Chapter 19 Helena
It was after midnight when I finally closed my bedroom door behind me, changed into pajamas, and went into the bathroom to take off my makeup.
The Irvines had stayed late discussing wedding details, and I hadn’t dared asked my parents if I could bow out.
So I’d sat there in the living room, listening in silence to the discussion about whether a summer or a winter wedding would cause more of a stir, and which luxury hotels should be considered for the venue.
The whole time, I was thinking about what Valerie would have had to say about the wedding.
Try-Hard Barbie, really, Linc? You can’t be fucking serious.
She would have left us all in no doubt as to what she thought of Lincoln’s decision.
Only she wasn’t there to give her opinion.
She wasn’t there at all anymore.
I went to the closet, pushed the loose board aside, and fished around for the notebook.
My fingertips brushed Valerie’s sweatshirt, but I didn’t want to risk bringing it out.
Instead, I took the notebook over to my bed and got in, switching the overhead light off and my bedside lamp on instead.
I paused, my fingers resting on the thin elastic band around the book.
Would I find what I was looking for? Or would it all have been for nothing, and I’d have to start again from the beginning?
I wasn’t going to find out by staring at the binding, so I pulled myself together, took the elastic off, and, with bated breath, opened the notebook.
The pages crinkled softly as I leafed through them to see what was written there.
Then my throat tightened and I gave a sigh of relief: names and amounts, just like Simon had said.
If I could just find the guy Adam had thrown out of the suite, I’d have a real shot at getting to the truth at last.
It made sense to look for the most recent entries, so I flipped to the back.
Simon said that Adam had given the dealer money so he could stop selling drugs, so it couldn’t have been all that long before the engagement party.
I combed through the entries for someone whose name began with P and found one on the third to last page: C.
Pratt, and beside it, 5k, which had to be the five thousand dollars Adam had given him.
Other than that, there were two names farther down that also began with P.
I wrote them in my phone, but something told me that Pratt was my guy.
Sure enough, it took just three minutes to find him on Instagram; he mainly posted photos of himself in New York clubs, in expensive clothes, with pretty girls.
The account handle was @colton4prattident, and I rolled my eyes at the wordplay before I realized that this was it—I finally had a real lead.
One with no sense of subtlety and a preference for suits, sure, but I didn’t care.
I looked down at my phone with a grim sense of anticipation.
“Colton Pratt,” I mumbled softly. “It’s time we had a little talk. ”
The Glowfly was one of those clubs everyone was desperate to get into, but most hopefuls got rejected at the door.
The place was a little sketchy, a little clandestine, and, as a result, extremely exclusive.
Situated on the edge of Nolita, it wasn’t exactly a spot where the rich and famous usually hung around, but that was exactly the draw—for Colton Pratt, too, it seemed; he plied his trade here on a regular basis.
It had been almost five weeks since I’d arrived back in New York, but I hadn’t been out partying yet.
For one thing, I’d been too busy with college and all the Valerie research, and for another, my parents had stopped me from going out nights by roping me into business dinners at home or taking me with them to events.
My first two weeks back had clearly been a kind of grace period, but now I had to sit at various people’s dining tables at least three times a week and prove to them I wasn’t like my sister.
Because although they didn’t say it out loud, I knew perfectly well what my parents expected of me.
If I hadn’t enjoyed being paraded around these events like a young horse at a fair before, I hated it now with a passion.
But I had no choice if I wanted to stay in the city.
So I gritted my teeth and did as I was told.
Most of the time, at least. Today, I’d taken advantage of the fact that Mom and Dad were out of town for the weekend and finally decided to go after the lead that Simon, and Adam’s notebook, had given me.
Finding out where Pratt hung out hadn’t been hard, since he tagged the clubs he frequented on Instagram.
The times when people like him were just a name whispered between clients seemed to be long gone.
The line in front of the Glowfly reached halfway around the block when I got out of the cab, noticing happily that it was finally getting warmer out, now that it was early April.
So far I’d managed to avoid having my own driver; my mother didn’t seem to be in a hurry to employ one—and why should she, when she had me under control most of the day anyway?
I stood up straight, jutting my chin an inch or two, and marched past the line with a pounding heart.
I’d never been in the Glowfly before; when I’d left for England, it had hardly been more than a backstreet dive.
Nobody knew who I was here, and I didn’t know if they would even let me in.
A few years ago it would have been easy; no club that valued good PR had turned Valerie Weston away.
But tonight I was alone, and I was about to find out if my name was worth anything at the Glowfly.
“Hi,” I said to the bouncer, who was busy denying entry to a group of drunk girls.
He turned to me in irritation. “Yes?” he asked, letting his gaze wander down my outfit—black dress, not too short but short enough, high heels, a classic Chanel clutch, and an outrageously expensive sequinned Prada jacket. I had another card to play besides my pricey getup, though.
“Helena Weston.” I spoke in the same tone of voice I’d often heard Valerie use: self-confident, almost to the point of arrogance. “I’m expected inside.”
Just like I’d hoped, the bouncer’s eyes widened a little, and something like recognition flitted across his face. He released the black velvet rope from its stanchion and pulled it aside. “Welcome to the Glowfly,” he said, barring the way behind me again and turning back to the group of girls.
I gave a sigh of relief. That was easier than I’d thought. But the hardest part of the night was still ahead.
I left my jacket at the coat check before making my way into the club proper.
It was full: crowds of people in outfits on a scale from chic to eccentric occupied the dance floor, or else sat in the lounge areas on low armchairs or chaise longues with velvet upholstery and sparkly, tufted cushions.
All along the dark walls, tiny lights pointed toward the ceiling, twinkling subtly, the club living up to its name.
It made me smile; Valerie would have liked it.
The bar was busy, but it didn’t take long to catch the attention of one of the guys serving.
“Hey,” he said. “What can I get you?”
“Gin and tonic, please,” I replied, before following up with the question I’d rehearsed in my head a hundred times. And maybe once or twice in the mirror too. “Hey, you haven’t seen Colton Pratt around tonight, by any chance?”
“Pratt?” The bartender shook his head. “No, not yet. But he’ll be here soon for sure, it’s still early.”
Luckily, I had plenty of time—my parents were in Boston meeting business partners.
My family had owned real estate there for years now, so they made regular trips to the city.
Which was good for me, since I couldn’t use Malia as an alibi this time.
I hadn’t told her about my plans at the Glowfly—drug dealer Colton Pratt wasn’t exactly an upstanding citizen, and she would definitely have been against the idea of my talking to him alone.
“Here’s your gin and tonic.” The bartender put the glass down in front of me, and I gave him a fifty.
“Keep the change.” I flashed him a smile. “And if you see Pratt, feel free to give me a heads up.” I knew what he looked like from his Instagram photos, but better to be on the safe side all the same.
“Sure.” He nodded and thanked me before turning to his next customer.
I took my drink and made for the seating area behind the dance floor, since it had the best view of the door. But I didn’t go under the radar for long.
“Helena?” A startled voice reached me above the pounding bass. “Helena, is that you?”
I turned around and saw someone waving at me.
It was Madeleine Richardson—known to her sizable YouTube following as Maddy Rich—onetime girlfriend of Valerie’s, and also the first to return to business as usual after her death.
I thought about pretending she had me confused for someone else, but then I got ahold of myself.
Every source of intel that could help me was valuable. And Maddy knew absolutely everybody.
“Hey!” I greeted her with fake enthusiasm and made my way over.
She air-kissed me on both cheeks. “It’s so great to see you.” She beamed at me. “We heard you were back in town, but after you disappeared, I thought it was just a rumor.”
“It’s true,” I said with a smile. “I’m back.”