His grip loosened, but the imprint still burned my skin. For a split second, I stood frozen, my pulse a frantic drum in my ears as his eyes drilled into mine. Without a word, I staggered back, putting distance between us.
Those words echoed in my mind as I climbed into my Uber. I looked back over my shoulder, my mind flooded with questions I had no answers to. Who was this man? What kind of danger was he talking about? And how had he known to find me at the DMV?
As the Uber drove out of the parking lot, I glimpsed the answer to the last question. A black motorcycle was parked on the side of the building. I remembered seeing one just like it when I’d left Crystals inthe New Yorker’s cab. A Harley in plain black—no flames licking the gas tank, no bells, and no whistles. And a simple black helmet like the one I’d seen on the biker’s head, now hanging from the handlebar.
He’d followed me to the DMV.
An hour later, Jack was waiting for me when I finished visiting the Henderson property I’d rented. I’d just signed the lease, and found him standing across the street. Now he knew where I was going to live. That drove me crazy.
I wanted to ask him to tell me more about his warning, but I had my real estate agent with me. I pretended not to notice him and rode off in the agent’s car. She was kind enough to give me a ride to Hertz.
When I left the car-rental company in a red convertible Beemer I’d leased on a monthly deal, the black Harley started tailing me closely. By now, I’d run out of lies I could tell myself. That Jack was there to scare me off. That he’d just get bored of following me and be gone soon. That I could evade him somehow. Was it possible that Avery Sinclair had sent him? To what end? Just to make my life miserable?
The truth was, I had no idea who Jack was or what he really wanted. It was unnerving.
It made me want to scream and scratch his eyes out.
Fear choked me, holding air trapped inside my lungs. With every turn I took, he was there, weaving through traffic, impossible to shake off. What was I supposed to be running from? Why hadn’t he told me, if he really wanted me gone?
This couldn’t be about Winston Donovan. He didn’t know I existed just yet.
Defense Attorney Blake:For the record, how do you know the defendant?
Maria Garcia:She’s my next-door neighbor.
Defense Attorney Blake:The afternoon of the murder, what vehicle was parked in your neighbor’s driveway?
Maria Garcia:Her own car, a convertible red BMW. It was there all evening, and overnight, too. I have a security system, and it didn’t move all night. I could see the side of it. I checked. She was home all afternoon and all night. I’m sure of it.
District Attorney Mitchell:Objection, Your Honor. The witness is speculating about the defendant’s whereabouts. She cannot confirm the defendant was home all afternoon and all night based solely on the car’s presence and security footage.
Judge Thomas Antunez:Sustained. The jury will disregard the last statement.
10
The Gala
A sharp awareness settled over me as we drew closer. I’d done this before. I knew the steps, the rhythm, the game. But this time, the stakes felt higher. More eyes. More risk. I inhaled slowly, steadying myself.
It’s one thing to claim fame from the privacy of a hotel room, and quite another to strut into the middle of an unforgiving crowd and pretend you belong, when they all know each other, being tightly knit in their own universe and merciless to any stranger who dares breach their ranks.
The limo approached the Cosmopolitan with stop-and-go speed, waiting in line after several other limos and black luxury SUVs with deeply tinted windows. One by one, the vehicles advanced to the cordoned, red carpet drop-off area, unloading their passengers before driving away. Several volunteers—mostly young, beautiful women dressed sharply in business suits with miniskirts and high heels—welcomed the guests at the curb, checking names off lists affixed to clipboards.
Beyond the thick burgundy velvet cordons, media and passersby colluded to gawk at the local VIPs parading in front of them. Camera flashes blitzed everywhere, sometimes too close to people’s eyes for comfort. Several guests lifted their hands to their faces before securitystepped in, pushing back on one annoying photographer even as another took their place.
My limo stopped right at the center of the red carpet, and my driver looked at me with a smile. “That’s it. Text me when you’re ready to leave.”
I nodded, painfully aware of the huge camera lens rattling against the rear windshield, trying to snap a photo of me. The driver got out and circled the vehicle, then opened my door.
I was ready.
Taking the driver’s hand with a smile, I got out of the limo, quickly finding my balance and posture in the limelight. My Golden Age Versace gown clung to me like liquid gold, catching every flicker of the camera flashes, the deep V-neck plunging with elegance, the hand-embroidered scale motif cascading in a perfectdégradéof light and shadow. I moved through the chaos with practiced ease and reveled in the spotlight, aware of the image I was projecting and quite proud of it.
An event coordinator approached me with a professional smile, a clipboard in her hand. I turned my attention to her, moving gracefully and willing myself to ignore the cameras while at the same time posing for them.
“Welcome to the Illuminate the Future Gala,” she piped enthusiastically. “I must say, your gown is amazing!” She sounded sincere, although I was sure she managed to find a compliment for each guest. “Is that hand embroidered?”
Dozens of cameras were trained on us, some shooting video. I was ready for it—chin high, expression unreadable except for a tiny smile on my lips. “I believe so, but don’t quote me on that. I didn’t exactly read the owner’s manual.”
