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Ugh.
I try shoving Lucas out of my mind for the hundredth time, just focusing on my makeup and hair and nothing else.
I have no earthly idea how to dress for tonight, let alone how to act for a party full of celebrities, but I should at least make an effort pretending I do.
I finish lining my right eye and stop, studying my reflection in the mirror.
The makeup isn’t the problem.
There’s something lodged in my throat. That’s the only reason it hurts so terribly right now.
Yeah.
Not because for just a second, I saw a horrible coincidence as I stared at my own reflection.
I look like Emma Santos.
My black hair piled up into an intentionally messy chignon just like hers was when I found her.
My skin might be tanned, not naturally dark like hers, but both of us are golden-kissed and slender-boned.
And that bracelet on my wrist...
The one I’ve been wearing on our last two meetings at the café, so Ulysses will actually think whatever he’s trying with me will work and won’t question me abruptly agreeing to Montero’s invitation to the party.
Don’t do this, Delilah.
I can’t tell if that voice in my head is mine, some echo of my mother’s, or what I imagine Emma sounded like.
For an instant, I swear there’s someone behind me, a thin figure with sad eyes.
But when I whip around, searching behind me, searching the room, there’s no one.
Apparently, I’ve gone from imagining ghosts to seeing them.
And Emma Santos is definitely begging me to find out if Montero Arrendell killed her, but not if it means getting myself killed in the process.
God.
I should’ve told Lucas.
I should’ve told him what I was planning and brought him on board. But I’d might as well ask for a flying unicorn to ride into the party on.
I’ve been avoiding him so Ulysses won’t get upset, won’t get suspicious or feel like Lucas is male competition. If Ulysses gets rattled and jealous enough to drop me, this whole thing falls apart.
It cuts me in half, pretending like I can’t even see him, because I never know who might be watching and reporting back to Ulysses.
Or worse, to Montero.
I can’t stand the idea that the Arrendell patriarch might destroy Lucas the way he hurt Celeste, just to get him out of the way.
I also can’t stomach sitting around and waiting for that to happen.
So I have to end this now.
But when I saw Lucas earlier, for the briefest moment my heart leaped into my throat, this brilliant burst of joy.
How could it leave any doubt in my mind?
I’m definitely in love with Redhaven’s messiest, most sarcastic dick in uniform.
Until he had to go and open his mouth.
He came storming over like a raging bull, snarling at me over the bracelet and being the possessive butthead he is. My temper flared and next thing I knew, we were shouting at each other in the street and I was too mad to try to reason with him.
How does he do it?
How is it this man makes me see nothing but red... and somehow I still love him?
I almost enjoy being pissed at him.
But I enjoy the quiet moments where he looks at me like I’m the only thing that matters infinitely more.
That’s us.
We fight so furiously it’s no wonder we fuck so passionately. And I have a feeling, if this would all go away and we actually had a chance...
We could figure out how to be amazing together to fight our way back from the brink and still care for each other.
It would only make us stronger.
Frowning, my fingers clench the eyeliner stick.
I stare at my phone on the vanity next to my glittery black clutch purse.
I should call him. So we can both apologize and break through our caging pride. So I can tell him what I’m doing—
But I know he’ll try to talk me out of it.
He might be right, too, when what I’m about to do would land me on a Too Stupid to Live Heroines list, if this were a romance novel.
But I need to know.
When I talk to Lucas again, I want to give him the proof that he was right all along.
Proof that he can get justice for his sister.
Proof that I can get justice for Emma.
I will my fingers to stop shaking, finish my eyes, and touch up my lips. Just as I’m finishing up the last accents on my deep, smoky red eyeshadow and making sure my foundation blends into my hairline, there’s a polite knock at the door.
I smile.
Only Janelle Bowden would knock like a guest in her own bed and breakfast.
“It’s open!” I call, tucking my makeup into the purse in case I need it later.
In the mirror, I see the door creak open.
Janelle peeks in past the crack like she’s checking to see if I’m decent before she squeezes in with a rustling black garment bag draped over her arm.
