Page 120 of Gilt

Maddox appears as soon as I touch the handle.

“Can I drive you somewhere?” he asks.

I whirl around and give him a wicked smile. “No, but here’s what you’re going to do.”

The one benefit of staying locked up for a week is that it’s pretty easy to trick the reporters waiting on the other side. I send Maddox ahead of me, along with one of the Wests’ housemaids who needed to run some errands. When I reach the gate at the end of the private drive, there’s nary a leach insight.

No one’s seen this car, so I put as much distance between me and the West residence as possible before I begin to slow down. I double-check my rearview mirrors and turn left a bunch of times until I’m satisfied that no one is following me. Who knew you could learn how to lose a tail online? Thanks Google.

It’s strange how different it feels when I pull up to the boxy, two-bedroom house that’s only a few blocks away. The stark difference between Jameson’s reality and my past can’t be denied. But even as my stomach begins to churn from nerves, taking the walkway to the front door feels like coming home.

I nearly give up when no one answers after I knock twice. I have a key, but I can’t shake how angry Josie had been when I touched her phone last week. How would she feel if I walked into her house? I stand there for a moment, staring at the locked door between us until it opens.

“Emma!” Marion tugs her robe tightly around her.

“I’m sorry!’ I stare at her in wide-eyed horror as I realize how early it is at the Deckard house. She probably just got off work a few hours ago.

But Marion waves off my apology. “It’s my day off. I’d invite you in, but Josie has the flu.”

“How is she?” I ask.

“She’s fine. Probably something she ate.”

I want to know about more than her stomach cramps, but I don’t push the topic. Marion Deckard didn’t invite me into her house, which means Josie’s either really sick or she doesn’t want to see me.

“Tell her I stopped by?”

“Of course,” she promises, her eyes darting around the street before she steps back inside.

Maybe they both would prefer not to see me.

I don’t have time to throw myself a pity party. If misery loves company, it hates productivity. My time is running out. According to the court, I have to appear at the clinic by Monday. That gives me the weekend to piece together the bizarre trail of clues The Dealer left behind for us. His posts have become less frequent. I don’t know what that means, but I’m not going to miss my opportunity to figure out what he’s trying to tell me.

As if to back up that decision, a new photo appears on his feed in the late morning. It’s from last week. I’m in the black romper walking into a nondescript office building. I know what that place is, and I know what he’s trying to tell me.

I have an appointment that I need to keep this evening. But first, I have time to make a house call.

Dominic Chamber’s office is a reporter-free zone, so he must have upheld his word that no one would know he’s been working for me. It’s early enough in the day that he’s at his desk. The creeps come out at night in this city.

He glances up from his computer and exhales when he makes eye contact. Pushing away from the desk, he gestures for me to take an empty chair before he lounges in his own seat. “You’re a hard woman to reach.”

“I’ve been a little more cautious with blocked callers. Next time go through the Belle Mère police. They seem to know where I am at all hours.”

He frowns. Maybe I’m not as funny as I think I am. “I called from several numbers.”

“Sorry, but my lawyer”—it still feels ridiculous to say that—“made me block unknown callers.”

“Understandable, given the circumstances. However, if we’re going to continue to work together, I’ll need a way to reach you. Get yourself a prepaid cell phone to use as a burner.”

“A burner?” I repeat. I thought those were only for spy movies, but he nods seriously.

“Done,” I promise him. “So, if you’ve been trying to reach me, does that mean you have something?”

He shuffles a few folders around on his desk before he finds the one he wants. I could probably pay him in secretarial services.

“There’s no record of who your sister’s father is.” Before I can thank him for his lackluster bit of news, he goes on, “In fact, most of her medical records and vital statistics have been sealed.”

“What do you mean by sealed?”