RIOT HOUSE (Crooked Sinners #1) - Callie Hart Page 0,154

saw my darling big brother punch a hole right through his bedroom wall with his bare hands. Seems he's quite upset. Wouldn't happen to know anything about that, would you?”

God, she is good at this—all of the pretending. I suspect that she knows all about me and Wren and yet she’s still feigning ignorance. “I have no idea what's up with him. Who ever knows what's up with Wren. He's permanently pissed,” I say.

Mercy's smile is faker than her perfect white teeth. “Ahh. Shame. Nothing makes me sadder than trouble in paradise. Fair enough, though. You both want to be broody and miserable, that's entirely up to you. I'll leave you to try on your costume in peace.”

“I don't need the costume, Mercy. I'm not going to the party.”

“Oh, no. You have to! Everyone's going. You want to be the only person on your entire floor, sitting in your room like a sad sack, while everyone else has an amazing time?”

“Carina isn't going,” I say defiantly.

Mercy smirks as she gets up and waltzes out into the hallway. “Sure about that, Stillwater? Carina's all talk most of the time. I'd put good money on her attending this evening's festivities.”

“I'm not in the mood, Mercy. Can you please take the garment bag out of my room? If Wren wanted me to have it, he would have given it to me himself.”

“He's probably worried that if he gets within five feet of you, you'll freak out and accuse him of trying to murder you,” she says, with a feline smirk on her face.

Fuck.

So, she does know about what happened at the gazebo. I highly doubt that Wren told her, but who the fuck knows? I've been wrong plenty of times before. Like, a ridiculous amount of times. Wren could have told Dashiell, who then told Mercy? What does it fucking matter how she knows? She just does.

“Invite said eight but I recommend coming at around nine or so,” she says. “Helps to make an entrance when you're fighting with a guy like my brother. And holy shit, are you gonna make an entrance wearing that costume.”

I'm on edge as I unzip the bag, letting it fall to the ground. My heightened state of anxiety triples when I see what's inside it. This isn't some drug store twenty-dollar costume. It isn't even the kind of expensive costume you have to order online. This is the kind of costume you have made from scratch, to a list of specifications that you send to a dressmaker weeks ahead of an event.

It's beautiful.

The bodice is frost-white and shimmering with Swarovski Crystals. There's boning sewn into the luxurious fabric, as well as laces around the back, which look daunting as hell. I've never in my life worn anything so convoluted.

The skirt is made of a diaphanous, silky type of fabric, layers and layers of it in blue and silver and white, so fine and stunning that I can't help but run my fingers over it.

This is the most gorgeous piece of clothing I've ever seen in my life. I recognize it for what it is immediately: it’s a Tinkerbell costume. I mentioned to Wren when we were verbally sparring in the attic that I always wanted to be Tinkerbell when I was a kid, but we didn’t always get what we wanted…and he remembered? It was such a flippant, off-the-cuff remark. I can’t believe he stored the information and then ordered this.

It's too beautiful.

It’s too much.

All of it is too fucking much.

I’ve pieced together a really suspicious-looking picture of Wren’s life last year and it’s so frightening and awful that I can’t bear it. I’m still in love with him, and I can’t make myself stop. A wickedly sharp knife plunges into my heart, grinding up against my ribs, stealing away my breath as I sink to my knees, clutching the beautiful fairy costume to my chest.

This isn’t fair.

I knew falling in love with someone like Wren was dangerous, but fuck. I didn’t expect I’d wind up sobbing into the most expensive item of clothing I’ve ever held in my hands, worrying that he might have murdered another girl. The girl who used to sleep in my bedroom. God, the symmetry of it all is just too fucking terrible to even think about.

I lie on my back on my bedroom floor, crying at first, but I eventually end up just staring at the light fitting above my head, trying to make the high-pitched buzzing in my head quiet.