Page 68 of Gilt

“Don’t worry about him,” Jameson says.

“So it’s a him?” Maybe while I slept off the orgasmic coma he put me in, he’s found some clues.

“Or her,” he adds.

Or maybe not. I scoot up in the bed, shaking my head. “How am I not supposed to worry? That’s seriously creepy shit.”

“Agreed, but I don’t really see the point. Whoever it is, needs to be charged with stalking. We should go to the police.”

He hasn’t been looking closely at all. I reach for his phone and scroll through the feed. “These two are from the night your father was murdered,” I inform him. “I don’t know about the rest.”

I return to the top of the feed to find I’ve made my first photo appearance. The photo that posted seconds ago is definitely from that night. I stare at the picture of me sleeping in the cabana. It’s dark enough that I can’t make out much, except for one important fact.

I’m alone.

“That’s new,” Jameson says in a quiet voice. I want to reassure him, but we both know that if anyone finds this picture, it could undermine the alibi he’s established for that night. He had been honest with me about what happened after I fell asleep, but I’d kept those facts to myself. I might believe that he did nothing but fight with his father and then drown his sorrows in a few drinks, but whoever posted this knows that a picture is worth a thousand words. In this case, all thousand of them are guilty.

“We need to find out who this is before anyone else sees these photos.”

“Too late,” Jameson takes his phone from me and tosses it to the foot of the bed. “The Dealer already has a few followers.”

“What is he advertising for fans?” I lunge forward to retrieve it, but he holds me back.

“None of his followers are going to tattle.”

“How can you possibly know that?” I ask.

“Because so far, his entire following consists of Monroe, Josie, you, and now me.”

“Should we send an engraved invitation to Hugo? I doubt he’d want to miss this party,” I snap. Hugo’s cameo in The Dealer’s stream is more incriminating than most.

“For now, I think we’re safe,” he continues.

“But for how long?”

“I have a guy who can check into this. Whoever this is can’t hide behind a username forever.”

I don’t ask him what we’ll do when we find out who’s been collecting a scrapbook of our intimate moments, because once we know who they are, they’ll have nothing left to hide.

Especially our secrets.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

If The Dealer hadn’t already put the fear of God in me, facing my mother at the dinner table will. She meets us at the door, offering a simpering smile to Jameson as she directs us to the dining room.

“I hope you like shrimp,” she says, but before I can remind her of my aversion to the creepy, ocean spiders, she grabs my elbow and hauls me to the side.

“You’re glowing,” she accuses.

I half expect her to haul me to the ER to check to see if my virtue is intact. I pull away before she can lose control and make a scene. “Summer love,” I say casually before dashing into the dining room.

Hans glances up from his tablet and grunts a greeting. I’m not certain if that’s just hello in his native tongue or if we’re not worthy of full syllables.

“We have a guest,” Mom trills as she enters behind us. Hans still doesn’t bother to look up until she adds, “Jameson West.”

That gets his attention and confirms my fears that my stepfather is actually a big enough dick to do a biopic accusing my boyfriend of murder. I guess that really puts the fun in dysfunctional family.

“The infamous Mr. West.” Hans’s accent is muted by years of being in the US, but it still curls around his words. Between that, his broad shoulders, and what is left of his wispy, blond hair, it’s obvious he is an import.