their cheeks together, whispering in Persey’s ear. “Take care of yourself, okay?”
“I—I will.”
“Promise?”
Persey broke away from the hug. “I promise.”
Persey climbed into the back of the police car and barely had a chance to close the door before the officer peeled away from the curb, lights and sirens blaring. Which seemed a little extra, considering they were leaving a crime scene, not going toward it. But whatever. He was having fun.
They drove in silence back toward downtown Las Vegas, and somewhere along the way, the lights were extinguished, the siren silenced, and the speed went from “Talladega” to “I-15” in the course of just a few miles.
By the time they got to the suburban outposts of Las Vegas, the drive felt so normal that Persey could have sworn she was just in an Uber, heading to the airport. The vibrations of the car lulled her, eyes heavy, the fatigue of the day overtaking her, and before she even realized what was happening, Persey had fallen fast asleep.
IT WAS DARK WHEN SHE WOKE, HEAD STILL LEANING AGAINST the window of the squad car. Someone had knocked on the other side of the glass, jarring her from a blissfully dreamless sleep, and when she shook herself awake and climbed out of the car, she found that they were parked in an underground lot, as abandoned and empty as Escape-Capades had been that morning, beside a long black limousine with tinted windows.
It was unremarkable, especially in Las Vegas, where limos practically outnumbered cabs. A car that would blend in, unlike the enormous lime-green Escape-Capades Hummers. A guy stood at the rear door, holding it open for her, and without a word, Persey ducked inside.
“Can we get out of here?” she said impatiently. The driver, who looked remarkably like Greg, but without the hideous lime-green uniform, nodded and closed the rear door before taking his place behind the wheel. A few minutes later, the limousine pulled onto the brightly lit streets of Las Vegas.
Persey was not alone in the limo. Two people sat opposite her, a guy and a girl. He wore a slate-gray hooded sweatshirt, oversize and hood pulled low over his face so his features were obscured by the ceiling light that illuminated the plush, decked-out interior, and a pair of black track pants hiked up to the ankles so that Persey could see the well-manicured toes exposed by a pair of flip-flops.
A lowball glass sat in the cup holder to his right, ice cubes tinkling as Leah refilled his glass with a reddish-brown liquid at the bottom. Scotch.
Just like Dad.
Glass replenished, Leah curled up beside the guy before she tossed back his hood, exposing an unruly head of dark blond hair. And an exaggerated 1970s mustache that Leah promptly peeled away, revealing the smooth, hairless lip beneath.
As soon as his mustache was gone, he returned the favor, grabbing Leah’s black-bobbed hair with both hands and giving it a vicious yank. The wig fell away; the straw-blond hair beneath was pinned into little rolled buns. Once her disguise was discarded, he took her face with both hands and kissed her deeply.
Persey averted her eyes.
“We did it,” he said a full two minutes later when their tongues finally disentangled. “It worked.”
“You were brilliant, babe,” Leah said, stroking his cheek. “You should have been an actor.”
He preened a little, as if the thought wasn’t unfamiliar to him. “I quite enjoyed that, too. The theatrics, the character…”
The killing.
“I think I’ve been bitten by the acting bug,” he said smiling. “Might have to try it again sometime.”
Persey reached her hand to Leah. “You must be Genevieve.”
“Yes!” she squealed, then held up her left hand, where a customized puzzle ring—Persey’s mother’s—sat on her fourth finger. “And we are sisters now! Isn’t that exciting? I’ve always wanted a sister. Well, anyone other than Marshall.” She gestured toward the driver, formerly known as Greg. “Little brothers are a pain in the ass.”
“So are big brothers,” Persey said.
“Oh, come on,” her brother said, eyebrows raised. “You got what you wanted.”
Not yet.
“And what did you want, huh? Revenge?”
Her brother looked at her with quizzical brows. “Yes, of course. They killed our parents.”
No, they didn’t.
“Why are you so pissy, huh?” Lincoln may have dropped out of college, but he still managed to sound like a frat boy. An entitled rich asshole who always got exactly what he wanted.
“You told me no one would get hurt.”
The plan, as he’d told it to her over a cup of lukewarm coffee two months ago, was