Cal straightened in the chair and lifted his chin. “Rod, don’t be?—”
Vinny and Francis barged back into the office, each of them carrying a drink. Francis handed Cal a short tumbler filled with whiskey and crushed ice, and Vinny held out a tall glass of pink fizzy liquid. A cocktail stick, speared with three maraschino cherries, had been dunked in. Fern eyed it but kept her hands fisted, her arms crossed over her stomach.
“You’ll want this,” Vinny said, snickering a laugh so high-pitched it climbed the back of Fern’s neck.
“Take the drink, dollface.” Cal’s voice was the polar opposite of Vinny’s, all dark skies and disappointment.
The pet name—dollface—brought Fern off the wall she’d wanted to melt into. It sounded wrong on Cal’s lips. Forced. He stared at her with the same intensity as before, when they’d been speaking on South Woodlawn.
Home. She just wanted to go home.
Fern took the drink from Vinny. The glass was clammy and cold. Just holding it made her thirsty. She put it to her lips. Sharp, sweet cherry exploded on her tongue, but when she swallowed the sip, something bitter clung to the roof of her mouth.
Cal stood up from the chair and walked toward her. She stifled a yelp as he palmed her waist and tugged her against him. She put her hands against his chest to push him away and spilled her drink onto his dinner jacket.
The pictures… Fern had the sinking feeling they wouldn’t be anything like the portraits Mother had ordered.
“Like I said,” Cal murmured, his breath caressing her ear. “She’s with us.”
5
The world spun from behind her closed eyelids. Fern didn’t want to open them, not even when all she could see and hear was a kaleidoscope of blurred faces and sounds, of pops of light and bursts of laughter.
Ages passed, it seemed, and the question of why her arms and legs were numb played on a revolving loop in her mind. It could have been minutes or hours later, but finally, once feeling crept back into her body, she managed to lift one eyelid open.
The room held still despite her churning head. A green upholstered chair, a single window fringed by green drapes, a washstand with a porcelain bowl and ewer, and a shaving kit.
Not her bedroom.
A hot rush of panic sharpened her focus, and Fern dug one elbow into the bed on which she’d been lying. Her eyes caught on a pile of red silk crumpled on the floor.
Oh, God.
She looked down at herself and saw, to her horror, she wore nothing but her slip and stockings. Another surge of panic sent her scrambling off the bed. Her knees hit the floor, and she gathered the dress into her lap, searching frantically for the side zipper as her head kicked around and around. God, it felt as if her skull was on a Victrola turntable.
The drink Vinny had given her. The cherry flavor and its strange aftertaste. Cal’s hand coming around her waist just moments before her vision distorted and her lips turned to stone.
Vinny had put something in the drink.
Fern found the zipper, already undone, and through a tremulous screen of tears, stepped into the dress. A seam along one shoulder stretched and tore as she forced her arms into the tapered sleeves. She didn’t care. She’d burn the thing as soon as she got home. The steady heartbeat of music was more distant than before, but still present. She was at the speakeasy. But where? Not underground.
She stumbled toward the window and swiped a clammy palm along the coarse twill drape. It was still dark outside, though not a single pair of headlights cut through the black pitch.
The thudding of feet came from beyond the bedroom door. Fern whirled around so fast she lost her balance. Slapping both hands against the washbasin to steady herself, her fingers knocked aside the shaving kit. The leather case flopped open. A bristled latheringbrush tumbled out, but the other things stayed in their places. A pair of trimming scissors, a round of soap.
A straight razor.
Fern took hold of the razor’s smooth wood handle just as the door to the bedroom opened. She cut the blade through the air, holding it out in front of her.
Mr. Black stepped inside. No, that wasn’t his name. It wasCal.He closed the door behind him with a soft click and held up both hands, palms facing out.
“I’m not gonna hurt you, princess.”
He spoke slowly and clearly, as if he knew Fern’s thundering pulse made it difficult to hear.
“What…what did you do to me?” Her knuckles started to ache from the stranglehold on the razor’s handle.
“I haven’t done anything to you.” He took a slow step toward her.
