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  I nod encouragingly. She needs to confess so that we can all move on.

  “You know I never slept with any of those guys,” she admits. “I’d let them buy me dinner and feel me up.”

  I take a step closer. If I reach out I can grab her. “You were a virgin.”

  It’s not a question. It’s a fact.

  “I’m all talk. After all these years, even people don’t know the rumors about me.” She tilts her head up as if looking into heaven. “I was tired of being all talk. And I was tired of being treated like dirt. We weren’t invited to that party. Did she tell you that?”

  “Yes,” Jameson says. He hasn’t moved. No doubt he doesn’t want to frighten her. He, far more than me, holds the absolution she needs to receive.

  “We both met the men that would change our lives.” An unexpected gust of wind whips her skirt around her legs, and I leap forward afraid it will push her over. She holds up a hand to stop me.

  “Josie, please come down,” I beg her.

  She ignores me. “I didn’t put up a fight. I wanted it. I wanted to look Monroe West in the eyes and know I screwed her daddy. I told myself that she didn’t deserve any of it, and that all I wanted was a taste.”

  “He was rough.” Her eyes grow distant, rewinding back to that fateful night. “But I didn’t cry. He told me he liked that—that I was a good girl.”

  “Why?” Jameson finally chokes out. “What did he do to you?”

  “He asked for my name. He wanted to call me, and I just didn’t care anymore. I thought maybe I’d get taken care of for once, so I told him my name. Josie Deckard. I’ll never forget the look on his face when he asked me if Marion Deckard was my mother. When I said yes, he lost it. He grabbed me and he asked me why I was there. He wanted to know if I’d come on purpose. How I’d found out. I don’t think he knew he was hurting me,” she says softly. “I don’t think I realized I’d grabbed the letter opener. When he accused me of coming there to fuck him for more of his money, I didn’t understand. Not until he asked me what kind of sick girl screws her father.”

  I clamp my hand over my mouth to hold back the sobs threatening to escape. Now I understood her erratic behavior over the last few months. Josie had wanted to meet her father her whole life. No one could have expected the truth.

  “I can’t remember much, except for the way his skin popped when the blade struck him. I hear it all the time. I still feel the way it vibrated across my skin each time I stabbed him. And then I ran and waited for them to come for me.”

  “No one’s coming for you,” I say, hoping it will reassure her.

  “They should. I’ve stood by and watched while they accused you. I’ve been too scared to make a move. Even when I found out I was pregnant, and I couldn’t lie to myself about what happened, I was stuck.”

  Her admission startles Jameson, who lurches back a few steps. I’d kept her pregnancy from him because it wasn’t his business. Now he’s facing it at the worst possible moment.

  “What do you think of me now?” she asks him. “Am I so easy to forgive?”

  I hold my breath as I wait for his answer.

  “Yes,” he says. “I forgive you.”

  “We’re going to make it through this.” I hold out my hand and she lifts her slowly, her eyes brimming with tears. “We’ll take care of things.”

  “No, you won’t.” She shakes her head, her hand still hovering within reach. “My mom used to tell me that we make our own beds. Mine’s a mess, Em.”

  “All of ours are,” I reassure her.

  “I’ve got to clean it up. You understand, don’t you?”

  I nod, inching toward her. “I’ll help you.”

  She laughs and the emptiness of it fills the quiet night. “Deckard girls don’t ask for help, remember?”

  “Josie!”

  She smiles one last time, and then she lets go.

  Chapter 20

  A thick blanket wraps around my shoulders. I blink as Jameson swims into focus, the night sky a black canvas overhead. No stars twinkle above as if they’ve gone silent, too.

  “You’re trembling,” Jameson explains.

  “I am?” I hadn’t noticed.

  He rubs my shoulders, allowing me to sit quietly in the midst of chaos. I’m aware of the officers and agents sweeping the scene for evidence. I wince as a camera flashes, but I don’t move.

  I’d collapsed there moments after it happened and I still can’t bring myself to get up. Not while strangers piece together the last few moments of my best friend’s life.

  A medic comes over and explains that I might be in shock. I nod, not bothering to tell him that I don’t care. When he suggests that I lie on a stretcher, Jameson intervenes.

  “She’s fine,” he says firmly.

  “It would be best if—”

  Jameson cuts the man off before he can get any farther. “I know what’s best for her.”

  I stare at him and then slowly I lift my hand to his. I need him to anchor me while my world spins out of control. Later, we’ll discuss what happened. Later, we’ll deal with it.

  Later, I’ll feel something other than numbness.

  The silence is interrupted by the click of heels across concrete. I can hear each purposeful step coming closer. Jameson straightens, but I don’t bother to look up.

  “Emma.” Agent Mackey’s voice is unusually gentle. I find myself wishing she would scream. “We have a few questions.”

  “I’ll be happy to talk with you later,” Jameson interrupts.

  “We really need statements from both of you.” She’s straining to keep her voice soft. She wants to scream.

  I don’t blame her.

  “We can arrange for her to make a statement in a few days.”

  “Given the situation, I would think you’d be eager to get this behind you,” Mackey finally snaps, unleashing her inner dragon.

  “It is behind us,” Jameson says, his tone remaining even, “which is why my lawyers will be in touch in a few days.”

  “Mr. West,” she starts.

  “You can speak with my lawyers.” He leans down so that only I can hear. “I want to take you home.”

  “I don’t have a home,” I mumble. At most, I’ve always had pillars, and now that one of them has fallen, I can’t stand on my own.

  “I’m your home,” he reminds me. “Do you want me to carry you?”

  When I don’t answer, he lifts me into his arms and carries me away from this nightmare. He drives us into the mountains to the closest thing either of us has to a home.

  That night he holds me against him. No words pass between us, even though neither of us sleep. The clock on the nightstand slowly counts the minutes and I watch each one drain away. One moment snuffed out for eternity. When the first light of dawn slashes across the horizon, it seems impossible that the sun will ever rise again.

  It does anyway.

  After

  Dr. O’Donnell never asks me how I feel, which is the only reason I continue to see her.

  Her office is decorated with framed Rorschach tests. I still can’t decide if the one hanging over her desk is a dog or an elephant. She won’t tell me what that means.

  She takes her seat across from the couch and crosses her legs. There’s no notepad and I don’t lie down. Mostly, we talk.

  “Have you cried?” she asks gently.

  I shake my head. I’d cried at the funeral. Seeing Marion bury her daughter had broken me into pieces so small that there’s no room for tears any longer.

  “How are you feeling about tomorrow?”

  “I’m not really,” I admit. Part of the reason I agreed to go to therapy the numbness that hadn’t abated since the night Josie jumped.

  “Part of what you’re coping with is a sense of futility,” she explains. “Everything feels inevitable.”

  “Isn’t it?” I ask. Life. Death. Taxes. I couldn’t escape any of it.

  “Have you spoken to your mom?”

  “She’s comi
ng to grips with my pseudo-engagement.” After everything went down, Mom went through a sudden bout of maternal paranoia. She refused to accept the seriousness of my relationship with Jameson, but she stopped demanding I move in with her. “And she’s finally packed up all of Hans’s things.”

  Mentioning my stepfather doesn’t move me either. I’m just as numb to what he did.

  “How is Jameson?” she broaches the one topic that never fails to elicit an emotional reaction.

  I smile begrudgingly. “Perfect.”

  She knew this, of course. He’d been seeing her for the past few weeks as well. While my therapy consisted of open-ended questions and encouragement, he’d chosen a more proactive path.

  “I have to ask, Emma, are you certain you want to return to Belle Mère tomorrow?”

  O’Donnell isn’t the type to worry, but there’s concern in her voice. Given that I’m a walking time bomb, I can’t blame her.

  “Yes.” I have other options, but I don’t want to cut and run. “It’s not the first time I’ll go back without…”

  “Have you spoken with Monroe? She’ll be returning as well.”

  My lips twitch as the suggestion that Jameson’s sister could be a source of companionship. I keep the thought to myself. Despite the fallout from that night’s revelations, Monroe had been there. It’s true that the Wests stick together.

  “Well, you have my number. If you need to chat, I’ll be on standby.”

  For the hourly rate she charges, I almost expect her to come with me and hold my hand tomorrow.

  Outside the office, a comforting sight waits for me: Jameson paging through a magazine. When the door opens, he glances up and a blinding smile spreads across his face. His therapy has been going better, judging from how often he gives me that look. “Ready?”

  “If you are.” I hold out my hand and he takes it.

  It’s been a little harder for him to let me out of his sight of late. It’s one of the issues he’s working on with Dr. O’Donnell. Considering that I’m returning for my last year in the morning, I hope they’re making progress.

  The truth is: being together is the only medicine that seems to work. When he’s beside me, I can think about the future without pain. He makes me laugh. At night, we escape in each other’s arms for heated, fleeting moments, and when he falls asleep beside me, there are no nightmares.

  Despite my objections, our new house has a gate. When I refused to skip out on my last year at Belle Mere, I had to compromise. When we pass, the reporters camped in front of it, it reminds me why he insisted.

  “The sale went through,” he says, eying me for my reaction.

  “Good.” I don’t think any other response is necessary. When he first told me that he wanted to sell the West Casino, I told him not to bother. Even if a new company slapped another name on it, it would still be there, lingering like a bad memory in the Las Vegas skyline. When he added that the terms of the sale required it to be torn down, I got on board. He’s been selling off most of the West real estate holdings ever since.

  His phone rings as I grab the milk carton out of the fridge. He checks the screen and sighs.

  “Mom or Monroe?” I ask.

  “Mom.” He accepts the call, wandering into his office.

  Getting rid of the casino has freed him up to mediate between his mother and sister. Monroe had surprised all of us when she turned the scandalous leak about her secret identity into a reality show. Jameson took me house shopping the next day.

  My own mother had opted to keep her place in Palm Springs, even after I turned down her offer to move in with her. She, along with my dad, had given their blessing for my new living arrangements after some coercion. I’d been forced to flash my diamond ring and ask if they wanted grandbabies now or later. We quickly came to an understanding.

  “It’s just crass enough to work,” Jameson says with disgust as he reappears. “A high school madam. What will reality TV think of next?”

  I shudder thinking about it. “She’s not going to stop until we’re the Kardashians.”

  “I will never let you be a Kardashian,” Jameson promises, earning him a genuine smile.

  “That’s true love.”

  “Speaking of love.” Jameson swoops down, lifting me off my chair and waiting for my orders.

  “Take me to bed,” I command.

  We linger between the sheets, soaking up our final solitary afternoon before life interrupts our private healing process. This is how we communicate best. Each touch provides a reassurance that we can find nowhere else. We speak to one another in sighs and murmurs with trembling mouths and hungry hands.

  When we finally collapse into a heap together, words are still there to fill the space between lovemaking.

  “What happens when it’s all gone?” I ask in a soft voice.

  “What’s gone?” he murmurs, nuzzling against my ear.

  “The hotels and properties and businesses. What will there be then?”

  “You and me,” he says simply.

  It’s not the answer I expect. “That’s not much.”

  “No, it’s everything.”

  * * *

  The next morning inevitability comes to call. I reluctantly agree to let Jameson drive me to the first day but balk when he offers to pack me a lunch. When we arrive in the parking lot, a few people give us the thumbs up and my throat swells.

  “They think I’m a fucking saint.” I roll my eyes behind my sunglasses. I’d finally given in and purchased several over-sized pairs.

  “Then give them hell, Duchess.”

  I don’t need any encouragement on that end. The board of directors had, in their infinite wisdom, declared that school would start late this year. Extending summer vacation would give students time to mourn and reflect on the tragic events.

  You can’t make this stuff up.

  For most of my peers it just meant impromptu, last-minute vacations.

  A car zooms into the spot beside us and honks. Monroe traded in her gold convertible for a Porsche in a shade she deemed “hooker red.” I have to hand it to the girl. She has no problem branding herself.

  She waits for me to get out, and I sigh. Glancing out the back window, I ask Jameson one more time. “Are you certain Maddox is necessary?”

  “Ask me if you want him around when Monroe’s film crews show up,” he says dryly.

  He has a point.

  “It’s not too late to run.”

  Jameson’s offer is tempting, but I shake my head. “I’m not supposed to run, remember?”

  “From me. Running from high school is both understandable and acceptable.”

  He kisses me long and hard so that my lips are swollen when we break apart. It’s a reminder that I’ll carry with me throughout the day.

  “Finally!” Monroe exclaims, slamming her car door shut. “It’s a little creepy that he drops you off.”

  “You’re a call girl,” I remind her.

  “Touché.” She shoulders her bag and prattles on about non-compete clauses and waivers. If nothing else she’s taken it as her responsibility to bore me the details of her new show. I interpret it as a sign that she cares.

  We both stop short of the entrance.

  “This is the last time we’ll walk through those doors on a first day.” It’s uncharacteristically sentimental moment until she adds, “thank God.”

  But I know she feels the same unwelcoming atmosphere as we enter the building. A sea of unfamiliar faces greets us. Monroe doesn’t say it, but I know I’m the closest thing she has to a friend here this year. Even if she had made up with Sabine and Leighton, they’d both transferred to new schools. Jonas had opted to trade places with his sister, going off to school while she came home. And the last I heard, Hugo Roth told the headmaster he was taking a ‘leave of absence.’

  Monroe bids farewell until later at the door to Advanced Economics. I’m willing to bet she’ll teach them a thing or two. Meanwhile, I do my best to ignore the attention I re
ceive as I head toward AP Literature.

  Mr. Hunter glances up from the blackboard and I enter.

  “Miss Southerly,” he says warmly. “I trust you finished your summer reading list.”

  The normality with which he states this makes my jaw drop open.

  “I’m a little behind,” I admit.

  “Better catch up,” he advises, passing out the class syllabus. It’s a comfortingly mundane gesture.

  At Belle Mère Prep, some kids come back to school after a summer in Europe. Others return with a few new notches on their Restoration Hardware bedposts. So? I’m coming back with a security detail.

  They can stare at me in the hallways. Who can blame them? The fact is that I spent most of my summer as a lead suspect in a murder case. My classmates gawk as I take a seat. No doubt they’re trying to spot a baby bump. It’s the only way this could get any better for them.

  Thanks a lot, TMZ.

  But while they stare, I can only think of those people that aren’t here this morning to start their senior year. I feel their absences as ominously as an unexplained shadow in an empty room. Some are long gone. One didn’t see the end of the summer.

  Living or dead, they’re just ghosts now, and even though they haunt me, I owe it to them to live fully.

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  My eyes skimmed the smoking room’s ornately decorated walls as I gulped my glass of champagne. Overhead, a painting of a duke, or some other important character with a lacy cravat at his throat, glared down at me, denouncing me as a fraud. Being a recent graduate of Oxford didn’t mean I belonged at the exclusive Oxford and Cambridge Club. Most of the other graduates were from old money, and while my family was wealthy by most anyone’s standards, we didn’t have a family name or a title like most of my peers at the Degree Day celebration. I finished my drink while cursing my best friend Annabelle for convincing me this was a good idea.