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“My sister is a train wreck,” I hiss quietly. “She’s unstable, she’s a liar, and she’s a raging narcissist. And I say all that to let you know that literally nothing you say could change what I already think about her.”
Taylor exhales slowly.
“Please,” I croak. “I just want to know the truth.”
She nods, looking away as she draws in a deep breath. “Eloise, Alistair almost lost his life that night. He was extremely drunk, and it was later shown that he had Rohypnol in his system.”
My mouth falls open. “But that’s…”
“The date rape drug, yes.”
I blanch, staring at her. “What the hell happened?”
“Camille was driving him back to her place when she got pulled over for blowing through a stop sign.”
“Drunk?”
Taylor’s mouth thins as she shakes her head side to side. “Stone cold sober. The cop gave her a breathalyzer test on the spot. She wasn’t even buzzed.” Her jaw tightens. “Alistair, on the other hand, almost fell out of the passenger seat, couldn’t obey the officer’s commands, and tried to run off before he collapsed in the street. They took him to Mt. Sinai, gave him adrenaline to get his heart going again, pumped his stomach, and found the Rohypnol in his system.” Her face is stony as she looks away. “He could have died, Eloise.”
What. The. Actual. Fuck.
“I’ve never heard a word of this,” I breathe. “Why the fuck isn’t Camille in jail?”
Taylor’s mouth twists. “Alistair didn’t want to press charges.”
I stare at her. “Why the fuck not?!”
She looks down into her wine and takes a deep breath before lifting her eyes back to mine.
“You.”
An hour later, there are two things I know for sure.
The first is that Fumi probably thinks I’m a psycho and Taylor is probably terrified of me now. Because I just all but forced the latter to take us back to the Crown and Black offices and give me a copy of the police report from that night that had been locked in her files.
The second is that I’m going to kill my sister.
I was always Papa’s favorite in terms of true affection, getting hugs and deep, bonding conversations. Camille, however, wasn’t left out, and got money and her lavish lifestyle paid for without question. Which is how a grown-ass woman who’s never worked a day in her life can live in a stunning three-story townhouse a block away from Central Park West.
Her housekeeper Betina—because of course she has a fucking housekeeper—answers my furious knocks on the front door. I blast past her, my face livid and my blood burning like nuclear fire as I storm into the house.
“CAMILLE!” I roar. “CAMILLE?!”
“Ellie?”
I look up from the foyer to see my sister up on the third floor, dressed in some ridiculous Parisian silk robe with a cocktail glass in her hand. She frowns.
“What are you?—”
“Don’t. Move!”
I storm up the winding staircase, and by the time I get to her, her face is pale as she backs away from me.
“Okay, first, your energy is so negative right?—”
“I want to talk about what the fuck happened that night!” I scream at her. “With Alistair!”
She bristles. She quickly brings the glass to her lips and takes a large gulp of her martini.
