Page 171 of Gilt

On the outside, with her stylish, dark curls, and fuchsia lipstick, Josie plays the part of a grown woman, but I can see the fear she’d trying to hide. I can’t blame her. If it were me in her shoes, I’d be freaking out. I hesitate, uncertain how she’ll feel about my next question. “Can I go with you?”

“If you want.” She shrugs, but I don’t miss how her lower lip trembles. That’s a definite yes.

“So, are you coming to my party?” I decide a change of topic is in order. I haven’t had the chance to give her the lowdown on my plan to catch Nathaniel West’s murderer at my birthday bash, so I distract her with the info now.

“Yes, but explain to me why we’re having a party there. Isn’t that the last place you would want to celebrate your birthday?”

“Can’t a girl throw a rager for her eighteenth birthday? I can legally vote. It’s time to celebrate.” I slide along the glass case, looking for what I came in for. When I spot the mask, I tap the spot. “I’m going to need that.”

Josie takes it from the case and raises an eyebrow. “What are you up to?”

It’s a fair point, but not one I can explain without a lot more time and possibly some visual aids. “If you promise to come, I promise you’ll find out.”

“You’re being very mysterious.” She wraps it in some paper and hands me the bag.

“Aren’t I?” I tease. “Oh, you’re going to need one of these, too.”

“Like a costume?”

Before I can tell her anymore, a customer butts in. I’m relieved when he asks to see an autographed baseball card in the case instead of wanting to take a photo with me. The longer I stick around the shop, the more chance there is that I’ll be recognized.

“I’ll text you,” I promise, waving goodbye.

Pushing open the glass security door, I escape from that life and return to the one I’ve chosen. To outsiders, my decision to host a masquerade ball in honor of my eighteenth birthday signals that I’ve just become another showy Houser. I think it’s one of my more brilliant ideas, though. What better safety net could you offer a murderer if you were hoping they’d come to call?

By the weekend, Monroe has acquired every bottle of good champagne in Las Vegas. I stare at the lines of bottles displayed on the bar. The previous shindig I’d crashed had utilized the West’s private stock of liquor.

“Why do we need this much champagne again?” I ask.

“For the theme,” she says as if this makes perfect sense. “I’m going for nouveau riche. Think The Great Gatsby meets trailer park.” She sweeps her hand in the air as if to share her vision.

“Have I told you you’re a bitch today?” I ask, crossing my arms.

“Not today.” She bats her eyelashes like I’ve paid her a compliment. Knowing Monroe, I have.

“You’re a bitch.”

She ignores me and begins to point out various details I couldn’t care less about. I nod when appropriate, but she isn’t buying it. “This party was your idea.”

I shrug. I could care less if she’s taken it over. I had expected her to when I pitched the idea. I need Monroe to play hostess because she was the one who invited the guests earlier this summer. All of that is important to me. I just don’t give a damn about the drinks or the decorations.

“Your outfit is in Jameson’s room,” she says, clearly washing her hands of me. “Go get dressed.”

“I’m wearing this.” I gesture to the flowing, yellow maxi I put on this morning. It’s simple but comfortable, and tonight I’ll have enough attention directed at me no matter what I wear.

“Don’t argue with me,” she snaps. “If you’re going to be a West, you need to dress like one.”

“But won’t I look more nouveau riche in this?” I ask flatly.

“I’m making Jameson wear a tuxedo. You’ll be under-dressed,” she informs me. The change in tactics works. It’s hard enough to hold a candle next to him. If the right clothes can help ease the feeling of inferiority, I’m apt to fall victim to, I should take her up on the offer.

“How did your mom feel about the party?” I ask Monroe as she signs a delivery sheet.

“She’s not thrilled,” Monroe admits, “but she’ll get over it.”

“I want her to like me.” Immediately, I wish I hadn’t shared that snippet with Monroe. In her world, information is power.

“She does,” Monroe says to my surprise. “I told her the party was my idea.”