Page 170 of Gilt

“What?”

“Running around town, whipping everyone into a frenzy. I know you’re up to something.” He keeps his eyes on the road, occasionally checking his blind spots. Maddox is always watching. Of course, he saw through my errands.

I have a choice: keep trying to lie to him or get him on my side. Considering I’m not the one paying his salary, he has no real reason to keep quiet—unless I give him one.

“Fine,” I level with him. “I am up to something, but it’s the only way to clear all our names.”

“And what happens when you catch who did it? What if it’s one of you?” he asks bluntly.

That’s the second time today I’ve been forced to face that possibility, but it doesn’t lessen my resolve. “It wasn’t me, and it wasn’t Jameson.”

He chuckles. “So everyone else is on their own?”

The photos of the crime scene flash through my mind. Jameson found his father like that. No matter what had passed between them, he had faced that gruesome discovery. Someone left his father for him to find, and that person is going to pay.

CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT

Pawnography’s newest sales associate waves to me from behind the counter. There’s something comforting about knowing that she’s here to keep the store in check. The shop is swarming with customers, which is its new normal following the media storm that is my life Suddenly, my impulse to retrieve the Venetian mask I bought ages ago feels foolish. Tugging the tie from my ponytail, I let my hair fall like a curtain over my face. If this keeps up, I’m going to have to invest in a wardrobe of oversized sunglasses and wide-brimmed hats. I ninja through the crowd, careful not to make eye contact with any of the patrons. Most of their attention is on the items under the glass and the girl behind the counter.

I blend in, so no one notices me, but I stop in my tracks when a woman bustles up to Josie at the counter. She’s dressed in a Las Vegas t-shirt that screams tourist. Judging from her mom jeans, she’s a Midwesterner. In my experience, Kansans love a good souvenir shirt and a pair of high-waters. I suspect that if she turns around, there will be a fanny pack buckled around her ample waistline.

“Where’s the girl?” she demands.

Josie blinks innocently, but I can tell by how forcefully she stares the woman down that she knows exactly what she’s asking. “I’m sorry?”

“The girl they keep talking about on television and the worldwide web.” The customer twirls her hand impatiently as if a nondescript gesticulation will help clarify her point.

“She doesn’t work here.” Josie smiles as she delivers the bad news, and I want to hug her.

“The television said she works here.” The woman pulls out her phone, and I groan inwardly. “Look at this article. That’s this shop.”

“Yes, it is,” Josie confirms.

“So, where is she?”

“I’m sorry, but if you would like to make a purchase—”

“I came all the way from Nebraska…”

Nebraska. Kansas. What’s the difference? I lose interest as the woman continues her tirade. After a few minutes, a weary-looking man retrieves her with an apologetic look to Josie.

“The internet said she works here,” the woman reminds him angrily.

“I know.”

“She needs to repent for her sins. I came here…”

I’m saved from hearing exactly why she came here as the couple exit the shop without their prize.

“Didn’t want to give them an autograph?” Josie whispers conspiratorially. She tugs at the hem of her green tank top self-consciously, and I do my best not to look. “That was conspicuous.”

“What?” I hold up my hands.

“The baby bump check you just did. I’m not showing. Mom just shrunk this shirt,” Josie explains.

“I wasn’t looking.” But I guess I can’t lie to her.

“I have an appointment.” Josie keeps her voice low so that no one can overhear. “It can’t get here fast enough.”