Proven by the day Amos knocked on my door.
“Are we storyboarding outfits? Or did we have a fitting?” I asked, blinking into the bright afternoon sun. I’d lost track of things like appointments or schedules.
“No,” Amos said, pushing past me and into the house.
“Then what are—”
“I keep thinking about that night,” he said.
My stomach clenched. There was, after all, only one night I thought of whenever anyone saidthat night.
“What night?”
He crossed his arms as he regarded me. He usually wore simple slacks and a button-down shirt—normally with a few too many buttons undone. But today his shoes were shined, his buckle gleaming, and his shirt collar was pressed flat, not the usual artistic crumple he favored.
He’d dressed up for me.
“The BAFTAs,” he said. “Your dress was a mess, your behavior erratic, you—”
“Really?” I interrupted, pulse pounding. I could cut this off. I could lie through my teeth. “What part of it wasn’t in keeping with my character?”
“Please,” he hissed. “I know well enough when you’re doing something for attention. That night was desperation. That’s rare from you. Even rarer when you’ve just won an award.”
“I don’t know what—”
“How did you get the buttons back up?”
I paused, forcing my hands behind my back before my twitching fingers could give me away. I could act, always. Put me in front of a watching audience or a lens and I’d persuade anyone of anything.
But not in front of the people who knew me. Not for the people I cared for.
“I helped you take that dress off, Nadine. So why put it back on to go out?”
“I didn’t have anything else.”
“And who helped you? Because it wasn’t me.”
“I … Caleb.”
“Helped you take it off, I’m sure. But on? You didn’t do it yourself.”
I wanted to lie, and I would have, if I could. But I had no name at the tip of my tongue.Someone from the hotel—but why wouldn’t I just get him?Some random hookup—who would keep that quiet? I’m Nadine Heywood. I’mthegirl you brag about.Harper—let’s not.
So I went for scorn. I laughed. “Are you serious? You’ve comeall the way over for that? How should I remember who helped me into a dress nearly a year ago? I was drinking anyway and—”
“Yes, you couldn’t remember what happened to the garment bag.”
“So sue me? What’s this about?”
“The police might find it interesting, don’t you think? These details of a girl who stayed in the same hotel as Joel and Harper around the same time he went missing. A girl who’s now fucking his wife.”
Oh my god, Amos thought I’d killed Joel. For Harper?
We hadn’t told him about the two of us, but I wasn’t surprised he knew—and I wouldn’t have been panicked that he did if he wasn’t here, throwing it all at me.
“I think they’d want to know why you’re wasting their time, actually,” I said coldly.
“Maybe.” He leaned against the edge of my sofa, picking at a straying thread. My heart pounded and through my mind ran flickering reels—movies, television shows, plays. Each one telling me the exact same thing, the way this story went:keep on killing to cover it up.
