Page 19 of Gilt

“Maybe it was Evelyn.” I try to be delicate in my suggestion even if I hadn’t known until a few moments ago that my mother knew Mrs. West.

But the suggestion doesn’t phase her. “She was out of town. Rumor has it that she prefers to make herself scarce when her children are throwing parties.”

“Children?”

“Excuse me,” our server interrupts, “can I get you ladies another drink?”

“Yes.”

“No,” I call over my mother, but she merely repeats herself with a smile.

“I’m the parent, remember?”

Maybe it would be better if both she and my dad had their parental rights revoked. Neither of them seems capable of healthfully dealing with their emotions. It’s clearly setting a bad example for me. After all, I went to a murder party last night.

“Speaking of, you haven’t told me if you were there,” Mom points out as if she can read my mind.

“I went, but I didn’t stay long.” Being put on the spot is making it difficult to come up with a story that doesn’t involve skinny-dipping and making out with a stranger for most of the night. Instead, I stumble upon a different but equally true excuse. “Monroe and I aren’t exactly BFFs.”

“I can’t say I’m sorry to hear that. It’s mercenary of me, but I’m relieved that you weren’t there. God only knows what happened last night.” She sighs so deeply that I almost believe she cares.

My clutch vibrates on the table, alerting me to an incoming text, but I ignore it.

“Do you need to get that?” She eyes my bag.

“It can wait.” We’re nearly through with our meal. Then I can go back to my life, and she can go back to hers.

“So Hans and I have been discussing your graduation present.” I guess, she hasn’t run out of ideas for small talk yet.

I raise one eyebrow. Is she getting me confused with Becca, or does she just want to pawn off her present on me? “Getting a little ahead of yourselves. I have a year left.”

“Well, we think you could use it now, especially because we both want to see more of you.”

“Am I getting a pony?” I ask dryly. It seems fitting for my movie producer step-daddy to buy the affection of his wife’s baggage with every little girl’s dream present.

The smile creeping across her face is a little frightening. Maybe Hans isn’t the only one who wants into my good graces. “Will you settle for a car?

“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” I say quickly. “It’s easier to cab in Vegas. Parking is so tricky and…” I’m blabbering now, because I know what’s at the heart of my verbal diarrhea. To my surprise, she does, too.

“You weren’t behind the wheel that night,” she reminds me gently.

If I had been, we might be sitting here discussing Becca’s graduation present. She would have loved a car. I swallow the thought down into the pit of my stomach where I can bury it. “I know.”

“Good!” Her concern vanishes, replaced by satisfaction. “It’s being delivered later this week. Palm Springs is only a four-hour drive. I’m always happy to send the jet for you, but if you ever need to run away…”

“I should run to my mommy?”

Her eyes crinkle at the edges, and for a split second, I’m little again, and she’s comforting me. “Yes, honey. You should always run to me.”

CHAPTER EIGHT

It’s a typical day in the Southwest—bright with a chance of sunburn. I ask my driver to let me off down the street so I can stop at the mailbox and grab the spam and collection notices that tell me I’m home. I’ve let them pile up for most of the week, so I could concentrate on finals. Now it’s time to face the music, which I suspect will come in the form of a funeral march. The house is dark, which means Dad actually went to the shop: a small miracle that provides me a rare opportunity to open the blinds. Then I grab the empty bottle of whiskey he left on the floor and head toward the kitchen. Dropping the mail on the counter, I groan when the doorbell rings. So much for a few blissful moments to myself. It’s high season for Jehovah’s Witnesses in the city of sin. Truthfully, I think they come for the weather. I trudge to the door, bottle in hand. Might as well have some fun.

But the man at the door isn’t in khaki slacks, and his badge bears the emblem of the Las Vegas Police Department. He can’t be more than a few years older than me, but he’s obviously put a lot of time into building his upper body strength to make up for the slight acne scars that mar his skin. His jaw is smooth, his hair cropped short, and he’s sporting a pair of cheap sunglasses.

“Emma Southerly?” The officer at the door nudges his sunglasses down on his nose to study me.

I thrust the bottle behind my back in a sudden fit of self-preservation. “Yes?”