Page 123 of Gilt

That hardly counts as brilliant detective work. “Everyone knows that our fathers hated one another.”

“But why?” she asks. “It took some time to convince the court to unseal the documents, but we have our answer. Nathaniel West settled a civil suit with your father a number of years ago.”

“I know. They had a disagreement about a business arrangement.”

Mackey casts a wan smile at me, and my heart skips a beat. “The matter was tried in a civil court, and the records were sealed to protect a minor.”

In the middle of one of the busiest hotel lobbies in Las Vegas, the world stops.

“Did you know Nathaniel West was your sister’s father?”

No seems like a grossly inadequate word.

Mackey continues, granting me no time to come to grips with this. “Both sets of DNA found at the murder scene were a partial match.”

“I don’t understand,” I say slowly.

“One set belonged to Nathaniel West. The other belonged to his progeny.”

Mackey doesn’t follow me when I run for the lobby’s bathroom. Progeny. Child. Daughter. The words assault me as I wretch over the toilet. If Becca was his daughter, of course, Mackey suspects I am, too.

I’m not, but someone else is. It can’t be Monroe. She’d given the entire freshman class a front-row seat to her debauchery. I know it isn’t me.

At least, I know I’m not the one who…

I throw up again, just considering what she told me. I might not be the one she’s looking for, but I can’t ignore the other bombshell she’s dropped.

Becca was Nathaniel West’s daughter, a fact both my parents knew—parents who’d been desperate to break up my relationship with my boyfriend.

I vomit until I’m dry heaving stomach acid in the public restroom of a five-star resort. If Mackey wanted to be certain I’ll submit to that DNA test, she knew exactly what button to push.

When I finally gather my strength, I rinse out my mouth in the sink. I can’t bring myself to look in the mirror. I’m too afraid I’ll find Nathaniel West staring back at me.

I check into my room, ignoring the annoying cheerfulness of the front desk attendant. The hotel room has been redone to have a sleek, modern appeal. Everything is white and minimal, with clean lines and the most abstract of abstract art, but the stale scent of cigarette smoke still hangs in the room. It’s proof that Vegas is a city out of time, or maybe just one unhinged from reality. If it weren’t for the acrid smell assaulting my nostrils, the space might actually seem luxurious. No doubt the renovation had been a ploy to try to convince visitors that the hotel is worth the hefty price tag.

Next month, I’ll have some serious explaining to do when my mom and Hans get my emergency credit card bill. But if this situation doesn’t count as a crisis, nothing ever will.

I sit on the edge of the bed and wait with my hands folded in my lap. Being nervous is strange. Of course, I’ve never called a service before. Until a few days ago, my only contact with call girls had been on the flyers littering the streets. Somehow it still feels inevitable. I’m in too deep not to follow the clues.

But this room in this hotel in this city could never hope to be more than a mirage. Because the one thing tourists never see is the truth. The bones of Las Vegas are rotten, weakened by greed and excess. Even in a fancy hotel room, I can’t see past that fact.

Just like I can’t see past the fact that my whole life is a lie. Is it possible this should be my birthright?

Because I don’t want it. Any of it. If what Mackey told me is true, she’s stolen the only good thing in my life.

Jameson calls a few times while I wait, but I send the calls to voice mail. No doubt I’m whipping him into a frenzy by not answering, but will he care as much when he finds out I’m his sister?

If I’m his sister.

If.

I cling to the tiny word like it’s my life raft in a stormy sea.

My phone vibrates with a notification, and I can’t help but check it. The Dealer has posted another photo. I half expect it to be a snap of me vomiting all over the West casino bathroom. But it’s simply a photo of the Belle Mère Medical Clinic.

Whoever is behind this account knows exactly how to salt the wound. I look at the picture, wondering if that place will be my deliverance or my damnation. I stare for so long that it blurs in and out of focus and in the process, draws my attention to something I might not have noticed before.

The photo was taken from a car window. The Dealer must have been in a hurry to get this out because a bit of the driver’s side mirror is in the shot. I zoom in on the picture until the fragment comes into focus.