I gave them a helping hand? Everybody knows she’s the one who sold that crotch shot to the highest bidder. It’s the least she deserved.
“You are.” I use my most polite voice as I prepare to defend myself. If I get in trouble again this month, my dad is going to cut me off.
“I’m calling about your father,” he says.
The world stops spinning. I’ve seen the commercials warning against the perils of drunk driving. A nice lady opening her front door to two pitying police officers, mouths moving as the bad news is buried under the screech of sirens, the woman collapsing in a devastated heap to reveal two small kids huddled behind her.
“He’s been arrested,” Jacobs continues.
My mouth opens and closes uselessly as I try to figure out what to say. This is probably a prank. Some paparazzo trying to get me to show up at the police station so he can get a shot of me going inside and sell the world a story about how I’ve turned myself in for one stupid reason or another.
“What for?” I pick up the polish. I need a third coat. Honestly, this manicure would have been cheaper at a salon. I press play on the remote but keep the volume muted as I read the questions. Personal space invaders, I mouth. One thousand dollars.
Jacobs starts listing some pretty serious charges, and it sounds like he’s planning to ramble on for a while. I have to do my hair, choose my dress, and figure out if I should start my night at Josie’s married boyfriend’s new restaurant or just head straight to the club. The last time Josie had a chef boyfriend, we all got food poisoning. I lost six pounds in two days, but it wasn’t worth it.
“Why aren’t you calling his lawyer?” I interrupt. “Where did you get this number?”
Jacobs pauses. “Your father gave it to me,” he says. “He wanted to call you first.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Ma’am. You need to come to the station.”
“I’ll bet.”
“And you should come now, before word gets out.”
I lie and say I’ll come, if only because the police station is on the way to the restaurant, so I can drive past and look for “Officer Jacobs” lurking in the trees with his telephoto lens.
I hang up, then nurse a glass of champagne as I try on outfits, discarding shoes and jewelry and hairstyles for an hour until I settle on something short and silver to match my nails. Black leather stiletto booties give the outfit some edge, and I leave my blond hair loose and tousled, hanging halfway down my back.
I text Josie and tell her I’m on my way. There’d better be an open bar at this thing; I’m not traveling to the opposite side of town for a bottle of water. She texts back with assurances, and I buzz the doorman to ask him to get me a cab. He calls back a few moments later to say the taxi’s waiting, and soon enough we’re en route to the restaurant.
Normally the Holden City Police Department is a quiet, understated building that takes some effort to identify. Tonight, however, the glare of spotlights and headlights illuminate the block, and traffic has slowed to a crawl.
“Something big going on,” the driver remarks.
I abandon my text conversation with Josie and crane my neck to see. The parking lot is full of news vans, reporters staring solemnly into cameras, while a few pedestrians look on. The entrance is crammed with paparazzi, far more than I normally warrant, and that’s when I start to take Jacobs a little more seriously.
“Circle the block,” I tell the driver, slouching low in my seat.
“The restaurant’s straight ahead,” he says.
“I know. Just circle.”
He shrugs and flips on his blinker. I turn on the light on my phone and shine it out the window like I’m filming, but really I’m preventing anyone’s camera from getting a clear shot of my face as I take in the scene. This is a city of stockbrokers and investment bankers, where money and politics are king. Life is rich but boring, and the Carlisles are the closest thing we have to a celebrity family. If this is where the action is tonight, it’s because my father’s inside.
My dad’s lawyer is also my godfather, so I call him up in my contacts and press dial. It goes straight to voicemail. “Lincoln,” I say, covering my mouth in case the driver is listening. He knows who I am; whether or not