Page 83 of Gilt

“I’m sorry, but I have to say this; what a piece of crap.”

“I think he was trying to protect me,” I say, dredging up one of the many theories I’d overanalyzed for the better part of the last month.

“By hitting you? Don’t play that game, Emma.”

“No, by turning Jameson in. He honestly thinks the Wests are dangerous.”

“Someone did kill the patriarch,” Josie points out.

“You make it sound Shakespearean.” I take my phone off the charger and toss it into my bag.

“Shakespeare knew a thing or two about fucked up families,” she reminds me.

“Mr. Hunter would be so proud of you right now,” I tell her, thinking about the overeager English teacher at Belle Mère Prep.

Josie leans into the mirror to finish her other eyebrow. “Speaking of Hunter, what do you think of him?”

“As an educator?” I say with meaning.

“In general,” she says, bypassing awkward and going straight for uncomfortable. At least, she’s abandoning the topic of my dad.

“I think you already do well enough in that subject.”

She flashes me a wide grin in the mirror, and I’m reminded of one of the other reasons that Belle Mère feels like home. “Oh, honey. I don’t do it for the grades.”

When we reach my house, I do a double take when I spot a white Mercedes, still sleek with factory wax, in the driveway. “Does he have company?”

“If he does, she has good taste,” Josie says appreciatively. She pulls in next to it and eye fucks the car for a few seconds. I can’t blame her. Her Civic isn’t much to look at, but it is dependable. Two characteristics that mean nothing to a teenager.

Meanwhile, I stare at the house. The blinds are drawn, as usual. Pawnography, my dad’s pawn shop off the Strip, doesn’t open for a few more hours, which means he’s probably home. I haven’t had the heart to check in with Jerry, his manager at the store, to see if Dad’s been coming in.

“So, he’s here.” Leave Josie to face my conundrum head-on.

“Yep.” Facing things isn’t my strong suit.

We lapse into silence, and she finally makes a suggestion. “We can come back later.”

“There’s a pretty good possibility he’ll be here later, too.” I unbuckle my seat belt and take a deep, steadying breath. There’s also a good possibility that he’s passed out from whatever he drank the night before. If so, I can probably get in and out before he knows I’m here.

“Wait, if he has company, do you really want to go in there? They could be…you know…”

She rolls her hips for emphasis.

I roll my eyes, “Gross.”

“Just saying. I can go in if you want.”

But I’ve made my decision. “No, I can do this.”

When I reach the front door, I find it’s unlocked. I’ll be lucky if the whole place hasn’t been robbed in my absence. But everything is in its place, and there’s no evidence of squatters. The only difference is that Dad isn’t on the couch. I consider peeking into his bedroom, but if Josie’s right and he has someone over, that’s the last thing I want to see. I already have step-daddy issues, thanks to Hans. There’s no need to further scar me.

My room is exactly how I left it, unmade bed and all. Most of my luggage is in Palm Springs, so I gather whatever bags I can and shove the contents of my closet inside.

“Emma?”

I jump, discovering my dad holding onto the doorframe. I can’t tell if sleep or booze weighs down his eyelids.

“You’re home,” he says, but I shake my head vehemently. I don’t want to give him false hope. I’m not back to save him.