my bedroom to get dressed for my date. Denise has worn black on most of our meetings, so I stick with tradition and slip into a little black dress with a fitted top and flared skirt that hits at the knee. For kicks, I wear the same pearls I wore to interrogate Doug, and add some blush and mascara, since Chris liked it the last time. The whole thing takes five minutes, and when I’m done I look like Denise. The only change is in the eyes, and only if you know what you’re looking for.
For years, I’ve been unable to stare at my reflection, sickened by its deceit and disappointment. By Allison and Bianca and Charlotte and all the characters I’ve played. But today Reese Carlisle gazes back, equal parts fire and ice. Then I smile, and the fury melts away, hidden from view but far from gone.
On my way back to the living room, I pause at the second bedroom, the shrine to my family’s failures. I hesitate in the doorway and study the photos, the articles, the accusations. The questions. So many questions, most designed to be inflammatory, some edging close to the truth, but never quite close enough. Did you know your father was stealing money, Reese? Did you kill your brother, Reese? Do you know where the money is, Reese?
I shut the door on the memories and draw in a breath. Enough questions. It’s time for answers.
I add nude heels to one of the grocery bags, then slip into a pair of sparkly silver flats. My mother’s apartment is a twenty-minute walk from here, too far with the food, and I don’t want a cab driver to recall picking me up at this address or dropping me off at hers, so I’ll walk a few blocks both ways to cover my tracks.
I grab my purse, then balance the bags on one hip as I reach for the door and pull it open.
I stumble to a halt. The hallway warps; fat, thin, fat again. My vision blurs, the lights too bright, then too dim. Sound fades to a distant roar. An errant potato pops out and rolls across the floor, coming to a stop under a blue sneaker.
I look up very, very slowly.
He’s wearing the green jacket over a flannel shirt and a pair of jeans. His hands are in his pockets, and he waits patiently for me to meet his eye, my mouth open, useless. The lies gone.
He smiles slightly, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “Hi, Reese.”
14
“YOU—I—” MY MOUTH IS dry. I stare like a moron. How many times had I hoped to hear Chris say my name? But not like this.
He waits for me to finish, but when it becomes obvious I can’t think of anything more to add, he shrugs, giving up on the idea. “Am I early?”
I can barely breathe. “Why are you here?”
“You live here.”
“I texted you—I told you—”
And then his gaze hardens, just enough that I know it hasn’t all been in my head. Somewhere, somehow, all along, I knew. I just didn’t trust myself enough to believe it.
“You told me a lot of things,” he says, bending slightly to snag the handle of the large black duffel bag he’s been keeping out of sight. He straightens and steps toward me, and I hold up a hand as though that could stop him.
“Don’t come in here,” I order. “Don’t even think—” I drop the grocery bags and move back inside. I try to shut the door but Chris just presses past me, letting my hand dig into his chest, showing me how weak I am compared to him, how defenseless. How this stupid tower has no one to guard it, how I’m the jester, not the hero.
He nudges stray potatoes inside with his feet, then uses his heel to kick the door shut, and for a second I just stare at it, not quite certain how the hell this happened. With the exception of the building manager dropping by to discuss Mr. Pedersen’s X-rated visitors, I’ve never had a guest. I’ve never wanted one.
I reach for the knob again. I can’t be that dumb girl in the horror movie who runs upstairs. I have to try.
“Don’t bother,” Chris says quietly, reaching past me to turn the lock. “You don’t want to go out there.”
“Who’s out there?” I don’t turn around, though I feel him at my back. I feel him, smell him, fear him. Hate him. Chris grips my