Page 18 of Wicked Fortune

—MH

Once again, I pick up the garments, this time unpinning them. Silk and lace and undoubtedly expensive. More than that, they’re exactly my size.

As I hold them between my fingers, I know that I should step back. Should take a moment to think more clearly. Should pick up the phone, call the guy, and tell him that he’s a narcissistic prick with serious boundary issues, and that I should send his gift, his note, and this contract to the local press.

But I don’t. I won’t. I need answers. And despite the fact that the mere sensation of his hand at my back tonight made me wet, he is still on my Jenny-radar. I may not want to think he could have killed her, but he’s strong enough, powerful enough, and arrogant enough to not only think he could get away with murder, but to actually do that very thing.

It’s a bracing thought. But I can’t ignore it. Not when I’m holding lacy panties and a contract that signs me over to him, terms put forth by a man who clearly expects to always—always—get what he wants.

A trill of trepidation races up my spine, but it’s countered by a sensual tightening between my legs.

I shouldn’t do this. But I’m going to.

I have to.

And, if I’m being truly honest, I want to.

I grab a pen off the coffee table, then sign the contract with a flourish.

Then I scoot back against the cushions, as if waiting for fireworks. They don’t come.

As I sit there, a little shell-shocked, I take in the gravity of what I’ve done: I’ve indentured myself to Matthew Holt. And I don’t know if that’s the best decision I’ve made in my life, or the thing I will come most to regret.

But so long as it leads me to whatever horror led Jenny to kill herself—if she did kill herself—then maybe this deal with the devil will be worth it.

SEVEN

My field trip to Masque with Clive was on Friday night. Now it’s after midnight on Sunday and the earth is spinning fast toward Monday. Which means that for three nights and two days both Jenny and Matthew Holt have been on my mind. One teasing me with decadent promises. The other begging me from behind the veil of death to give her peace through answers.

Or maybe it’s only me who wants that peace.

I don’t know. Hell, I’m not sure I know anything anymore.

Which is why instead of being tucked into my warm and snuggly bed the night before I return the contract and formally accept Holt’s “job” offer, I’m standing on the Glendale-Hyperion Bridge, the glow of distant streetlights casting elongated shadows in the gloomy night. The sturdy bridge seems to sway, and I keep my hands on the rail as I look down at Riverside Drive and the battered ghost of my dead friend.

I had no intention of coming here tonight, and I don’t even remember making the decision. One minute I was on the couch, tearing up as I watched the last few minutes of an episode of How I Met Your Mother, a friend-centric show that had me missing Jenny all the more. The next thing I knew I was driving along Glendale Boulevard, the bridge’s octagonal towers coming into view in front of me. The bridge has thirteen arches—a piece of LA history I picked up somewhere—and I shudder, thinking about that unlucky number.

It was certainly unlucky for Jenny.

I sigh, and despite knowing that I’m standing about where Jenny must have stood in the last moments of her life, I feel safe, like a spectator peering into a distant age. With a sigh, I look down at the river and highway, wondering how many secrets this bridge has kept across the years.

I’m not sure how long I’ve been standing, lost in thoughts too scattered and fleeting to grasp. It’s peaceful here, and I can almost hear Jenny calling to me, ready to reveal all her secrets. I only need to close my eyes and let her in and maybe then I’ll⁠—

“What the hell are you doing?”

I jump, my heart pounding as I turn to face Bree, stalking toward me on the pedestrian walkway.

“Me?” I snap back. “You can’t just sneak up on people like that. She was just about to tell me—you know what? Never mind.”

I can tell from her expression that she knows exactly what I was going to say, and I stand up straighter, fully prepared to argue that just because she doesn’t get feelings and impressions like I do, that doesn’t mean I’m being ridiculous or new-agey or whatever.

But she doesn’t say that. Instead, she bites her lower lip and just says, “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have interrupted.”

I sag, all the fight going out of me. “It’s okay. I don’t think she was really going to tell me anything.”

She moves closer to stand beside me, both of us looking down at the spot where Jenny’s body had been found.

“It’s strange, isn’t it?”