RIOT HOUSE (Crooked Sinners #1) - Callie Hart Page 0,155
It doesn’t go away, though. It drones on and on, until I feel like I’m going to go mad from the incessant sound.
And then I snap.
I have to know the fucking truth.
I deserve to know.
I don’t care how stupid it makes me. I’m going to that fucking party, and I’m going to get to the bottom of this once and for all.
But there’s something I have to do first.
Stiff from lying on the floor so long, my back complains as I sit up and open the bottom drawer of my vanity. There, tucked in between my folded shirts, is the small white box that Carina left propped against my door five days ago. I glare down at the beautiful raven-haired woman on the front of the box, wondering if I’ll be able to fake a smile as big as hers when I walk through the front door of Riot House.
I highly fucking doubt it.
41
ELODIE
The dress fits like a glove. Even when someone has your specific measurements, it’s rare to find a dress that fits this well. It took a lot of effort to get into and required Pres’s help to lace up properly at the back, but once I have it all done up, even I have to admit that it looks amazing. I look amazing. Aside from the dress, it feels as though I’m looking at myself for the first time in three years when I stand in front of the mirror in my room and observe my reflection.
“I like it. I think I like it,” Pres says, standing back, tapping her index finger against her jaw. She’s wearing a Beetlejuice costume made out of black and white stripy pajamas, a lot of black eyeshadow, and an Albert Einstein wig. “It was just a shock at first. I’m just used to you as a blonde. Y’know, it’s weird, but dark hair suits you better now that I’m seeing it.”
I dyed my hair back to my natural color in my bedroom, only briefly ducking into the bathroom to rinse it clean when the timer on my cell phone dinged. Being a brunette again feels like coming home. I’ve reclaimed a small part of myself that was taken away from me. Like this, I am the person I was supposed to be all along and not the stranger that my father tried to create.
“Yeah. I think it suits me better, too.” I turn away from the mirror, collecting my invite to the party from the bed.
“Wanna walk down with me?” Pres asks. “I was running late. I told the others to go on ahead without me.”
“Sure.”
So, Pres and I walk down the hill to the party together in the dark. The driving, pounding music flooding the forests around Riot House indicate that the celebrations are already well underway by the time we reach the turn-off that leads to Wren’s house. There’s no need to knock on the front door; it’s already yawning open into the night like some great, toothless mouth, leading straight down into the pits of hell.
Inside, rainbows follow me from room to room, dancing all over the walls; the Swarovski crystals on the dress catch and reflect the light, scattering bursts of color in every direction as Pres pulls me through the crowded entryway. Every single student at Wolf Hall looks like they’re here, dressed in all kinds of weird and wonderful costumes. I curse myself for being so short as I strain to see over the tops of people’s heads. I quickly come to the realization that it just isn’t going to happen, so I focus on making sure I don’t get stepped on, as people jump around, dancing to the blaring music. I see Rashida sitting by the fire, talking to a guy I don’t recognize. She frowns when she sees me, squinting, then she finally recognizes me and waves, pointing at her hair, giving me a thumbs up.
I’ve never been in the kitchen before. It’s huge, of course, with a giant marble island in its center, overcrowded with bottles of liquor and bowls full of food. Not the chips and salsa kind of food you’d expect at most house parties. No, there are crab cakes and vol-au-vents, deviled eggs and fancy looking pastries. Has to be Dashiell’s handiwork; I know for a fact that Wren wouldn’t have ordered that shit, and I don’t think vol-au-vents are Pax’s M.O. either.
“You want a drink? I’m gonna grab a beer,” Pres shouts over her shoulder.