Chapter 25
March
Two Weeks Until The Wedding
I raise my fist to rap on the hotel door, which is draped in the British flag. Subtle.
“Wait, wait!” Zuri whisper-yells. “Lipstick check first.”
She bares her teeth and I lower my eyes to her mouth.
“Looks good.”
Zuri rolls her two perfect mauve lips together, fluffs her hair, and pulls at the hem of her minidress. Not only is this my first “hen do,” but it’s my first Spice Girls–themed bachelorette party. Maybe my first sleepover-type party ever? My hand flies to my stomach as it tightens.
“You okay?” Zuri asks. She’s the perfect Posh. She’s wearing a short wig tonight, and the lacy slip dress she found at the thrift shop completes the look.
“Yup.” I pull at my catsuit, which is suddenly suffocating.
Why did I agree to wear this? When Zuri showed up with the leopard-print spandex and gleefully proclaimed, “It came in long!” I couldn’t disappoint her.
Now my lungs are saying otherwise. But costume aside, tonight is my chance to search for the key to the Carmichael chest. If Sabrina does have the key, as Trip claims, there’s no better place to search for it than the suite she’s been staying in.
I rap my knuckles against the door, and it swings open on the third tap.
“My girls!” Sabrina wears ankle-high red boots and a highly immodest Union Jack dress, if it can be considered a dress at all.
As she leans in to hug me, I scan her neckline.
No sign of the key. It’d be easy to spot, considering her chest is bare aside from some body glitter and a penis-shaped-bead necklace.
Not that I’d expect her to have her grandfather’s key so exposed.
Just a first step. Let the digging commence.
She gasps. “Libby, you are the perfect Scary Spice with that hair!”
“Back atcha, Ginge.” I smile and squeeze her arm.
“And Posh, my darling.” Sabrina pecks Zuri on the cheek.
She looks like she might faint. Zuri, who spent our college spring break dancing in her bikini on top of tables. It’s baffling.
The word “suite” doesn’t do this place justice by any stretch of the imagination.
Wall-to-wall cream-colored carpet—I’m immediately worried about the several glasses of red wine littering the coffee table—spans the front living space and stretches beyond into rooms not yet visible.
The rest of the interior design looks like something out of Versailles, with gilded mirrors, gold chandeliers, and furniture with tiny fleurs-de-lis woven into the fabric.
It’s not the type of place to throw a bachelorette party.
It is the type of place for a magazine photo shoot, or where you might spend a single night if you won the lottery.
A loud pop echoes off the walls. Sabrina holds a bottle of champagne, foaming at the neck, high above her head. She brings it to her mouth and slurps up the excess.
“Let’s get this party started!”
Cheers erupt and I use the distraction to slip into the next room.
Unfortunately, there are more people around every corner I turn.
If I plan to snoop, it’s not going to be easy.
From the folks who introduce themselves, I gather the group is a conglomeration of various cousins, university friends, and work associates.
A particularly chatty Sporty Spice generously identifies everyone for me, along with the salacious details of their personal lives.
I’m enjoying it. Losing myself in socializing, I almost forget my primary objective is to look for the Carmichael key.
I mumble something about the bathroom and extract myself from the conversation.
There are endless doors. Isn’t this a hotel room?
Oh well, better start somewhere. I turn the handle of Door Number One.
It swings open to reveal a bathroom with a tub full of ice and Dom Pérignon.
Do not calculate the cost, Libby. Do not think about how many meals this could buy.
Heavy bass thuds from somewhere in the suite.
Weaving my way through the rooms, I’m surprised to catch myself smiling at the other guests.
The Libby of ten years—or two months—ago would’ve hugged the walls, flitted between groups to avoid being examined too closely.
Yet, the prospect of meeting new people is at once foreign and thrilling.
Dressed as Spice Girls, there are no pretenses, no status symbols.
Just a group of women being ourselves and having a good time.
And Sabrina’s not wrong—I make a killer Scary Spice.
Grabbing a seltzer from a nearby cooler, I head back in the direction of the friendly Sporty Spice from earlier.
Maybe I’ll see if she lives in New York.
Maybe we could grab coffee sometime. Maybe—ow.
I smack into someone and hear the clink of a glass.
Oh shit, please don’t tell me I spilled their drink on the carpet.
I open my eyes and seriously contemplate closing them again. Kit stands there with a stain spreading across the light blue silk of her top.
Double shit.
Her mouth turns downward and it’s so near the look Carter gave me that day at the bridal shower, I do a double take.
“Libby Lakoski.” She spits my name out.
“Kit! I am so, so sorry. Please let me help you.”
“Thanks, but no thanks.” She flicks moisture off her fingertips and scowls. “Excuse me, I just need to find a restroom.”
I grab her arm. “I saw one earlier. Right over here.” Lord only knows why I want to help this woman, but it was my fault.
I lead us back to the bathroom with champagne in the tub and shut the door behind us. Kit examines herself in the vanity mirror, her glossy hair pulled into two perky pigtails, a black miniskirt paired with the top I just ruined.
“Baby Spice?”
“Obviously.” She rolls her eyes. Charmer, this one.
“You should check the care tag. So we know how to wash it.”
She turns from the mirror to face me. “There is no we, Libby.”
“Just let me help you.” I grab a washcloth off the towel rack and move toward the sink.
She blocks my path. “No. Just leave.”
“Why do you hate me so much?” The words I’ve been screaming in my mind slip out of my mouth.
She turns to face me and huffs a laugh. “Please. You have to care about someone in order to hate them.”
“Well, you care about me enough to be rude.” Something loosens in my chest, like I’m just a few pounds lighter. Is this what speaking your mind feels like?
“I’ll be sure to tell Carter about our interaction.” She glances down at her shirt.
I almost laugh in her face. “Be my guest, tell him. To be honest, Kit, I don’t think he’ll care.”
“And if he does? If he cares that you ruined my six-hundred-dollar shirt and then accosted me in a bathroom?”
“Six hundred—” I take a breath. Smile. Shrug. “Oh well.”
Confusion flashes across Kit’s eyes. She crosses her arms. “You don’t care what my brother thinks?”
“If something this trivial would affect our friendship? No, I don’t care.”
Her lips purse. Is she about to slap me? Scream?
The corners of her mouth turn up slightly. “Well, would you look at that? Libby Lakoski actually has a backbone.” Kit uncrosses her arms. “Maybe I like you more than I thought.”
“You—um—what?”
“I always thought you were so spineless, I couldn’t stand it. Letting my asshole brother push you around. Don’t get me wrong, I love him. But he can be an asshole.” She looks at her shoes. “And to be fair, so can I.”
I can’t see my jaw, but it’s probably on the floor.
“Anyway.” She turns to the mirror, grabs lipstick out of her clutch, and reapplies it. “You should put him in his place sometime. Would be good for him.”
My mind swims. Kit and I are having an actual conversation. I could ask her to explain what she said about Babcia at the shower. But before I can, she’s opening the bathroom door.
“Don’t worry about the shirt. I’ll have it dry cleaned,” she says over her shoulder. Then she’s gone.
I brace my hands against the sink and exhale. The door swings open again, and another version of Scary Spice greets me. Her outfit looks way more comfortable than mine.
“Sorry!” she says in a posh British accent.
I flash her a smile. “I was just leaving.”
Zuri’s probably looking for me anyway.
—
I do find Zuri again, but she doesn’t seem to be missing me at all, throwing back shots with Sabrina’s friends and singing karaoke with wine bottles as microphones.
It’s like the hands of the clock have been put through a time lapse, and when I look up, it’s almost three in the morning.
Despite my searching, I’ve failed to locate any kind of diamond or key.
The crowd has mostly trickled out with just a few stragglers remaining.
Kit called a car about an hour ago and gave me a nod when she left. Still weird.
I’m about to grab Zuri and start making my case to leave, but Sabrina throws her hands in the air.
“This is the perfect-size group for Ring of Fire! Who has a deck of cards?”
We all look at her dumbly. It appears no one in this room has as much stamina as the bride.
Sabrina puts her hands on her hips. “No worries. I have cards in my room. I’ll be right—”
“I’ll get them.” I’m standing, not quite sure how I got off the couch. This is my chance. It would look suspicious to go searching around Sabrina’s room otherwise. “The bride shouldn’t lift a finger, right?” I give a half smile.
Before anyone can say no, I’m out of the room and down the hallway.
“It’s the door at the end of the hall!” Sabrina yells after me.
My pace quickens and my stilettos teeter on the soft carpet. I won’t have much time. My hand wraps around the doorknob and I give it a shove.
I’m gobsmacked. This room must come up as a search result for “Old Hollywood bedroom.” The headboard of the king bed is upholstered with emerald velvet, with stunning black-and-white photography covering the walls.
A sheer feather-trimmed robe hangs from the door of the armoire.
It’s so perfectly Sabrina. I shake myself out of my reverie. Time is of the essence.
I go through the armoire first, flipping through clothes and pulling out drawers, looking for the key but also anything that might stick out as a clue.
Next, I move to the dresser. It’s massive and could take me half an hour to go through all its drawers.
I pick and pull at random. Expensive underwear.
Cashmere sweaters. Silk scarves. A junk drawer.
There’s a mini stapler, travel bottles of perfume, discarded jewelry.
I separate a tangle of gold chains, hoping one of them will hold a key, but it’s wishful thinking.
Determined to leave no stone unturned, I drag my hand along the base of the drawer in case any items of interest catch my eye.
When I touch the back corner, the plywood shifts under my hand.
I pinch my eyebrows together and give another nudge. The wood pushes away to reveal an open space. A false back. Frantic, I reach into the hidden compartment, ready for the feel of the key—hard and metal. Instead, my hand grasps something softer, like paper material—a small book?
As I pull it out, the shape registers. A deck of cards—my pretense for being in Sabrina’s room in the first place. The designs on the box are beautiful, with gold-leaf details—some of which have been rubbed off. It looks old, like the corners are well broken in.
“Oh, not that one!”
I jump and slam the drawer shut, still holding the deck in my hand. Sabrina waltzes over to the bed and sits on the edge.
“Sorry, didn’t mean to startle you, I just need to get these horrid things off.
” She unzips her ankle boots and peels them off one at time, wiggling her toes in the plush carpet.
“Ah, much better. Anyway, don’t use that one.
” She points a finger at the deck, which I’m clutching against my chest. “It’s missing a couple cards. ”
My heart stops.
“What?” It’s barely a whisper.
“It’s an old deck. More of a family keepsake, handed down through generations. But it’s missing a few cards, so it won’t be of use to us.” Sabrina stands from the bed and moves to her end table, opening the drawer. She retrieves a fresh deck of cards, cellophane still intact.
“Oh.” I force a laugh. “Really? Which cards?”
She shrugs. “Don’t remember. Like I said, the deck isn’t really ever used, just admired. The artwork is gorgeous, though. Probably why the family thinks it a shame to get rid of. Or lose. Which is why it’s kept tucked away for safety.” Her gaze moves pointedly to the dismantled drawer.
“Definitely.” I turn my back toward her and slide open the false back. My hand with the deck hesitates in front of the space. Over my shoulder, Sabrina futzes with the plastic wrap on the new package of cards. I palm the deck and shut the drawer.
“Mind if I use your bathroom real quick?” I nod to the en suite.
“Of course not! See you out there in a few.” Sabrina leaves the room.
In a flash, I’m in the bathroom with the door locked behind me.
I sink to my knees, the tile cold even through the fabric of my catsuit.
The paper of the card box is delicate, so I take my time with the flaps, like a surgeon not wanting to make any unnecessary cuts.
I pull the deck out and the edges of the cards are soft, almost velvety against my fingers.
This will need to be quick but careful. I lay them out one by one, organized by suit.
They form an arc on the floor, casing me in against the bathroom door.
My eyes scan the piles, making a mental note of each card. Spade. Club. Diamond. Heart.
I reach the last card in the deck and lay it in its pile. The cards stare back at me on the floor like a black-and-red checkerboard. Until I spot the anomalies. The gaps. Two cards are missing and when I determine which ones they are, my chest constricts.
I use both my arms to sweep the cards up from the floor and rearrange them back into a deck.
Sliding them into the box, I fold the flaps down and unlock the door.
Blood is pounding in my ears. They’ve either turned off the music in the other room or my senses aren’t functioning properly.
It’s eerily quiet. I pray that the drawer doesn’t squeak when I open it, but to my luck, it’s smooth and silent.
Taking one last look at the deck, I place it back inside and shut the drawer.
My card theory is right. It’s not a missing diamond, but a missing diamond card.
And the Coldwell heart—I’ll think about that one later.
There are two weeks until the wedding. Two weeks until Trip is taken off life support.
Two weeks until Sabrina and Carter leave New York and the chances of solving this mystery, of breaking the curse, become next to nothing.
Two weeks to find the king of hearts and queen of diamonds.