Page 171 of The Next Lie

The air leaves my lungs, and I pick it up carefully. The envelope is heavy, sealed with black wax pressed into the shape of a cypress tree wrapped in a crown of thorns.

Nash appears at the end of the hall before I call him.

“What is it?” he asks.

I hold up the envelope. “Either a wedding invitation or a villain has excellent stationery.”

His face changes when he sees the seal.

“Open it.”

“See, that tone makes me not want to.”

“Reva.”

I slide a fingernail beneath the flap and break the wax.

Inside is a formal card on cream stock, the lettering black and raised.

The De La Rosa Foundation

requests the honor of your presence at

La Nuit des Masques

A private masquerade gala benefiting the restoration of Saint Aurelie’s Home

Hosted by Isabel Rosario

Friday, eight o’clock in the evening

The Beauregard House

Beneath that, in smaller print:

Mr. Nash Blackwood

and

Miss Reva Leigh Hart

No guests. No substitutes.

My fingers tighten around the card. Nash reads over my shoulder. He doesn’t curse or speak or utter the first sound, but his face says plenty. This isn’t good.

She’s making her move.

Shiloh comes in from the side hall with a glass in his hand. “Why do both of you look like someone found the bodies?”

I hand him the invitation.

He reads it.

His brows lift. “Rude.”

I stare at him. “Rude?”

“The no guests thing. I am delightful at masquerades.”