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"Mrs. Braden," I said, trying to be warm even though her son basically sucked. "Always a pleasure to meet a Billings alum." Her
blue eyes widened, though I wasn't sure how that was possible, considering she looked as if she had just been shot up with ten vials of
Botox in the past hour. Her face was a puffy mask, stretched to its limits around full lips and heavily lined eyes. "You know your an-
cient history!" she exclaimed. "Glad to hear it. It's so good to finally meet you." She shook my hand, unsnapped her vintage clutch
purse, and extracted a small envelope, which she discreetly handed to me. "For the cause," she said "Thank you," I replied. Luckily,
Cromwell had only said we couldn't accept money from Billings alums for preparations, not for the fund-raising itself. "Good luck
tonight. Not that you'll need it," she added; then she looked past me. "Oh! Is that Rinnan Hearst? I must go say hello!" The mention of
the familiar name caused my heart to stop.
I whipped around and there was the famous actress Rinnan Hearst, Cheyenne's stepmother, standing near the wall holding court
with Cheyenne's father. One look at his handsome face, his sad eyes, the mournful lines permanently etched around them, and the
room started to spin. "Wow. You really are the woman of the evening," Marc said as a few more people stopped by to congratulate
me. People to whom I couldn't even respond. The heavy perfume and sweaty palms assaulted me, and my body temperature skyrock-
eted. Cheyenne's dad was here. Cheyenne's devastated father. One of the two people who had insisted on reopening her case. Mem-
ories assaulted me from every angle. Memories of the way he had barely been able to speak to us on the day of her funeral. Of how
he'd fallen to his knees when they released her ashes. He had loved her so much. I could only imagine what it must be like for him,
standing in a room full of his daughter's friends, knowing that by all rights she should be there too, chatting and laughing and flirting.
Was he wondering who among us might have murdered his daughter? Who might have taken his one and only child from him?
"I have to get out of here," I heard myself say. "I need some air." "Reed--" I took one step toward the door and froze. Josh had just
walked in. Josh. My savior. My rock. Looking gorgeous in his tux with his curls all askew. Just the sight of him made my heart leap.
Why was he here? He hated Billings. Had he come for me? To support me? Marc was saying something. Had his hand on my wrist as
if to calm me. But I couldn't even hear him or feel him or see him. All I saw was Josh. What I wouldn't give to have him back. To feel
him hold me. To hear him tell me everything was going to be okay. I felt the longing in my gut, my heart, my skin. So acute it was
painful. Suddenly I knew that was what I needed. Not to find someone else to replace him. Not to pick out the perfect specimen to
make him jealous. That had all been so petty. So stupid. So vindictive. No. More than anything, I needed him. Josh was all that mat-
tered. He would make it all right.
All I wanted was to hear his voice. "Josh!" I shouted, not caring that half the room could hear me. "Josh!"
He smiled, but not at me. Smiled at someone coming toward him from his left. The crowd shifted and I saw her. Ivy Slade. Dressed
in pure, ironic white. Smiling as Josh took her hand. And the walls crashed in around me. "What is she doing here?" I snapped ven-
omously. "Who?" Marc was thoroughly confused at this point. "After everything she's done..." I was shaking from head to foot from
unadulterated anger. How dare she come here tonight? How dare she? "Reed? Who are you talking about?" He followed my gaze and
