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“How should I know? Turn your flashlight on.”
“But my phone’s about to die.”
I glare at her, blinking rapidly. “We’rein your house.Charge it when I’m gone.”
After a moment’s hesitation, she does, illuminating the corner of the room I’m crouched in; there’s a beige rug on one side of me, halfway beneath the oak wardrobe against the wall, an abstractly shaped marble sculpture sitting on a pedestal, and a chessboard turned over on the floor, its pieces scattered about haphazardly.
Fiona drops to her knees at my side, pointing her light beneath the furniture and bending to look under. “Kieran doesn’t know how to play chess. Clearly. He’s been trying to teach himself for years, but he gets mad when he can’t beat someone and ends up throwing the game. Literally.”
“Who does he play against?”
Her arm disappears below the wardrobe, her cheek meeting the hardwood as she reaches back. “Uh, he used to play with our mom, but she can’t really grasp the pawns anymore. Now, I don’t really know. His demons, probably.”
Frowning, I reach out and run my finger along one of the glass figurines closest to me. A king, the most important piece in the game—the only piece without a genuine opponent. “What demons?”
She glances up at me, withdrawing her arm and pulling into an upright position. The flashlight shines under her chin, showcasing her wariness. “You’re right, I do talk too much. And I don’t think we’re gonna find your shoe. Knowing my brother, he probably burned it or something, anyway.”
Scrambling to my feet, I drop the heel in my hand. Outside, the voices get louder, more discernible now, telling me they’re close.Too close. If I don’t leave now, I may never get the chance.
I rush to the large, single-paned window across the room, pushing the thick black curtains aside and unlocking it. Sliding the frame up, I feel Fiona at my back watching me. She holds out a hand, offering my phone in her palm. “He made me keep it.”
Stuffing it inside the bodice of my dress, I hike a leg over the windowsill and let it dangle; it’s been a long time since I’ve scaled a wall, but every house in King’s Trace was built with decorative staccato stonework, giving teenagers endless opportunities to sneak out their windows at night.
“Kieran killed someone for you, didn’t he?”
Fiona’s voice is soft. Knowing. When I glance back at her, she crosses her arms over her chest, and I shrug. “It was self-defense, kind of.”
“That doesn’t make it less meaningful.”
Swallowing down the verbal diarrhea that burns at the base of my throat, I blow out a breath, shifting my weight as I prepare to drop. My toes scrape against the rough surface of the wall, gripping the slight step. “It was nothing.”
“Look, I know the rumors about him.”
I wait for a beat, then raise my eyebrows, shifting farther out the window. My back bends as I duck beneath the pane, turning to stare at her through the glass.
Her red lips purse—in the faint moonlight, I can see she has a thin layer of makeup on, despite it being nighttime. Or, early morning, rather. “Just… don’t believe everything you hear.”
My lips part to question her at the same time the overhead light flips on and the bedroom door flings open, Kieran’s hand on the gold knob keeping it from slamming into the wall. His blazing green eyes meet mine, and even though I recognize the fury there—despite how it turns my insides to mush—I don’t waver in my decision to run.
His chiseled jaw tics, and I notice he’s still in the same crisp, tailored suit from last night, and every bad memory comes rushing back, a dam breaking inside me. The near assault, the vigilante justice, my panic attack. Being held and feeling safe in this vile man’s arms.
Not hating at all how warm he made me feel.
I watch him take a step forward, and his lips curl around the word “Don’t,” but I don’t give him a chance to convince me to stay.
Taking my mother’s advice and ignoring the paralyzing pang it sends through my heart, I hoist my other leg over the windowsill and run.
* * *
The sound of gravel crunching beneath tires makes goose bumps pop up on my skin like bubble wrap; I wrap my hands around my biceps, smoothing them down against the cool, dewy April air, stalking forward without paying the vehicle at my side any attention.
Still, I know who’s there even without looking. I’ve been followed by her more times than I care to admit.
Caroline rolls the passenger window down, idling at my side as Benito in the driver’s seat keeps pace with me. My feet protest, cramped and raw from the trek down the hill the Ivers’ mansion sits on, but I don’t stop.
“Juliet.” Her tired voice assaults my ears, making my head swim more than it already is. Hangovers and serious conversations do not mix. “Get in the car.”
“No thanks. I can walk.”
