50. Claire
50
CLAIRE
W hen Loren and I make our way through the ballroom, everyone clears the dance floor to let us in.
We’re the center of attention.
The chandelier hanging above casts a sharply white glow. The faces of the crowd around us blur. As Loren and I move, I find myself unable to look away from his face. Every time I look beyond him, the room spins.
So I hold eye contact with Daddy’s killer as we sway to the music.
He might’ve been handsome if another soul wore his skin. A chestnut-brown mustache curls down his mouth. His hair has deep, thick waves. He’s svelte but soft.
We’re close enough that when he speaks, I can feel the heat of his breath on my cheek. He smells like he swallowed an entire pack of mints in a poor attempt to cover the nicotine stain on his tongue.
It takes everything in me not to turn away.
“It feels like fate, doesn’t it?” he says .
Hmm, not really. It feels like you killed my father just to bring me back home .
I play along. “How so?”
Those blue eyes glitter with a strange intensity. “We grew up together. You were best friends with my sister. Seemed like we were always…slipping in and out of each other’s lives.”
I was slipping out. You were slipping in.
He nearly steps on my feet. I have to dance two steps back to avoid him.
He grabs me suddenly, yanking me forward. We’re just a hairsbreadth away from each other now.
“You were always too busy playing with those rough Sooter boys,” he says. “Down by the lake.”
I try to pull away, but his grip is too tight. “Loren?—”
“It’s okay.” He grins. It’s a terrible sight. “I knew. I saw. But I kept your secret. Because I knew eventually, you’d come crawling back. You’d find your own again.”
He pushes my hair back under his thumb. He tilts in, and I can feel him inhaling me. There’s a shudder in my breath, and my stomach curls. “I’ve been waiting all night for this.”
My jaw clenches. “So have I.”
You have no idea .
He twirls me, but instead of twirling back to him, I keep spinning. I pretend to trip on my own feet and stumble backward. I aim my body off the dance floor and bang right into the buffet table.
There’s a couple of quick gasps. My elbow is sticky with cream puff. I feel someone grab my arm, trying to help me up.
“Sorry,” I say. “I’m so clumsy…”
I’m only half-faking. The room is, in fact, tilting. Spinning. I find myself tightening my grip on the other person to keep myself from falling backward again.
Come on, Claire. Get it together.
I focus my vision long enough to grab a serrated knife off the table. As they help me up, I manage to slip the knife under my dress, fitting the blade under the elastic of my stockings.