were playing by the rules.

How nice of them.

Jake rolled onto his back and exhaled. “Six-thirty. They let us sleep in.”

“God bless them,” Laura muttered, face still buried against Jake’s chest..

“I give it ten more minutes,” Celia said, her leg entwined with Jake’s. “Five if Cap starts shrieking.”

He did.

Six minutes later, all three adults shuffled out of bed, still dressed the way only exhausted parents staging a fake Santa delivery until 2:00 AM dress: Laura and Celia in panties and nothing else, Jake in boxer briefs, one sock missing. They hadn’t even made it to the sex part of the evening, which was frankly disappointing. But Santa had been a demanding little bastard this year, and the hot buttered rum drinks mixed with lingering jetlag hadn’t helped.

The stockings had been stuffed. The gifts had been sorted. Tabby’s telescope assembled and put in a big-ass carboard box. The Lego box checked and rechecked to make sure it was the right classic set with no branding bullshit. And Caydee’s iPod mini—oh, the iPod—had been synced and loaded with a playlist that could only have been created by people who loved their child enough to tolerate spending forty minutes in iTunes purgatory.

They’d done it all, tired and bleary, but with care. Because even if Caydee and Tabby no longer believed in the jolly red myth—and Cap was still mentally living in a world where shoelaces were sorcery—the ritual still mattered.

Santa wasn’t a person anymore. He was a performance.

And once the performance ends, it doesn’t come back until grandchildren drag his fat ass out of retirement.

So they did it right. With cookies. With ribbons. With hot buttered rum and snarky commentary about whose handwriting was best suited for the “From Santa” tags. And now, they were throwing on sweats and T-shirts, scrubbing sleep from their faces and padding barefoot down the hallway, trying to look festive instead of mildly hungover.

In the family room, the stockings were down, the wrapped presents respectfully untouched, and the kids were in full holiday inspection mode. Caydee and Tabby sat side by side, legs crossed on the floor, carefully evaluating their stocking haul like forensic analysts. Cap, possibly still dreaming, sat on the couch with a candy cane in one hand and a sock in the other, blinking at the lights on the tree like they might explain something if he stared long enough.

Stockings were the only acceptable pre-presents indulgence. This was a rule, not a guideline. Violation carried consequences.

Jake dropped onto the arm of the couch with a grunt.

“Good morning,” he said, voice like gravel.

“You missed Santa,” Caydee said, without looking up.

“We were asleep,” Celia said, flopping into a chair. “And so were you.”

“I was pretending,” Caydee said.

“Cap wasn’t,” Tabby offered helpfully. “He was totally out. We had to drag his butt out of the crib.”

Cap blinked slowly. “Buhh.”

The tree glowed, the coffee hadn’t been made—Jake had been too hot buttered and rummed to remember to set it up—and the adults were running on sugar fumes and tradition. But it was Christmas. And the room, for all its chaotic parts, felt whole.

From the hallway came the sound of more feet—Mary and Tom appearing in matching pajamas that suggested they’d made a group decision to embrace grandparent chic. Papa and Mama Valdez followed, moving at a pace that said yes, we’re awake, but only technically. Pauline arrived next, Obie behind her with his usual cowboy gait and a mug that clearly did not contain coffee.

“Morning,” Obie said, raising his mug.

Celia sniffed. “Bourbon this early?”

“Tradition,” he said.

Grace, Chase, and Gina, of course, were still asleep. They were older. Or smarter. Either way, the day had begun.

Jake, Celia, and Laura didn’t even try to enforce order once the rest of the adults filtered in. The coffee was finally brewing—Jake had thrown the pot on himself while still blinking at the buttons—and the kids knew the system. Stockings first. Presents only after caffeine and general assembly.

Tabby got the first big box.

She’d been hoping for a real telescope ever since Fourth of July, when she’d begun hinting about it with increasing desperation—stars this, constellations that, space documentaries “accidentally” left playing on the TV. And now, with the real deal sitting beside her—a proper auto-tracking scope, not a toy—Tabby stared at it like it had just descended from orbit.

She ran her fingers along the adjustment knobs, already calculating the best place to set it up. “I want to find Centaurus this time,” she said excitedly. “And Carina. I never got a good look last year.”

“You will,” Jake said.

She nodded, half-listening, already lost in the sky she hadn’t seen yet. The Southern Cross she knew. That had started it all—the first time she’d looked up last Christmas and realized the stars were different here. Backwards. Like the sky was flipped and inviting her to decode it.

This year, she had the tools.

Cap’s gift came next—a large plastic tub of old-school Legos, the kind without branding, storylines, or instruction manuals. Just bricks. Just possibility.

Cap plopped down in his footie pajamas, pulled off the lid, and immediately began sorting. Not chewing, not throwing—sorting. Within minutes, he had a stable wall five bricks high, built with eerie precision. Then he knocked it over and attempted to climb the coffee table.

“He does that,” Laura said, watching him fondly and fearfully. “He builds something, then climbs something. Like it’s a rule.”

“He climbed the ironing board last week,” Celia added. “I didn’t even know he could find the damn ironing board.”

Jake gestured at the toddler, now hanging off the arm of a recliner like a baby lemur. “He stacked couch cushions last Tuesday and tried to leap onto the changing table.”

“Do we know why he does this?” Tom asked, brow furrowing.

“Nope,” Laura said. “He has no interest in music despite the family he was born into. But he loves climbing to the top of things.”

“Future mountaineer,” Obie offered. “Maybe one day he’ll climb Mount Everest.”

“But he won’t be dragging a guitar up there with him,” Jake said sadly.

“I think he’s going to be a pilot,” Celia said. “Just like his padre.”

Caydee’s box came last. She opened it carefully, reverently, as if it might explode. But she knew what it was. She always knew. Daddy had spent three weeks swearing it wasn’t happening—seven was too young, he’d said. She’d get distracted, lose it, drop it in the pool. But Jake also knew she wasn’t a normal seven.

The iPod Mini was silver. The playlist had taken two nights and three arguments to finalize. And when she plugged in the earbuds and scrolled through the library—nearly every song Jake and Celia and Grandpa Kingsley had ever sung to her at guitar-sing, from ancient harmonies to warm lullabies to War Pigs and Killing in the Name Of—she didn’t smile. Not at first. She just closed her eyes.

Jake watched her. She had said thank you multiple times but the true gratitude was in her eyes as she flipped through the playlist one by one.

The rest of the morning unfurled in waves. More gifts. More coffee. A lot of “you shouldn’t have”s and “where are the batteries” and one incident involving Cap, a dish towel, and the telescope tripod that nearly ended in structural collapse.

Chase wandered in around eight, wearing a long T-shirt and looking quite rumpled. Gina followed, fresh-faced and radiant. Grace, poetically, was the last to appear, mug in hand and hair still damp, looking like she’d slept eight hours and dreamed of nothing at all.

By noon, wrapping paper blanketed the floor. Cap had climbed two more pieces of furniture and attempted to disassemble part of the couch. Caydee had made it through six songs and one soft, unexplained cry. And the adults—fed, relaxed, and lightly caffeinated—were already dividing up cleanup duties without needing to speak.

It was, by any reasonable metric, a perfect Christmas morning.

None of them had any idea that prying eyes had been watching them the entire night. Not just watching, but documenting. Through digital photography.

 

*****

Drew was clean. Not fresh, not rested, not exactly alive—but clean. The kind of post-stakeout shower where the hot water hits your spine and your only conscious thought is thank God I’m not pissing in the darkness anymore.

He and Peterson had staggered back to the hotel just before seven, shoes coated in grit, camo sleeves smelling like grass and polyester anxiety. They’d split the remaining bottle of water during the hike out, had a silent elevator ride up to the second floor. Morning briefing with Valerie as soon as they were clean. They needed to smell like humans this time.

Valerie had insisted. “If you show up stinking like bush meat again,” she’d told them two days ago, “I’ll have the hotel fumigate the suite and charge it to your mother.” No word about how it had been she who had insisted they show up without showering the first time.

So now they were clean. Hair damp. Faces shaved. Memory cards almost full—but never entirely. Because every paparazzo knew the rule: the moment you filled your last card, or—if you were old-school—fired your final frame of film, that was when Bigfoot would appear, riding the Loch Ness Monster and holding Jimmy Hoffa’s severed head.

Drew’s Nikon held 1,431 new photos. Peterson’s was about the same. Sunset to sunrise. Kingsley family Christmas Eve, in sequence. Deck drinking, dinner glimpses, living room warmth, Jake kissing both women on the couch, the whole post-kid bedtime phase with the adults doing Santa theater, and finally the dim, golden hush of late-night cleanup. Then darkness.

Nothing had moved after 2:12 AM. They knew the time exactly. Drew had logged it, waiting for another light to flick on. It never did.

Now they were seated on the couch in Valerie’s suite, laptops open, files queued.

She was already pacing. Gray silk robe over yoga pants, coffee in one hand, pen in the other, hair up, mouth tight.

“All right,” she said, not looking at them. “Give me the shortlist.”

Peterson cracked his knuckles, leaned forward. “Sequence starts just before sunset. Family gathered on the back deck—Jake, Celia, Laura, the two older girls, Obie, Valdez senior. Bottle of red wine, possibly Malbec, and a lot of relaxed body language. Celia in Jake’s lap at one point. Laura sits beside him, arm around his shoulders. No one looks uncomfortable.”

“No tension,” Drew added. “Plenty of contact. Some sustained.”

“Photos?” Valerie asked.

“Dozens,” Peterson said. “Mid-light, well-composed, not just silhouettes.”

Drew tapped his keyboard. “Next series is indoor, seen through the windows. Lighting held pretty well thanks to the open blinds and internal warmth. Caydee and Cap get walked through bedtime. Tabby hands out what looked like cookies. Chase dances briefly with Obie. Jake plays acoustic guitar for exactly four minutes.”

“Which song?” Valerie asked.

“Unclear,” Drew said. “Sound didn’t carry. Laura was playing a flute. Celia had her head on Jake’s shoulder.”

Valerie finally sat. “Okay. Go on.”

“After kids vanish,” Peterson said, “the real gold starts. Jake sits on the couch between the two women—Laura on his left, Celia on the right. He kisses Laura on the cheek. Then Celia on the mouth. Neither woman flinches.”

“They smile,” Drew said. “Genuinely. No jealousy.”

Valerie raised an eyebrow. “You sure about that?”

“I’m sure what I saw,” Drew said.

“Mm.” She sipped her coffee. “Continue.”

“Santa prep begins around 12:30,” Peterson said. “They bring out presents, set up staging near the tree. Wrap up close to 2:00 AM. At one point, Jake kneels with both women beside him and they all inspect a Lego box like it’s a rare manuscript.”

“Candid?”

“Very.”

Valerie made a note. “Anything sexual?”

Drew blinked. “I would say everything fell into the category of ‘intimately familiar’ but not overtly sexual in nature.”

“Pity,” she muttered. “Anything after 2:12?”

“No movement,” Peterson said. “House goes dark. We watched for the rest of the night, but hiked out at first light without taking another shot.”

Valerie leaned back in her chair. “All right. Load them up.”

Drew slid his card into the reader. The thumbnails began populating, hundreds at a time. The screen glowed with warm windows, firelight shadows, familiar outlines caught in private ease.

Valerie set her coffee down. “Let’s see what fantasy looks like when you shoot it from two hundred meters uphill.”

She leaned in as the thumbnails populated, her finger tapping idly against the coffee mug. She scrolled through slowly—Jake and Celia with their heads close, Laura laughing with her feet in his lap, the three of them arranging wrapped presents like stagehands on a sentimental film set.

“No jealousy,” she muttered. “No competition. No visible sexual tension. Just warmth.”

Drew nodded. “Exactly.”

Valerie turned. “And you think that’s normal?”

“I think it’s honest,” Drew said. “Occam’s Razor. The simplest explanation that fits the evidence is usually the right one. He’s in a romantic relationship with both of them. That’s what the photos show.”

“And they’re all just happy?” she asked, her voice loaded with sarcasm. “No two people on Earth can survive a long-term relationship without turning into each other’s prison warden, but somehow Jake Kingsley has pulled it off with two women? Simultaneously?”

Drew didn’t blink. “Seems like it.”

Valerie sat back with a dry laugh. “No fuckin’ way. That’s not how people work.”

“Maybe it’s how they work,” Drew offered.

She gave him a look reserved for people who believed in astrology.

“The only time I’ve ever seen a man that close to two women without any jealousy,” she said, “is when he’s gay. Kingsley’s not sleeping with either of them. That’s the truth. He’s gay. They’re taking turns being his beard. You think he didn’t launch both of them? You think that’s a coincidence?”

“He was with Laura before she was famous,” Drew said. “That’s true. But Celia was part of La Diferencia long before she knew Jake Kingsley. She was already famous.”

“Exactly,” Valerie said. “Power dynamics. Loyalty. Smoke and mirrors. He’s gay, and they’re protecting the brand. That’s what we’re looking at.”

Drew started to protest, then stopped. Peterson had shifted in his seat, cracking his neck.

“You agree with this?” Drew asked him.

Peterson shrugged. “I don’t care. But it tracks.”

“You really think he’s gay?”

“I know he’s plowed some serious women in his time,” Peterson said. “I personally took the pictures of him and Mindy Snow naked on a boat back in the day.” He did not mention some other pictures he had taken of Jake and a certain makeup artist double penetrating Mindy with Jake’s cock and a strap-on dildo. He had been paid a lot of money to keep that quiet and he did have honor to some degree. “But this? This is too clean. No tension, no mistakes, no weird looks. That’s not normal.”

“Maybe they’re just happy,” Drew said. “Maybe it’s working for them.”

Peterson gave him a long look. “Every serious relationship I’ve ever been in has ended in disaster. And I don’t even juggle two at a time.”

Valerie pointed at him. “Exactly. Humans can’t do it. One’s hard enough. Two is impossible.”

Drew folded his arms. “You ever consider that maybe you two are the common denominator in your failed relationships.”

Valerie laughed like he’d offered a math problem instead of a challenge. “Don’t project, intern. You’re twenty-one and still believe people are worth fixing.”

Peterson grunted. “Twenty-one and already being told he’s wrong for thinking people can be happy. Welcome to journalism.”

Valerie clicked into a new thumbnail—Jake, laughing mid-frame, arms around both women.

“This,” she said, tapping the screen, “is the story. Not polyamory. Not fairy-tale throuples. Jake Kingsley, closeted gay man, running the most successful three-person PR campaign in the music business.”

“Jesus,” Drew muttered.

Peterson gave a noncommittal nod. “The shots do support that.”

Valerie scrolled back to the kiss. One on the cheek, one on the lips. Framed by firelight. Framed by comfort.

She made a note.

Drew stared at the screen. At the warmth. At the effortless trust in that living room.

And he knew—deep down—that he was right.

But he also knew Valerie wouldn’t run that story.

Not unless it ended in a wreck.

“One more night on the hill,” she told them. “And then I want you two stalking Jake like the sleazeball pap you are. I want shots of him interacting with men—particularly good looking and younger men. If you can get any male adolescent boys talking to him, that’s fuckin’ gold right there.”

“We can do that,” Paul said with a shrug.

“Are you talking sexual encounters with men and boys?” Drew asked. “Because we’re not going to see that even if he is gay. It’s not like he’s going to do it in a public place.”

“I’m not talking about pictures of him sticking his tongue down some guy’s throat or sucking on a dick,” she said. “Although, if he does any of that I trust you will photograph it. I’m talking about him interacting with males when he is in public. Any shot that suggests he’s gay and checking them out or setting something up for later.”

Drew was getting exasperated now. “Everyone talks to males when they’re out in public,” he said. “It’s called being a part of society. Just because he’s talking to them doesn’t mean he’s gay.”

“It does if presented in the right context,” Valerie said. “You take six hundred shots of him talking to men and adolescents and we pick the most suggestive ones for publication and support of the narrative.”

“That’s not journalism,” Drew protested.

“And you’re not working for the fuckin’ Washington Post or the Wall Street Journal. You’re working for the American Watcher. You take the shots. We’ll spin them into the story.”

“But the story is a lie!” Drew protested.

“Not if you can’t prove it,” Valerie said.

Peterson just yawned. He really wanted to get some sleep and wished these two would stop blathering so he could work his way in that direction.

 

*****

The Pacific Ocean, five miles off the east coast of New Zealand December 26, 2004 (Sunday)

 

The rods were stowed, the deck hosed off, and the ice chest full. Nobody was fishing anymore. The quota had been hit early—everyone had limited out—and now the Kingsley party was riding the slow churn of the South Pacific toward port, sun-drowsy and satisfied.

A group of them had gathered on the rear deck, where the real fishing had gone down that morning. The gear was stacked neatly in holders. The fish were gutted, filleted, and on ice. The air smelled like salt, bait, and sunscreen gone warm.

Jake, Laura, Obie, Grace, and Gina sat stretched across the benches and cooler tops, cracked beers in hand, passing around the remainder of a fat, sticky joint made from some Indonesian Red Jake had scored down in Lyttelton on their second day in country.

Caydee had gone into the cabin a half hour earlier, already buzzed from sea air and sun, curling up on one of the cabin benches with her head on Papa Valdez’s arm. The older man had stayed with her, hat tilted low, breathing deep and slow. Chase was up on the sun deck atop the boat, stripped down to a bikini and catching some sun.

Down on the deck, the vibe was mellow. Celebratory.

“You’re sure this shit came from Indonesia?” Obie asked, holding the joint between his fingers and peering at it like it might come with an import sticker.

“That’s what the dude said,” Jake replied. “He also said it was grown on a volcano, so, you know. Grain of salt.”

Grace took the joint from Jake. “It tastes volcanic.”

Laura laughed softly. She was barefoot, sitting sideways on the bench, one arm resting on Jake’s thigh. “You say that like you’ve done a tasting tour.”

“I have,” Grace said. “It’s called college.”

Gina nursed her beer and smiled at them—quiet, observant. Her first time on a fishing boat. First time in the open ocean, too, and it was clear she was soaking in every second.

The captain stepped out of the wheelhouse—a wiry, sun-leathered Kiwi in his early sixties with that permanently wind-cracked look that seafarers wore like armor. His sunglasses were scratched, his forearms dark with age and sea, and his work shirt looked like it had been part of his body since 1983.

“Smells good back here,” he said, catching a whiff.

Obie held out the joint. “Want a hit, Cap?”

The captain grinned. “Appreciate it, mate, but I’m on duty. Back in the day, sure—I’d’ve taken the whole thing and offered you rum in return.”

“You don’t anymore?” Laura asked.

“Not when I’m getting paid,” he said. “I’ve still got a license to keep and a logbook that doesn’t write itself.”

Jake nodded toward the wheelhouse. “You used to be Coast Guard?”

“Damn right. New Zealand Coast Guard, Dunedin sector. Spent a lot of the ’80s chasing smugglers, rescuing tourists, and pulling drunken Aussies off rocks. The pay was shit, but we got free coffee and saw more action than the Navy.”

Grace offered a beer salute. “Respect.”

He leaned against the rail, arms crossed loosely. “We’ll be at the dock in just over an hour, if the wind holds. I’ll you back in time for a rinse before dinner.”

They nodded. Someone muttered a “sweet.”

“Oh,” the captain added, almost as an afterthought, “radio said there was a big bastard of a quake up in Indonesia this morning. Nine-point-oh or more. Somewhere off Sumatra.”

Jake looked up. “Nine-point-oh, huh? That’s a big fuckin’ shake.”

“Too right,” the captain said. “They didn’t say much more. One of those deep-sea ones. Might’ve rattled the locals. Said tsunamis were possible, but that’s standard with anything that size. Usually just hits nearby spots and fades.”

“What time did it happen?” Laura asked.

“Dunno,” the captain said. “Morning their time, early arvo here, I think. We had the radio on before we lost signal—just caught a blip before we went out of range.”

Grace frowned slightly. “Anyone hurt?”

“No details yet. Could be nothin’. Could be messy. Always hard to tell with Indonesia. Big islands, scattered populations. They bounce back.”

And just like that, the conversation drifted on.

Obie offered the last of the joint to Jake, who shook his head and opened another beer instead. Gina leaned her elbows on the railing and looked out across the water like she might see Sumatra if she squinted hard enough.

No one said the word “disaster.” No one knew.

They were high, happy, and tired. Riding the slow edge of calm water toward shore.

None of them realized they had just heard the first mention of one of the top five deadliest natural disaster in recorded human history.

The boat kept moving.

 

*****

 

The smell of fish hit first—salt, scales, and something distinctly deck-flavored—well before the front door opened.

Mary Kingsley was already standing in the foyer, spoon in hand, apron on, a strand of graying hair tucked behind one ear with tactical precision. She wasn’t angry. She was just ready.

“Shoes off,” she said, before anyone even stepped inside. “All of you. Right here. Right now. Do not bring whatever’s on those soles into this house.”

Jake stopped in the doorway, holding the handle of one of the ice chests. “Hi, Mom.”

“Hi, son,” Mary replied, stepping back to let him in. “Your hair’s crispy.”

“Salt air.”

“It smells like fish air.”

Behind him, Laura sighed good-naturedly and began unlacing her deck shoes. Caydee followed without protest, sitting on the bottom step to pry off her sneakers with damp little grunts. Obie toed his slip-ons off with theatrical resignation.