Page 124 of Gilt

I nearly drop the phone, but somehow I keep it in my trembling hands long enough to send one text.

I know who you are.

A knock on the door startles me, and I stand, smoothing my shirt as if I’m going to impress May while smelling like vomit. When I open the door, I’m met by familiar, if surprised, eyes. The shock mirrored in them quickly shifts to anger.

Stepping to the side, I hold out my arm. I might not have expected May to be someone I know, but the pieces start to click together. “Won’t you come in, Monroe?”

CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

Chances are choices. Or something like that. For instance, take opening the door to find someone completely unexpected on the other side. To shut the door or feign surprise. A kind person might give the guilty party across from them a gracious out. But no one has ever accused me of being nice. Not to Monroe West, anyway.

“Monroe.” I greet her by the name I know as she flies into the room. Then I remember myself. “I mean, May. I see you’ve landed yourself your dream job.”

May West. There’s a certain poetry to it. I wonder if she was being clever or if she unintentionally chose such a famous alias. Her usually stick-straight hair waves into soft curls over her shoulders, and she’s wearing enough eyeshadow to make a porn star blush. She’s gone from looking like an entitled seventeen-year-old Houser to passing for a hard-used twenty-five-year-old showgirl. If we weren’t standing so close I might not have recognized her as my fellow classmate, boyfriend’s sister, and, dare I add, psychotic bitch? We’d made some minor progress on that front of late, but something tells me this less-than-chance encounter would put us right back at square one.

Monroe tugs up the silver, sequined tube masquerading as a dress and glares at me. I have to give her credit. The momentary flash of fear that I’d spotted when I opened the door is hidden behind a mask of annoyance. Despite the audacious dress, she doesn’t look out of place in the five-star hotel room. Then again, every aspect of the West Casino hotel room, from the slight sheen in the wallpaper to the overstocked mini bar, screams style over substance. Apparently, it’s a trait Nathaniel West’s hotels shared with his own family.

“How much?” she asks through gritted teeth.

“I thought I was the one who paid you.” I lean against the hotel door, closing it behind us. As soon as the lock clicks, her eyes narrow.

“I’m not interested in your little jokes,” she hisses. “Tell me how much you need to keep quiet.”

I blow a stream of air between my lips. “A pony. The lost city of Atlantis. Maybe a trip to see the Wizard.”

I don’t suffer from any misconceptions. If the situation were reversed, the Wicked Bitch of the West, aka my darling Monroe, wouldn’t hesitate to blast the news of my fall from virtue to every student at Belle Mère Prep. But I’m not here for that. I’ve come to this hotel room for one reason: The Dealer.

A few days ago, a mysterious new photo had shown up on The Dealer’s feed. I hadn’t expected it to lead me to an escort agency. When I realized where I was, I gambled and pretended to be interested in a job. The ploy worked, granting me enough time to schedule an appointment with May: the only clue The Dealer had attached to his post.

But why lead me here? What did Monroe’s extracurricular activities have to do with the night that Nathaniel West died? I thought the purpose of the Instagram account was to expose the killer. I’m not so certain anymore. Unless The Dealer’s plan is simply to disgrace each of us as thoroughly as possible.

Monroe steps closer to me, jabbing a finger in my chest. “How did you even find out?”

I sidle away toward the minibar. Grabbing two tiny bottles of West Tennessee Whiskey, I toss her one. She can play it cool, but I know she needs liquid courage as much as I do.

She rolls her eyes when she reads the label and sashays over. “I prefer gin.”

“Doesn’t your family own West Tennessee Whiskey?” I ask as I screw off the cap and down mine in a single gulp. It blazes down my throat, lighting a fire in my stomach.

“Yes, but my family owns everything.” There’s a brittle edge in her words, but she swallows it down along with her shot of whiskey. Then she digs out another mini bottle of Beefeater.

“What are you doing?” I ask her, and suddenly this isn’t an interrogation. I’m not trying to pry information out of her. Instead, I find myself wanting to shake her. I may have no love for Monroe West, but I know what this would do to her family. I like her mother, but I was in love with her brother. With everything the two of them have been through this year, this might destroy the fragile threads holding their family together.

“Why would you care?”

That’s a cry for help if I’ve ever heard one. “Because The Dealer sent me here, which means that anyone else who’s following his posts could have opened that door.”

It’s only a matter of time before the police and FBI catch on to the account. That will be bad enough. Right now, only a handful of people are following the mysterious feed, and each of them has good reason to want to know the identity of our friendly neighborhood stalker. The Dealer hasn’t been posting our proudest moments, so no one has started sharing the pictures—yet.

“What does he have on you?” she asks, her eyes flashing as if something important has finally occurred to her.

So much for hoping that Monroe is as smart as she looks. I’d had my suspicions that the blonde, air-head heiress act was for show. Now I know it is. If I’m following The Dealer closely enough to wind up here, it’s not out of curiosity.

I shrug. Two blondes can play dumb.

“Maybe the proof that Mackey is looking for.” She pours another glass, but she doesn’t down it this time. Sipping thoughtfully, she watches me for a sign that she’s right.

“Sorry to disappoint you, but he’s got nothing.” None of the photos on the feed seemed directed at me, but plenty of them focused on people around me. Of course, the company I keep has as good as convicted me in the eyes of the FBI. “I know what it will take for me to keep quiet.”