Chapter 2
CHAPTER TWO
His intense, unexpected scrutiny pins me to the spot.
It can’t last for more than a few heartbeats, but it feels like a century.
Maybe he’s trying to place me among his dozens of guests.
Maybe he’s wondering why I’m gaping at him.
Either way, the line between his brow smooths away, and I question if it was ever there in the first place.
One of his companions says something to him, and he angles his body away from me.
I unfreeze, my breath wheezing from my lungs like his attention had been a weight pressing on my chest. Soon, but not soon enough, he and his entourage move through the door next to me.
He’s so close for a moment, the scent of him teases my nose.
Silly, because it could be either of the men at his side, but somehow, I know the dark, earthy aroma belongs to him.
The last thing I want to do is draw any attention to myself, so I wander a few steps away to admire the pamphlets detailing today’s charity event with several of the other guests. My heart continues its frantic fluttering until the three men are through the door and out of sight.
Me: I knew you were a witch. Did you summon him? He just looked right at me. I think I had a heart attack.
Yasmine: I picked a terrible time to be a lapsed Catholic. I thought you were going to stay as far away from him as possible??????
The squeal of feedback from a microphone cuts through the string quartet, and a clear, feminine voice comes through over hidden speakers I know are present throughout the living spaces.
I use the distraction to weave through the crowd, but it’s nearly impossible because the guests are making their way en masse to the terrace doors.
“On behalf of the Emerald Isle staff, we’d like to welcome you to our charity gala to support our grand opening next week.
As you all know, all proceeds from tonight’s event will be donated to support the New Orleans Regional Hospital.
I’m here to introduce the man of the evening, Mr. Aiden O’Connor! Let’s give him a hand!”
Polite applause punctuates the introduction, followed by Aiden’s throaty growl, and I hide my seething expression behind another gulp of champagne.
“Thank you.” He says you like ye, and I scoff inwardly at his undeniably attractive Irish accent.
“And thank you for bein’ here tonight to support this new venture and raise some money for a good cause.
That means it’s time to open those pocketbooks and find your inner generosity.
The O’Connor Foundation plans to match every dollar. ”
A glance around shows everyone riveted by this proclamation. It’s impressive, that’s for sure. But I don’t buy a word of it.
Me: I wasn’t looking for him. He was going outside, and I was in his way.
Yasmine: Should I go back to church? My mom will be thrilled, so that’s one reason not to go. But I’m willing to do this for your wayward soul.
Me: No?
Yasmine: …so is he hot?
Me: No!
Yasmine: I knew it. He’s fine as hell, isn’t he?
Abandoning my empty champagne glass with a nearby server and declining a refill, I move to the window next to the piano and find Aiden instantly at a makeshift stage, surrounded by a ring of guests.
Even at a distance, he has a commanding presence…
and a beautiful one. I’d called him a fallen angel, and the same description comes to me again as he continues his speech.
From his gorgeous face to his dark golden hair, the people gazing up at him look like they’d follow him to hell at the slightest provocation.
I turn away from the sight and push him from my thoughts. He doesn’t matter, and I’ll probably never see him again. The main room is almost empty, so it’s the perfect time for me to make my escape and put my plan into motion.
Me: No.
I don’t need to see her face to know she’s probably calling me a liar.
The only picture I could find must have been taken when he was much younger.
Before he inherited his father’s millions, and started his hospitality empire.
According to the limited information available, he used his inheritance to open his first casino in Ireland.
It was wildly successful, leading him to replicate the same approach in several European countries and ultimately expand into America.
Yasmine: Liar. Please don’t let his devilish good looks distract you. I won’t survive medical school without you if you get caught and sent to jail for trespassing.
Moving toward the stairs requires me to weave through the stragglers on their way to the terrace, lured by the siren call of Aiden’s Irish brogue.
My ready excuse is that I got lost in the maze of a mansion in my search for a bathroom.
No one will question that because I don’t plan to take this mask off until I’m safely back home.
Little do they know, I used to be the princess of this castle.
Me: Don’t worry. He’s distracted playing host. I’m going up while everyone is outside. It’ll be fine. In and out.
Yasmine: The fact that you think any part of this is fine is what tells me it’s a terrible idea. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.
Me: I’ll text you again in 30 when I’m out of here and safe. You worry too much.
Yasmine: I’m going to steal meds from the hospital to sedate myself.
Me: Love you too!
I never thought I’d do many things six months ago. Struggling through law school is one. Sneaking around a party thrown by New Orleans’ newest billionaire is another.
But I’m not the same person I was six months ago.
That person died along with my mother.
I take the stairs as quickly as I dare to avoid capturing attention, but it doesn’t seem to matter.
The waitstaff is too busy clearing away forgotten drinks and appetizers to pay me any attention.
The thought of my mother’s ghost and replaying morbid thoughts keeps me moving at a fast clip until I reach the top.
My goal is at the farthest end of the hallway, a spare room my mother had turned into a library slash hideaway for herself.
If I’m going to find her phone—the last possible vestige of clues about what happened to her—that’s the only place it could be.
After her death, my father says he and the police searched high and low for it, but they never found it.
If I’m wrong and her death was an accident, there’ll be nothing on it, and I’ll give up my crusade…
but if I’m right…If I’m right, it’ll be the proof I need to make the police and my father take my concerns seriously.
Every few steps, I glance behind me, certain someone will be close on my heels, but I see nothing but my shadow.
It doesn’t stop my heart from galloping or the sweat from beading on my hairline.
Swiping at it nervously, I stamp out the first blooms of hope that make my hand shake as I reach for the door handle.
It doesn’t turn.
Fuck.
Cursing some more under my breath, I break out a small pack of hot-pink tools from my clutch—thank God I packed them and opted for the bigger purse—and get to work.
As I fumble with the tools, I hope the YouTube videos I watched will be enough to break in.
On my third try, miraculously, the lock pops open, and I throw myself inside with a muffled squeak of surprise.
The scent hits me like a tackle from a linebacker, stopping me mid-stride, and I slap a hand over my mouth and nose to mask it.
My other hand grips the doorframe to keep myself upright.
A cold weight plops into my stomach. Each inhale draws in more of my mother’s Dior perfume until I could swear she’s present in the room with me.
Not even the scent of fresh paint drowns it out.
When I gather my wits and crack my eyes open, however, no one is in the room but me.
The shelves where she’d curated her beloved mystery novels are bare, save for bland masculine decor.
They’ve been painted a glossy black, which I immediately despise on principle.
Instead of her comfortable antique reading chairs and Tiffany lamps, there’s a sleek, expensive-looking pool table.
A rack of cues lines the wall to my left.
Her neutral blue-green walls have been covered over with more black.
My heels catch on the Oriental rug as I practically sprint across the room to the window seat on the far wall.
Flinging the compartment open, I find the storage space underneath empty aside from spare pillows, but that doesn’t deter me.
When we were younger, Elizabeth and I discovered a hidden compartment inside.
We used it to pass notes to Mom or each other.
Mom would surprise us with gifts—little things to show she was thinking of us.
Candy. Books. Toys. Trinkets from her travels.
Memories flood me of the thousands of times I’ve done this before.
The back of my throat closes, nose stinging.
My hand trembles uncontrollably as I reach to dislodge the panel to the secret compartment.
I hesitate for the slightest moment before I apply pressure.
My chest cracks open along with the panel door.
Quickly, I reach inside and feel blindly around, half dreading I’ll find nothing, half afraid of what I will find.
If there’s nothing, then this wild, crazed feeling I’ve been living with will simply be grief.
It’s been hell, but at least I’ll know the truth.
At least it will give me the impetus to deal with it.
If there’s nothing there, it’ll be the first step to accepting she’d been a deeply unhappy woman who’d chosen to violently, callously take her life.
I’ll find a way to move on, if there is one. I just need to know for sure.
Surely, my therapist can recommend a reputable grief counselor who can help me work through the tangle of my life. I’m halfway to booking an appointment when my fingers brush against something polished and cool.
Metal and glass.
Her phone.
Oh my fucking God, it’s her phone.
An agonized, ugly sound tears from my chest, and I wrap my fingers around it like someone in this empty room will steal it from me.
Pulling it out, I can hardly see the screen because of the blur from moisture pooling in my eyes.
Staring at it doesn’t make it disappear.
I can’t believe it’s here, but I can feel its reassuring weight in my palm.
I’d recognize its pale pink vegan leather case anywhere.
Elizabeth had said she checked everywhere for the phone, but neither of us had used this hiding place in nearly a decade—since we were kids—so I’m not surprised she didn’t think of it.
By the time I remembered, she wouldn’t talk about Mom at all, let alone consider looking for it with me.
It's dead, of course, but I try the power button anyway. As much as I want to dive into it, I know I’m pressing my luck each second I linger.
Stowing it away in my purse and connecting it to the power bank, I recover the panel and replace the window seat.
There’s a pleasant numbness suffusing my system now.
Maybe I’m dissociating. It’s incredible after such a long time spent hyperaware of absolutely everything.
Phone retrieved, I force myself to turn my thoughts to how to get out of the party without drawing any further attention.
Once I get to the stairs, I’ll ensure there isn’t anyone around, like I didn’t break into one of the rooms and steal something.
I’m so close to finally having the answers I’m looking for, I can practically taste it.
Despite the urgency growing within me, I give the room one last prolonged study, remembering how much time I spent here with my mother.
I think of her sitting with us in her lap in the window seat, reading Tuck Everlasting or The Bridge to Terabithia, and my nose stings.
I’m so lost in the memories, I don’t recognize the sounds on the other side of the door until it’s almost too late.
There’s a scuffle and a scrape, and the doorknob turns.