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“What were you doing up there?” I say as she comes down. “Scrubbing in for surgery?”
“I got grease on my hands. I should have used Tom’s cleaning goop. Soap does not do the job.”
“Where are the books?”
“I decided to leave them in my room. No sense taking them, really, when I’ll be staying here tonight.”
She’s coming down the stairs, veering to walk past me. Her tone is casual, as if I told her she’s welcome back.
“You aren’t coming back to my—”
“Not yours,” she says, spinning, right beside me, making me startle backward. She closes that gap in a single step, and before I even realize what’s happening, my back is to the wall.
“Not your house,” she enunciates. “Not your grandmother. Not your inheritance. None of it is yours.”
“CeCe, I presume.”
I try to twist the words with challenge, but I can’t manage it as shame prickles through me.
I wish this could be different. God, how I wish it.
Daisy just stands there, staring up at me, saying nothing, leaving me struggling against the urge to squirm as I had all those times I stood up to my mother, feeling tough and strong for about two seconds before wanting to shrink into the woodwork, my feeble attempts only embarrassing us both.
“Where is Tom?” she asks.
I try to sidestep, but she’s got me pinned here, a scant breath of air between us as she plants herself in my face. I resist the urge to squeeze free. I don’t want her to think I feel pinned, feel trapped.
When I don’t answer, she pulls Tom’s T-shirt from her back pocket and holds it up.
“He played you,” I blurt.
“What?”
“He conned you. He was only in it for the money.”
Her face screws up. “What money?”
“Your grandfather’s treasure.”
She blinks. Then she bursts out laughing. “Please don’t tell me you believe in that.”
“I don’t. Tom does. He came here to cut a deal.”
She shakes her head. “No, sorry. Nice try, though.”
I straighten. “So this is how it goes. This is how it always goes. We trust men over each other. I’m trying to help you out here, CeCe. Tom may have been your friend once, but he isn’t now.”
I can tell she’s not buying that for a second, and I quickly say, “Last night, he made you think the police had come for you, right? Said he saw police cars. Said they had a warrant. Made you run with him? It was bullshit. It was just someone with an emergency repair.”
“I saw the police cars,” she says. “I heard the officers.”
I hesitate. Then it hits. Tom lied. He wasn’t setting Daisy up. He was setting me up. Trying to get me to confess to murder.
“Where is Tom?” she asks. “He was here. He did not leave without his shirt. If you’ve done something to him—done anything to him—”
I lunge. I’ve timed it perfectly. As she talked, my hand slid toward the gun in the back of my waistband, and as I lunge, I’ll pull it out and—
I’m on my hands and knees, staring at the floor. I blink, my brain only able to register the possibility that I slipped and fell, and I flip over to see a gun trained on me.
