Page 57 of Gilt

“I would never say anything,” Leighton starts.

“No, it’s about how you’re mistaken because you couldn’t possibly have seen that.”

“But I did,” Leighton says.

God, does the girl have any sense of self-preservation about her? Even from here, I can see the anger practically vibrating off of Monroe. “I saw him that night with him. I saw what he did to him, and I just want you to know …”

“No,” Monroe cuts her off. “You saw nothing, and if you can’t remember that, then remember this: without me, you’re nothing. I can destroy you just as fast as I made you.”

I flatten against the wall as Monroe turns and stalks back to the party. Leighton stands there for a moment before she does the same.

What the hell was that about? What had Leighton seen? Why was Monroe so intent on keeping her quiet?

The fragile strands of trust binding my heart to Jameson’s begin to fray. There’s only one thing that Leighton could have seen that would scare Monroe this badly, but if she did, why hasn’t she said anything? But I already know the answer. Because she’s scared of what will happen to her. Earlier, I decided that I trusted Jameson. Now I have to face the possibility that despite that, he still might not be innocent. He told me himself he was drinking. If he lost his temper, could I blame him for what had happened? Would it change how I felt about him?

I want to believe it couldn’t, but as the pit in my stomach grows, I force myself to face the fact that it might. Rushing back into the other room, I search for Leighton. I finally find her near the bar doing tequila shots. I suppose blacking out might be preferable to remembering tonight. She spots me and shakes her head, dropping the lime she’s sucking on to the counter.

“You should go,” she suggests. “If Monroe sees you here, she is going to lose her mind.”

“Believe me, she already knows I’m here.” Grabbing Leighton by her thin wrist, I tuck her away from the cluster of people at the bar and over near the windows overlooking the patio. People brush past us, and the noise offers us cover. “I overheard you talking to Monroe.”

She pales and glances nervously around us. Meanwhile, I keep my back to the crowd. Hopefully, if Monroe is circling, she won’t spot us. “I don’t really care what anyone here thinks of me, but I do care what they’re saying about my boyfriend.”

“Your boyfriend?” she says in confusion. “Look. Obviously, I didn’t see what I thought I saw.”

I want to yank her bleached blonde locks at the root and shake her until she breaks like a piñata. “I heard you,” I repeat. “I just need to know what you saw.”

“Monroe was right,” she says in a hurry. “It probably wasn’t what I thought. I mean, why would Jonas …”

“Jonas?” I cut her off. “I thought we were talking about Jameson.”

She blinks rapidly before she giggles. “Jameson? Why would I be talking about him?”

“Maybe because he just got arrested,” I say.

“The Wests have more money than God.” She rolls her eyes and flips her hair over her shoulder like she’s auditioning for a Barbie commercial. “He’ll be playing golf faster than O.J.”

“O.J. sat in prison for nearly two years,” I tell her. “So try again. What were you talking to Monroe about?”

“It has nothing to do with Jameson,” she repeats. “I know he didn’t kill his father, because…”

She breaks off, smiling widely at someone over my shoulder. It’s the last thing I see before I’m thrown forward. My mind tries to put together the pieces as I slam into her. A hand. My back. Glass shattering as we crash through it. I don’t have time to think as we fall a few feet onto the concrete.

I’ve never put much stock in mistakes. Despite the last year of my life, I didn’t want my past choices to define me. Now I know I’m doomed to pay for every decision I’ve made. This is the realization that crashes into me as I fight to stay awake.

Red coats the back of my eyelids as I drift between the real world and the dark. Lights flash, blinding me momentarily as I blink into the rain. It takes a moment for her to come into focus, but when she does, everything about her is wrong. Her arms and legs are twisted in unnatural directions like a broken doll. Glass digs into my hands as I claw across the wet pavement toward her. My palm slips as it hits a warm and slippery substance pooling around her head. Her lips are turning blue, but there’s a smile fixed on her face as her eyes stare into the starless midnight sky. She looks happy, as if she’s about to greet a friend.

I say her name, I shake her, and then, I scream.

And scream.

And scream.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

I jolt awake, and it takes me a minute to remember where I am. Sparkling pool. Searing sun. No bloody bodies in sight. This should be better. I should be better. But it’s been a month and I keep reliving that last night in Vegas, keep trying to piece together who pushed us and why.

“Don’t forget your sunscreen,” Mom calls to me from across the patio. She eyes me watchfully from under the black brim of an oversized sun hat.