Starlet: A Dark Retelling - Cora Kenborn Page 0,123

stopped him.”

Her hands clutch her chest. “What? Are you crazy?” She repeats the words over and over until it happens. Until she stills, and the frantic look in her eyes sharpens. “What are you saying?”

That voice. That tone. I close my eyes.

Hello, Alexandra.

“Rosten is missing.”

She cocks her chin. “So?”

There’s no turning back now. Love can’t exist on a bed of lies, and angels can’t fly with broken wings. “I talked to Luciano today.” I meet her cutting gaze. “The guard who claims you weren’t there was paid to erase the footage and lie.” I saw it myself.

She blinks, and her clenched fists release as if she’s fighting to hold on to her own skin. When she looks back at me, there’s fear in her eyes. “What? By who?” She presses the back of her hand against her mouth. “Why?”

My Angel.

“Luciano. To protect you.”

“You’re not making any sense.” She shakes her head back and forth.

I can’t drag this out anymore. Angel is with me, and she’s breaking. I have to do this before the scales tip and Alexandra beats me to it.

My arms ache from keeping them locked by my side, but I stay firm, holding my voice steady. “What happened to the clothes you wore the night you went to Silverline?”

“You know what happened. The hospital took my red dress to swab for DNA.” A flicker of recognition dances in her eyes. It’s only there for a second then goes out, but it’s enough to give me the strength to keep going.

“No!” I step closer and back her into the wall. “Not the clothes you wore to the hospital, Angel. The clothes you wore to the studio. I told you, the guard was paid to erase the footage. I didn’t say there weren’t copies. So, I’ll ask again. Where are the jeans and shirt you wore to Silverline?”

I might as well have slapped her. Swinging her chin to the side, she winces and whispers through a sob, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Fuck this.

Jerking open the nightstand drawer, I pull out a pair of jeans and a splotchy shirt. Both covered in stains so thick the fabric is barely recognizable.

Pennies.

Blood.

“These clothes!” I shove them in her face. “The ones stained with blood. You want to know where I found them?” She shakes her head, clawing the wall behind her, hysterically sobbing now. “In the east wing bedroom. Not only hidden under the mattress but stuffed inside it.”

“No!”

“Do you know how they got in there?”

“No!”

Keeping the bloody clothes held up with one hand, I reach back into the nightstand with the other and wrap my hand around the silver handle. “With this,” I roar, pulling out a blood-stained, ten-inch letter opener. Holding it against her cheek, I force her to look at it, my heart ripping out of my chest with every scream. “I promised I’d never lie to you again, Angel, but I need you to meet me halfway. Did you kill Rosten with this?”

“No! No! No!” Her knees buckle.

Dropping the clothes, I grab her around the waist, because I’m about to push both of us off the ledge. Turning the letter opener sideways, I hold it in front of her face. “Read what’s engraved on it!”

For a precious few seconds, there’s silence as Angel scans the words.

Then she lets out a blood-curdling scream before slipping through my hands.

Chapter Fifty

Angel

Gregory Rosten.

Even with my eyes closed and the noises coming from my mouth, those two words are still louder and shine brighter than anything else. They can’t be real, but I’m too scared to open my eyes and look again.

I hear Dominic calling my name, but it sounds so far away—like he’s in a tunnel and I’m in another tunnel and there are too many rocks in between to ever get to him. I try, because I need him. Even as scared as he makes me, I need him to tell me I don’t ever have to count again. I need him to save me from the pennies. I need to kiss the cross on his hand because he’s the Angel of Death.

I try, but I fail.

And as I fail, I slip into that locked place in my mind. The one where Alexandra waits for me with her hand out and a soft smile.

It’s time.

I stop trying to break down the rocks and walk deeper into the tunnel.

My own sickness coats my cheek as I tighten my grip on the desk. Yet it’s not the desk. It’s cold and thin.