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“And then what?”
“I don’t know! That’s the point. You won’t know until you’re there.” She hesitates uncertainly, then adds, “But Rae, I need you to promise me one thing.”
“What?”
“You don’t go anywhere alone with him. We can’t trust him, sweetheart.Youcan’t trust him.”
My heart rate has slowly but surely picked up speed throughout this conversation. Now, it’s thudding hard in my chest, and I’m starting to worry about the structural integrity of my rib cage.
“You really think it’s that dangerous?” I ask.
“I think we don’t know what we’re dealing with yet. And until we do, we assume the worst.” There’s a crackle of static as Jillian switches the phone to her other ear. “His wife disappeared, Rae. Her body was never found. And everyone who worked that case got paid off or scared off. That’s not normal.”
I set the phone down and put her on speaker so I can pace around my apartment. “But what if he…?”
“What if he what? Killed her?” she prods. “Yeah. That’s the question, isn’t it? And that’s exactly why you need to be careful. But it’s also why this gala might be useful. You’ll be safe there. Surrounded by witnesses. And you might learn something that helps us figure out what really happened.”
I stop pacing and stare at my reflection in the dark window. I look small and scared.
“I don’t know if I can do this,” I whisper.
“Yes, you can,” Jillian promises. “You’re one of the strongest people I know, Sunshine. You’ve been through hell and you’re still standing. You can handle one measly party.”
I sigh and let my forehead come to rest against the glass. “I wish I had your confidence. Or Natasha’s.”
“You’re worth more than both of us put together, hon. And hey,” she adds, “think of it this way: free dress! Free party! Free champagne, I’m sure! Go get loaded on the boss’s dime. There are worse ways to spend a Saturday night.”
“What if something happens? Something bad?”
“Then you leave,” she suggests. “You fake a migraine, claim you’re on your period, pull an Irish goodbye and deal with the consequences later. You do whatever you have to do.” Her voice softens. “But you’re not going to know what’s going on until you go. Right?”
I exhale slowly. “Right.”
“So go. Wear the dress. Drink the booze. And text me updates or I’ll assume you’ve been murdered in grisly fashion. Which would be awful, obviously, but at least I’d get to write your obit.”
“I hate you.” I close my eyes. “Will you come with me, at least? To the boutique?”
“Um, duh.” She cackles in delight. “I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”
18
RAE
[HANDWRITTEN ON MAISON ÉLISE LETTERHEAD]
Säsha —
Mr. Lazarev is sending a client today. Follow his instructions to the letter. Do not disappoint me.
Andespeciallydo not disappoint him.
I don’t think I’ve ever seen a grin bigger than the one Jillian is wearing as she flounces up to me on Thursday afternoon. She’s wearing what I call her Reporter Outfit: stylish dark cigarette jeans with devilishly sharp black boots, a scuffed black leather jacket, and a chunky crimson scarf.
“You look French,” I inform her.
She fans herself playfully. “Oh my God, are you hitting on me?”
“In your dreams.”
